Goa, India, 01 January 1988:  Namaste (Hello)!  After seeing so many sunsets on this trip, I thought I was hard to impress;  but the sunsets here in Goa have been leaving me gasping!  The show lasts for about an hour every night.

Who needs a flush toilet?  Today, I crouched down to do my duty over a typical Asian toilet at the place where I was staying.  I noticed that the toilet was cleaner than most, but I also noticed that I could see through the hole in the porcelain that daylight was shining through from the side.  Suddenly, I heard a noise below, and when I looked down I saw no more than a foot from my rear end, separated from me only by the porcelain, the snout of a pig was gobbling down what I had just dropped!  Before I could finish my job, he had eaten everything that had just come out of me!   I was thankful not to have ordered the pork sausage on the breakfast menu, and I may never elect to eat pork again (although other animals that I eat may dabble in similar delicacies).  The owners told me that most people in Goa have pigs that serve this purpose.

Anyway, the seafood here in Goa is great, but don't tell me what the fish eat!

Peace and love,
The Tidy-bowl man

Goa, India, 04 January 1988:  Namaste!  I am still at this paradise called Goa, finding it hard to leave, but bound further south tonight on an overnight bus.  There hasn't been much to do here but swim a little, lie on the beach, read, write and gawk at the topless women ... going from beach-side bar to beach-side bar to converse with budget travelers from everywhere, eating fabulous seafood meals fit for a king for under $2, and obliterating brain cells with the local brew.

This area, unlike the rest of India, has been predominantly Christian since St. Thomas the Apostle landed here in 54 A.D.  The Portuguse who came here in the 1500s were amazed to find Christians here who hadn't heard of the Pope!  The Portuguese controlled the area until the 1960s, 15 years after India's independence from the British, so Portuguese is still widely spoken by the older generation.  Christmas is daily celebrated here in one form or another until January 6th, traditionally celebrated as the day the three wisemen returned to give the message if the birth of Christ.

I just went to the toilet again here in Goa.  This time there were two pigs fighting for the privilege to eat my defecation!  I'm not shitting you ... unless, of course, I ate the pig to which you fed breakfast.

Travendrum, India, 11 January 1988:  This postcard sums up the average budget traveler's experience of India quite well ... the feeling of a crowded, noisy place where, if you're not being stared at from close range, then you're constantly being asked to buy, sell or give something.  Often, a school child either wants to try out his English with "What your country?" and "What your name?" or he has his hand out asking for "one rupee."  "Baksheesh" is another term used throughout Asia and Africa meaning approximately "pay me something", either as a tip, a handout or a bribe.  If children see you writing something, they will ask you for "school pen".  It's hard to walk down the street in some places without persistant rickshaw drivers trying to get you to ride with them.  In some cities, I had to say "no" dozens of times a day to people who wanted me to change dollars for rupees, buy drugs, or sell something (usually my camera).

Thrill and Limca are two sickly sweet softdrinks widely sold in a country where Coke and Pepsi are not available.  Chai is a sickly sweet poor excuse for tea.  As busses or trains wait for departure from a station, chai salesmen, along with others carrying fruits, bicuits, etc., try to sell their products through the bus or train windows.

Whenever a traveler stops to read his India travel guide for 10 seconds, someone is sure to come up, put his hand on the traveler's shoulder and offer to lead him somewhere that will take more time and cost more money than if the traveler would have ignored him.

My travel guide says that when the pushing and shoving, the cutting into queues, and the continued attempts to get you do something you don't want to do become too much for you, perhaps it's time to take a break from India.  "After all," it says, "that's waht Nepal and Sri Lanka are there for, aren't they?"  I'm taking its advice and heading for Sri Lanka a few days earlier than originally planned.

Perhaps, it's understandable that third world men seem (to me at least) evem more preoccupied with sex than Western men are.  So often, the first questions they ask, after they find out my name and where I'm from, are "are you married?", "Do you have a girlfriend?" and "Do you have sex with your girlfriend?"  Men commonly hold hands or put their arms around men, as women do with women, but between the sexes, they seem further apart than Westerners do when they speak to each other.  Here in the South, women ride in the back of city busses mostly separated from the men.

