India can only be described as a smorgasbord - of sights, sounds, smells and tastes, with a range that's broad enough to please travellers with the pickiest of palates. Since finishing my internship and arriving in India, I've seen the posh high rises and sprawling slums of Mumbai, tasted the tantalizing masala dosas and idlis of Chennai and Bangalore, and gazed in awe at the majestic forts and vast deserts of Rajasthan. And that's just a meagre sampling of the many experiences that India has to offer.

But regardless of how many photos I snap, I know that, ultimately, my memory of India, and in fact, of any place that I visit, will be centred on the people I meet and my interactions with them. In thinking about that, I've lost count of the number of times I've met people on the street, in the market, on the train, etc. and been treated as if I were a long-lost friend - invited to share a meal with their family, shown around their neighbourhood, and given some sort of small gift just for "awarding" them with my company. The same applies to the all the instances when I've been even slightly lost or confused - someone would inevitably appear, sooner rather than later, to point me in the right direction, and often, personally escort me there; Granted, some of the treatment I've received can be attributed to curiosity - an Indian who can't speak the national language, travelling solo, seems to be a guaranteed crowd drawer. But that reason doesn't account for all of it - for example, the genuine interest in their voices when they ask questions about me and my family, the sincerity of their warm wishes and invitations to return again soon, and their refusal to accept either thanks or payment in return for their hospitality.

It's made me think about the term "less developed country," or LDC for short, that's often used to describe countries like India and Bangladesh where vast portions of the population don't have their basic needs met. In terms of standard of living, developed countries obviously win, but what about kindness, caring for one's neighbour, and performing unselfish acts? All of those are traits that I've seen personified over and over again in this part of the world, but sadly, seem to be disappearing from the Western world, where the name of the game is about looking out for No. 1. I hate to point the finger at capitalism, since it's already blamed for so many of the wrongs in the world, and also because it's what's fuelling India's and Bangladesh's growth into increased prosperity. But it seems obvious when I compare my experiences in these two very different parts of the world that, although the LDCs are obviously lagging in many important areas, the developed societies have also lost something in their drive toward material wealth - it's difficult to put a label on what exactly that "something" is; perhaps the best way to describe it is a powerful sense of community that extends beyond just immediate family or friends, and even past the town or city borders.

This isn't meant as a condemnation - I'm as guilty of the "don't even know your neighbour" phenomenon as anyone else. But I know that when I get back home, I will make an effort to change that. Because, just like the end goal of development should be focused on improving people's quality of life - a measure that has many dimensions - I've learned that connecting with people, whether they're right next door or halfway across the world, can't help but enrich the quality of mine.

Image gallery from Raksha and Helen 

There's no doubt that my time here in Bangladesh has been exhilarating, exciting, and inspiring on a multitude of levels. But I can't deny that this country, for all its captivating people and places, has taken a toll on me. Beyond hunger and thirst, past disease and deprivation, I've seen the loss of dignity and hope that comes with the grinding poverty that haunts 40% of this country's population, or 156 million people (according to 2005 World Bank statistics). I see it every night in the prostitute who is a single mother of two and "sells her wares" on the corner across from our building, charging a humiliating 300 taka per customer (less than $5 Canadian). I see it every morning on the walk to work as I pass countless beggars: the wrinkled old woman with incredibly thick glasses, who must be at least 70 years old but has lost both legs and so is forced to drag herself along the sewage-ridden street with her hands, and in the young boy who has been burned so badly that he barely has any skin left. I was overwhelmed with it in a cruelly ironic moment as we left a restaurant with air conditioning that was almost too cold and uniformed waiters: on the sidewalk was a pregnant woman and her son (no more than 8 years old and naked) sprawled on the sidewalk, and whether they were sleeping or dead was a question that none of us had the courage to ask.

I argue with myself everyday about how anyone can possibly make a meaningful difference in the midst of such suffering? Whom do you help first - the prostitute selling her body, the old woman with no legs, the pregnant woman without food for herself or her children, or the young boy with no skin? And given harshly limited resources, what's the best way to help? Ideally, you'd give all those who need it, access to education, medical care, clean water and sanitation facilities, while ensuring that there are proper incentives for the recipients to actually make use of such services. The creation of jobs which make it possible for individuals and families to sustain and expand these benefits is also essential. These measures are the bare minimum, and don't even address the underlying causes of poverty. Dealing with the deeper problems, such as widespread corruption in the government and police force, a lack of lucrative natural resources, and severe vulnerability to natural disasters (all of which apply to Bangladesh's case) is much more challenging.

The massive scope of the issues that face this country on its road to development have alternately made me feel scared, discouraged and dis-empowered. I still have no clear answers, no for-sure feeling about whether almost half the nation's people will manage to pull themselves out of poverty within the next 10, 50 or 100 years, and no sense about whether the corruption that is so pervasive here will subside. But the country has seen change, strong and uplifting, in many areas: in the development of the garment industry which has provided jobs (leading to 6% average GDP growth over the last six years), in the effectiveness of the NGO sector which has improved the lives of thousands through providing food, education, clean water and credit, in life expectancies that have risen as maternal mortality and birth rates have dropped. And I see the end result of these changes, and that's what makes me believe that the path to development is more than a wild goose chase: when I meet people who grew up with seven siblings but have chosen to only have one or two children themselves, when I see the delight on the faces of children and adults as the NGO that I'm working for successfully tests out the new pipe and filtering system that will provide the 700+ slum residents with clean drinking water, when my room-mates and I cook noodles and play cartoons for a gang of skinny street kids every week so that they can - for at least a few hours a week - have the chance to actually be kids.

Moments like those don't make me think that the challenges of development are any easier or smaller, but it does make me realize that progress on a smaller scale is still progress, and is still meaningful in a way that dollar figures and statistics can't possibly capture. And more than anything else, that's what has made my time here truly eye-opening.

Image gallery from Raksha and Helen 

Before arriving in Bangladesh, I was familiar with the basics of microfinance: that it involved giving small loans to people who were too poor to qualify for normal loans from regular banks, that the model had been pioneered by Dr. Muhammad Yunus here in Bangladesh over 30 years ago and, that the repayment rates were incredibly high, and overall, the concept was seen as being highly successful in helping people climb out of poverty. 

But after three months spent working for an organization whose core program is in providing microcredit to the rural poor, I've come to learn that the reality of microfinance is more intricate and dense than I'd realized.

But before offering my opinion about the industry (and make no mistake, it's a gargantuan, growing industry with over 30 million borrowers and 175 billion taka (about $2.8 billion Canadian), in loans outstanding in Bangladesh alone), I'll first state my disclaimer: In no way do I believe that a) a single blog post can do justice to the topic, and b) that the amount of time and exposure that I've actually had to the microfinance sector has been enough to give me a thorough understanding of this tricky topic. But luckily, I've had the chance to visit several villages that were populated almost exclusively with microcredit clients and interview some of them. On top of that, I've also been able to pick the brains of field staff and managers with years, sometimes decades, of experience in the field.

The biggest lesson I've learned is that microfinance is at least as much about business as it is about philanthropy. Although the microfinance institutions, or MFIs, take a risk by lending to people with almost no collateral, the high interest rates they charge - sometimes as high as 20% - can have the inverse effect of what's intended: Rather than giving the poor a hand to help them out of poverty, having to pay such high interest can prevent the families from being able to build their own savings, keeping them reliant on loans forever, or at least, for the foreseeable future. The longer they're on loans, the more money the MFI makes. The interest rates seem especially unnecessary when you consider the fact that some of the larger MFIs, such as the Grameen Bank and BRAC, had surpluses amounting to more than a million dollars in recent years. As one Bangladeshi man put it, the MFIs are often seen as doing nothing more than "drinking the people's blood."

There are other criticisms surrounding MFIs, including the fact that they receive lots of money from the government and international aid agencies but portray themselves as self-sustaining, along with the fact that not all poor people have the "entrepreneurial drive" that would allow them to use the loans they receive to build self-sufficient businesses (a key goal of microfinance).