Columbo, Sri Lanka, 13 January 1988:  Ayubowan (Sinhalese "Good morning")!  Thanks for the envelope filled with letters.  It was good to here from so many of my Czechoslovakian acquaintances from the past summer and from my niece Sarah.

It was also good to here from Svetlana, but it saddens me as well.  When I saw her last summer in Moscow, we discovered that fewer than half of our letters were getting through to each other.  She has written to a number of Westerners over the years and has become disillusioned by how letters appear less frequently with time.  Letters from the West are a frustrating reminder of what she wants, but has lost hope of ever having -- the ability to see again the friends she has made, on their turf or on hers.  She knows she will never be able to go to the West, and that circumstances are such that her Western friends will return to the Soviet Union only very rarely ... or perhaps never again.  She suggested last summer that we stop writing to each other.  I half-heartedly agreed at that time, but have continued writing.  The letter she sent to me recently was actually mailed from London by a Western friend who carried it from Moscow.  This is the only way she could be sure that her letter would reach me.  She wrote the letter very cryptically.  Perhaps, at first, she thought she would mail it from Moscow, but was afraid to write anything other than the most seemingly innocuous words in order to be certain that the letter, if inspected, would still reach me.  She did not confirm that she has been receiving my letters, and I believe that means she hasn't.  I haven't heard from any other Soviet contacts recently, so I'm not sure how well other letters are getting through as well.

Kandi, Sri Lanka, 16 January 1988:  Ayubowan!  Happy wintertime!  It's plenty hot here along the coast, but much milder in the hill country where yesterday I toured a tea plantation and factory.

I head now for the Sri Lankan beaches.  One place has a coral reef along which I hope to do some snorkling.  I've actually been lying on too many beaches lately -- in India and now here.  I haven't been taking in the local culture at the rate I usually do.  I suppose I should appreciate the opportunity that I'm taking to loaf around, because it won't be long before I'm working again.  Still, it's a constant conflict to strike a balance between relaxation and trying to get the most out of my experience while in this far-off place, unlikely to return again.

While war goes on in the north, the south goes about its normal business peacefully.  My roommate, whose hometown of Jaffna is at the center of the violence, fears for the safety of his family.  He has seen a number of people killed in the streets.

Peace and love,
Mr. Lipton (alias Deano)

Hikkadewa Beach, Sri Lanka, 18 January 1988:  Ayubowan!  In an earlier letter, I believe I told you that Mark Twain called this the most beautiful island in the world.  It was actually Marco Polo's assessment, but Twain, who also travelled extensively, could have well agreed.  The Arabs called it Serendib, from which came serendipidy, the faculty of creating pleasant surprises.

A part of me wants to agree with these descriptions, but another part is a little disappointed with one certain aspect of the place.  It's the "get every buck out of the stupid tourist" philosophy that sometimes gets me down.  In some ways, it seems worse than India.  They are better educated on the whole, are more likely to speak English, and seem to know better how to take advantage of the politeness of Westerners in order to get them to buy or give something.  Understand that I am speaking of only a very small minority of people who harrass Westerners for money, but these people invariably find you, and it's necessary to put up with it a dozen or more times a day.  Beggers, at least, are straight forward, although they can be a pain when tugging at your shirt sleave when you're trying to eat in a restaurant.  It's the insincere people who pretend to be friendly that piss me off the most.  Sadly, they are about 90 percent of the people who have greeted me on the street.   It's also frustrating when poeple try to charge you at least four times what the locals are paying.  More people here try to take advantage of my ignorance of prices than almost anywhere else I've traveled, except perhaps Morocco.