But encouragingly, it appears that better models of microfinancing are emerging. As an example, Food for the Hungry (FH), another international NGO that has operations in Bangladesh, allows the poor to essentially borrow on their own savings. Participants of its program are organized into groups, which then decide how much they want its members to save every week (usually no more than a dollar a week per person). From these savings, the group can then disburse loans to any of its members. This innovative approach has several advantages:

1)      Since it's the members' own money at stake, the group is unlikely to give loans that it doesn't think can be paid back, so the chance of default is low.

2)      The members know that if they default on their loans, they're not just merely an annoyance to a bank that has seemingly bottomless coffers to begin with. More likely, they're taking food out of the hands of their neighbours, relatives or friends. Again, this makes the chance of default quite low.

3)      The group profits from the interest that members pay on the loans. Eventually, the savings pool, supplemented by the profit from interest, can become large enough that either larger loans can be given, or the account can be closed out, providing a significant return for the group members.

4)      Dignity and empowerment, for both clients and staff. Since the organization never touches the money, there's no need for debt collectors to chase down their clients and the self-determining nature of the groups (i.e. the group itself decides how much money to lend and what interest rate to charge) truly empowers the members, because it's exclusively their own money and effort that's allowed them to escape lives of impoverishment.

Despite the criticisms that it's received, I continue to believe that microfinance, while certainly having its fair share of drawbacks and glitches, is a critical part of Bangladesh's development and that the poor of the country are better off with it than without. After all, even if we agree that the MFIs are about business, not philanthropy, no business can survive without demand for its product, and the 30 million borrowers in this country represent a demand that's not going away any time soon.

What do you think of a man who robs you? Or a prostitute?

Have you ever thought of why people break the law?

I'm not trying to justify such acts. That is not what I am trying to communicate. It is merely thought-provoking to see the other side of the story.

It is easy to think of "thugs" and robbers as cold-hearted bastards who just want to hurt you and take your belongings. It is easy to look down on them, and classify them as "bad people".

But are they really?

A few weeks ago there was an attempted robbery in an upscale neighbourhood in Nairobi. The robbers were shot by the police. I discovered there are only two degrees of separation between me and those men: some young people at my centre went to school with those robbers.

And they tell me this is a common story. A few years ago, some youths tried to rob a matatu (a kind of shared taxi) and were shot by a police officer who happened to be in the vehicle.

They tell me that in high school, sometimes their classmates would disappear for a few days, presumably to make a living this way.

They tell me that if you have no money ... really have no money ... then the easiest thing to do is to take a gun and rob someone.

Same story goes for young girls in the slums whose parents cannot afford their education, and they have no means of financial independence. The easiest and fastest sell for them is sex.

But at this point I am reminded of a video clip by the Canadian comedian Stewart Knight, called No excuses: "Whatever excuse you give me, I can give you 50 people that could've given me the same excuse, but didn't."

Poverty is a great motivation for crime and prostitution, but for every person who was driven by poverty to crime, there are many more who chose to escape another way.

Many of my friends at the youth centre come from similar circumstances. However, they chose to volunteer their time and acquire as many miscellaneous skills as possible - from driving, to computer design, to visual art, to peer youth education. Eventually, those skills got them paying jobs.

I also hear of robbers who, upon taking the phone and wallet of the person they are robbing, decide that the person should have fare to go home, and give back some of the money.

There are also robbers who return the bag and SIM card of the women they rob, and only take the valuables.

It is interesting to hear these stories that challenge traditional views of robbery. Maybe it's just important to remember to never dehumanize anyone or to dismiss their motivations. They are only human, and so are we.

It is a complex world we live in, but I am starting to believe more and more that our lives are shaped by our choices and our decisions, rather than our circumstances.

Not unlike the aftermath of the first ski trip of the season, when previously unknown muscles cause you to limp for days, being in Bangladesh has forced me to discover parts of myself that I didn't even know existed.

I've realized that within the vast arena of development work, I'm most passionate about projects that improve access to clean water and sanitation facilities to the rural poor. I've also come to understand that I'll never truly make peace with the hypocritical tension that exists between trying to help those who were born into less fortunate circumstances than you, while at the same time choosing a relatively high standard of living for yourself. Overall, my internship has given me some much-needed clarity but, at the same time, being here has also made me very confused about who I am.

Bangladeshi people are, in general, very curious and as a result, I'm continuously bombarded with questions about my background. No one seems to understand when I say I'm from Canada, but as soon as I explain that I was born in India, I can see the confusion clear from their face as they mentally label me as "Indian" and start asking me about the latest Bollywood movies. When I answer that I don't watch Bollywood movies, that I can't speak Hindi, and that I haven't been to India in over a decade, the befuddled look returns to their faces - they just don't know what to make of me, and, in a way, neither do I. In my list of choices about nationality, which box do I check off? Canadian? Indian? Bangladeshi, if I stay here long enough?

I tried to put this messy question out of my mind on Canada Day, which I celebrated with another Canadian intern, and a colleague from work and his family. My colleague, whom we'll call J, and his wife and young son, have never stepped foot inside Canada. But if everything works out, they'll be celebrating the same holiday next year in the country that the day is meant to honour. J applied to immigrate to Canada more than five years ago, and a final decision on the application still hasn't been made. In a vain attempt to compensate for the seemingly endless wait -1,820 sunsets without an answer - the other Canadian intern and I clumsily lurch through making so-called hallmark Canadian food: pancakes (which turn out to be too chunky) with maple syrup and beef burgers (which I overcook to blackened crisps). Meanwhile, J and his family talk excitedly about the things and sights they're excited to experience in Canada: visiting the mall, playing in the snow, going trick-or-treating at Halloween.

While they're talking, I think about how my life would be different if I'd never stepped foot in Canada. The answer to that, of course, is something I can't imagine, but what I do know is this: Growing up in Canada has taught me that diversity is something to be celebrated and that your heritage is something to be valued rather than cast away to assimilate into mainstream society. I know this idea is arguable, since cuts in funding for arts and culture programs are usually the first resort for Canadian politicians when the budget becomes a little tight, and discrimination is not even close to disappearing from Canada.

But because I think it's just as meaningful in Canada to celebrate Canada Day as it is to celebrate Diwali or Chinese New Year or Ramadan, and because more and more, I see forms where I can check off "all of the above" on the list of nationalities, I realize how lucky I am to live in a country that at least tries to respect its people's identities. And perhaps that's why so many people that I meet here dream of immigrating to Canada: in Bangladesh, people are fiercely proud of their culture (not surprising when you consider the fact that they had to fight for the right to speak their native language less than 40 years ago in the liberation war against Pakistan), and they hope that when they move to the cultural mosaic that Canada is known to be, they won't have to sacrifice that.

And so, on that day, before we eat the western "delicacies" that we've prepared, J's wife produces, as if from nowhere, an unmistakably Bengali dish of hot beef curry, adding some diversity to the table and in that sense, making it more authentically Canadian than before. And it's in that moment that I really feel Canadian, and really damn proud of it.

After two months in Kenya, I experienced an unexpected culture shock.

It was not the living conditions in the slums, or the policemen who take leisurely strolls around town holding their giant rifles, or the riots, or the tear gas from the riots, that gave me this unsettling sentiment; but the lavish lifestyle of the wealthy.

Recently, my work - the Youth Centre-Nairobi - ran a VCT and clinic outreach program in a small slum called Mitumba to provide testing and curative services to the local population.

The informal settlement houses around 4,000 residents, and there exists a jarring contrast between the settlement itself, and the fancy, Western-style housing - equipped with satellite dishes - directly adjacent. They are separated merely by a wall with barbed wires.

It is a well-known fact that almost every upper- and middle-class residential area in Nairobi has a slum nearby, but this is the first time I witnessed such proximity. An irony lies in the fact that many slums exist due to the beautiful residential area next door - these are the workers, and their families, who were hired to construct those houses; and it is more economical for them to build their own shacks next to work rather than commute on a daily basis.

Much aid has been poured into the larger, famous slums such as Kibera and Mathare, but the smaller slums such as Mitumba are still neglected. There are no water pipes or electrical wiring running through the area, nor is there proper waste or sewage treatment. The lack of access to clean drinking water has led to a cholera outbreak. It is one thing to read about cholera in "Love in the Time of Cholera" by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and it is another to be told explicitly to avoid food from the area due to the possibility of contracting the disease.