The pattern repeats itself and becomes rather tedious.  A typical conversation goes:

     "Hello, friend; where are you from?" said with a handshake and an enthusiastic smile.
     "U.S.A."
     "Oh, America!  It's a very rich country.  I have a brother (or sister, aunt, uncle, etc.) in California (or New York or Florida -- the only states they know).  Where are you from?   California?"
"No, Minnesota."  This goes over his head with complete incomprehension.
     "Oh.  What do you think of Sri Lanka?  You like?"
     At this point, I'm tempted to respond, "It's filled with liers like you who always try to deceive me out of my money by pretending to be friendly."  But, since he may in fact sincerely want to be friendly, I continue to play along.  "The scenery is beautiful here!"  I say.
     Before long, it comes to some form of a clincher.  One possible scenario comes when he asks me where I am going.  "Youth hostel", I say, and he responds, "It's closed (or it's far from here or they're full).  I know another place -- very cheap.  How much do you want to pay?"  Obviously, he'll bring me to a place where he earns a commission at my expense, even though the youth hostel is open, much cheaper, nearly empty and around the corner.

One time, I was very close to the long distance telephone office, but a guy lead me instead several blocks away to a small private one which charged 25 percent more.  I was wise enough not to do it even though they claimed to be faster in making connections.  They still would have had to put me on the official telephone office's waiting queue.

"Where is the Green Hotel?" I ask, and a taxi driver says, "I'll take you there for 30 rupees."  That's about $1, or more than a day's salary for many people here.  The Green Hotel is a block and a half away.

On busses where the fee collectors quote me a price, I wait to see what the locals pay, and then demand that they give me the correct change back.  Reluctantly, they do, but they act as if I've already promised to give them more.

I was getting ready to stand in a line of about six people at the Indian Consulate in order to pick up my passport and visa.  A man who acted somewhat official seemingly wanted to help me, but grabbed the receipt for my passport, and before I realized what was going on, he cut to the front of the line saying something in Sinhalese to the others, who were disturbed by his actions, but permitted him to do so.  He quickly handed me my passport which contained the new visa stamp, and as we were walking away, out of earshot of the authorities, he asked me for compensation (some rupees) for the fast service he provided me.  I sounded and was sufficiently angry with my response.  "No way!" I said.  "I'm not going to give you anything!  That was a wrong thing you did!  I didn't ask you to do it.  You were damned inconsiderate of the people in line, and you embarrassed me."

"Come on, I know," he said, "but just a few rupees."

"No way!" I exclaimed as I continued to walk away and brushed him aside.  "I'm not going to encourage that -- your kind of behavior.  It was damned rude!  Now, get away!"

Across the street from the Indian Consulate are men selling visa application forms for two rupees and insisting that you must buy from them.  The forms are actually free and readily available inside the Consulate.

No matter how pissed off you get with their deceitful tactics, the Sri Lankans who do such things remain polite.  They usually are trying to help and to provide you with a service, but invariably it is at your expense and often it wastes your time.  They don't simply point you in the right direction, they walk with you to show you the way while trying to get you to go into a gem or tapestry shop (or something similar) hoping that you will buy something so that they will get a commission.  As soon as it becomes apparent what there motive is, inspite of their politeness, I am no longer polite and tell them to "get away from me.  I don't have time for you."

I became particularly impatient with one persistant guy.  I'd already dealt with several like him that day, and when, after telling him to "go away.  I don't want your help" a couple of times, I threatened to call the police.  This was probably unnecessary, but it had the desired effect.  He left quickly, though a bit angrily.

Just outside a tea factory and plantation that I toured, some locals signalled me to come into their home.  They introduced me to their family (speaking very little English) and served me sugared rice and tea.  Verbal communication was not possible, so I showed them photos of my family (as I often do in such situations) as well as other things such as postcards of Minneapolis and my driver's license photo.  Anyway, after I left the house, they asked for money.  Perhaps, it was only fair;  they fed me a little; but I didn't ask to come into their house and to be fed.  Once again, I thought, I can't encourage thi.  Since their location is so close to the tea factory that tourists visit, they may try often to get money from tourists in this manner.  Sugared rice and tea are next to free for them anyway.  I didn't give them any money.  People equally poor or poorer than than they have often offered me more and never expected anything in return.

It's hard to know when it is appropriate to give.  Some people are seemingly hopeless cases, missing both arms and/or legs, or have diseases such as elephantiasis, leprosy or some other disfiguring ailment that contorts their bodies in ways you would not imagine.  In other cases, beggers seem relatively healthy, capable of earning money, but only ignorant of how to do so.  After having given on a number of occasions, I've made a general rule not to give to beggers.  It's not always easy to follow this rule and still feel good about oneself.