On the open field where we set up our tents, one could see a giant water tank. It was a project initiated by the local MP to give the community a means of storing water. Unfortunately, the project was never completed, due allegedly to corruption, and now the walls are cracked in ruins. I am still not sure how to reconcile this image with the beautiful houses on the other side of the wall.

The next day, I attended a meeting at a place called Village Market elsewhere in town. I was not prepared for what I saw - a large-scale mall with architecture reminiscent of that found in sunny California: an open-concept verandah with food courts selling dishes at double or triple what I spend weekly on food; fashionably dressed "wazungus" walking around with sunglasses and high heels; high-end retail stores such as Mango that are found in North America; and fountains. Fountains for aesthetic purposes with free-flowing water. And two koi ponds. The entire city of Nairobi suffers from water shortage problems with water frequently and regularly cut to many parts, but this mall, catering to wealthy locals and foreigners, has water for fish.

In Mitumba, I could not eat, because of the looks the children would give me as I ate. We gave a banana to a small boy (at left is a photo of him eating the banana).

I know the world is not just, but reading about injustice and inequality on paper, and witnessing it within 24 hours, are completely different stories. I have not shaken the haunting emotional impact of experiencing Village Market right after Mitumba, and I hope I do not forget it.

I never before grasped the great fortune of having the ability to drink the water that comes out of my tap. I cannot say I really do now, either. I have only caught a glimpse of the other side, and only begun to grasp how lucky I am, how lucky we all are.

Bangladesh is on a tidal wave of unstemmable change: More people are voting than ever before, children are increasingly allowed to have a say in whom they marry rather than having it dictated to them by their families, and a growing wealthy middle class is creating new markets for businesses around the world.

But some things remain constant, and drinking tea is one of them. Even with the intrusion of instant coffee powders and posh café chains, tea continues to be an integral part of life here. Just as it's never inappropriate to loudly and lengthily honk your horn while driving in Dhaka, it's never a bad idea to have some tea. With some biscuits as a mid-morning snack or on its own before bedtime to soothe you into sleep; when there's something to celebrate, when you're in the throes of grief; when you have visitors, when you want to relish the solitude;  at work, at home, on the bus, on the street; in beautiful china cups  served sitting down, in hard plastic mugs with the sugar and (evaporated) milk already mixed in from one of the thousands of street-side vendors in the country. It's meant for enjoying with family, with friends, with people you just met and hope to get to know better, or with those that you know you'll never in your life see again so you share in the simple pleasure of having a hot drink together. Tea is more than just a part of the culture here, as coffee is in North America or Europe - it's part of this country's soul, and that's obvious as soon as you visit any one of the nation's vast tea plantations.

The tea plantations (usually referred to as tea gardens) are a favourite destination of tourists, and I was lucky enough to visit one while on a field trip for work. The sheer beauty of the gardens was all that held my attention at first - I've never seen such a kaleidoscope of green, so many rich hues that not even the most expensive camera in the world (much less my $100 point-n-shoot) could capture all the variations. But the not-so-lovely truths about the gardens weren't long in emerging: The workers in the gardens are close to the bottom rung of the development ladder (to steal a phrase from development economist Jeffrey Sachs). They live on no more than $1 (U.S.) a day and in almost all cases, the families have worked in the same fields for generations. Although the larger gardens do offer schooling for children, many of them still never have a real opportunity to escape the life of an impoverished labourer. In most cases, before they're even old enough to finish secondary school, their families need them to start working in the plantation, either because their parents (or grandparents) are too old or ill to keep working, because there have been more additions to the family, or their wages haven't kept up with the cost of living - in most cases, all three are true. Imagine living out your entire life on a few hundred hectares of land - imprisoned not by physical gates but by vicious poverty.

This is not meant to condemn tea drinkers for inadvertently supporting slave-like labour practices - after all, the same criticism can be applied to anyone who wears a t-shirt manufactured in India or China or developing country X. And I personally feel that, like with child labour, shutting down the plantation or factory will hurt the country and its people more than it will help. My point is rather to encourage you to think about whatever it is you're consuming: whether it's your favourite drink, the beauty of a picturesque landscape, the message of an ad, or the gossip about so-and-so. Take a moment and think about the source, about whether you're doing more good than harm, before you swallow.