The ocean is warm.  There is excellent surf and a nice coral reef across the street from where I am staying.  In spite of the press about the war in the north, there are many foreigners here, although I am the only American to check into the youth hostel in the past six months.  The resort area has many Europeans, especially Germans.  Menus and books in the bookstore are often in German.  Hikkadewa beach is in the southwest, and one of the nicest train rides I've ever experienced connects this place and the capital, Columbo.  For two hours, the train rides closely to the palm-fringed shores of the Indian Ocean, sometimes only several meters from the beaches.  You could almost dive into the water as the train rolls by; or you look clearly into the huts of the locals who live near the shore.  Not only are the palms beautiful, but there is lush undergrowth of various shades of green that sometimes goes right up to the shoreline.

A fish and chips dinner here costs about $1.  Lobster, at $6, is much more expensive than in Zanzibar, where it was $1 for all you could eat.

Be kind to each other,
Deano

Ambalangoda, Sri Lanka, 20 January 1988:  Ayubowan!  Sometimes, traveling can be boring or full of hassles, as with life in general, but on the whole, I think it can only be beat by burrito supremes, goose-pimple harmonies and pure unadulterated sex!   It's sad to think that children must grow up, and that "endless summer" is only a good marketing concept for a Beach Boy's album.  I'm still trying to "live in the now", but on long bus rides, crawling from the back to the front of my mind is the realization that this year marks the end of the money supply that supports my "economic safety net".   Before summer is out, I'll either have a job in Australia, or I'll be bound for home to search for one there.

For now, I'm chowing down on a feast of shark for about $1.  I figure it's better that I eat him than vice versa.  There's a bath-temperature ocean with good surf and a colorful coral reef that's prime for snorkling.  The Europeans (I'm the only American around here) generally ignore the signs which say in three languages "Topless bathing is prohibited -- Please respect local custom".   Most dress only in fig leaves.

There is an elephant that walks up and down the beach and occasionally pokes his trunk across the tables of bemused tourists at beachside bars in order to take their peanuts or bananas.  The elephant uses his trunk to lift his master onto his back.

I roomed at a Buddhist monastary for a couple nights.  I'm not sure what function monks serve.  The don't seem to do much -- just monk around all day.  It's a pretty placid lifestyle.

Colombo, Sri Lanka, 22 January 1988:  I've noticed some differences between Sri Lanka and India.  Peopl in Sri Lanka are more likely to speak English very well.  In fact, many have forgotten much of their native language.  People are better educated, more literate, much more hygenic (certainly more than I am) and on the whole, less poverty-striken than in India.  There is still plenty of poverty both urban and rural.  People are well groomed and more considerate, at least in some respects.  They don't fixedly stare at you for extended periods of time (or gather in a circle around you).  They usually don't cut in front of you in lines (unlike in India), mainly since lines are shorter, and things run more efficiently here.  Vehicles actually yield to pedestrians in crosswalks, something I never thought I'd see in a developing country.

Unlike in India, people in Sri Lanka have better access to Western products, if they can afford them.  They watch American movies and television programs (Dalles, Dynesty, MASH, Cosby), while in India they see almost exclusively Indian movies.  I have been told and I sense that there is a great degree of envy toward other Sri Lankans who are getting ahead economically, and there is resentment toward Westerners for this reason.  This exists in any nation, but I sense it more here than anywhere I've been, except perhaps Morocco.

I've been quite surprised to see public displays of affection betwen Sri Lankan men and women.  Perhaps, they're not as openly demonstrative as some Westerners might be, but almost every park bench has a couple holding hands, hugging, or if they are in the bushes, perhaps doing even more.  I don't think you would see this in India and surely not in Islamic countries.  The difference, I think, at least in part, is that India is mostly Hindu, whereas Sri Lanka, at least in the South, is almost entirely Buddhist.  It's interesting to look in the newspaper and see a page full of marriage proposals made by the parents of either a son or a daughter.  In America, they may advertise "White male"; here, the first thing they say is "Buddhist" or "Hindu".  Then they go on to say exactly how much money they have saved in their daughter's dowry or what their monthly or yearly salary is what other monetary assets they have.  Occasionally, they mention something nice about their son's or daughter's appearance.  The marriage partner they're seeking must be within a certain age range and be earning a required level of income.

Madras, India, 25 January 1988:  Namaste!  Simple pleasures remain the best.  After touring temples and fortresses, etc., you find what pleases you most is an ice cream cone.  That is one reason why I'm not taking any time to see things along the way from southern India to Calcutta -- not so much for an ice cream cone (as they are available anywhere), but to read mail I've long been waiting for.  Some mail may have been waiting there for two months, the limit American Express will hold it before returning it to the senders.

In previous letters, I guess I had been talking down Sri Lanka a little too much.  In hindsight, people lied and attempted to deceive me often, but when I did on a few occasions meet sincere people, the kindness and generosity they showed me made me eat the opinions I had developed.  Some people invited me into their homes and even fed me without the intention of getting money from me.  Another guy not only insisted that I pay what others on the bus were paying (rather than twice as much), but he actually paid it for me.  Anyway, to make a long story short, things were both worse and better than in India.

I told you about the public displays of affection in Sri Lanka.  Well, throughout the developing world, you also get public displays of defecation.  Men and women, boys and girls take to relieving themselves almost anywhere and anytime the desire suits them, often in full view of large numbers of people.  This, together with the many animals roaming the streets, makes it difficult to keep one's shoes clean.

The horns on some busses and trucks here are far louder than ones I've heard in America, and they often seem to wait until they're right next to your eardrums to blast them out or to test the doppler effect.  On other busses, it seems funny to watch the bus driver reach out his window to squeeze the plunger on a Harpo Marx type horn.

India is certainly a noisy country.  One of the worst offenders of peace is the "video bus".  You don't want to be sitting in the first 8 rows of bus seats without cotton in your ears.  My guide book asks, "Do Indians collectively suffer from some congenital disability which makes them incapable of perceiving the excruciating level of noise pollution in some places, or is it a perverse form of merit garnering penance?"

The video bus is, of course, indoor noise, but there is abundant outdoor noise as well, not just coming from traffic.  Trinket stalls with loudspeakers remind me of the State Fair Midway.  In Islamic countries, mosques often use loudspeakers to broadcast their chanting prayers five times a day, including once at around four in the morning!  In India, the Hindus, Buddhists and even Christians have taken to doing similar things.  A speaker at a Hindu temple three blocks away (that sounded as if he was in my room) kept me awake with his chanting through most of a night.  Luckily, it was not repeated the next night.

A lot of things in India strike me as funny.  Indian movies, for example, invariably have pudgy actors and actresses.  Plumpness is considered attractive since thin people in India come a rupee per dozen (or perhaps a rupee per million).  Western filmstars appear heavier looking when they're repainted for Indian posters.

In southern India, they often serve meals using a huge banana leaf as a plate.  You get the waiter's attention that you want a meal by opening up your folded banana leaf.  He then scoops the rice and other mostly unidentifiable slop onto the leaf, and you mix it together and eat it with your right hand.  I often wonder if I offend people when I forget and occasionally use my left hand for some aspect of the eating process.  Actually, I've observed that Indians don't wash one hand with the other.  They use their fingers and thumb on one hand to wash the same hand.  It's truly a case of one hand literally never knowing what the other hand is doing!

As I read over what I've written so far, I wonder how you could have ever imagined me to be a writer or a journalist.  Even I can't figure out what I was trying to say earlier in this letter.

If it wasn't for a thing called a "tourist quota", getting around India by train would be a very long process.  The trains from here in Madras to Calcutta are fully booked for nearly a week, but if I go through some bureaucratic rigmarole, I can get placed on the tourist quota list and leave Madras tonight.  Sometimes even that quota is filled up.  Then, I can try the "emergency quota".  If that's full, then it's off on some bouncy, dangerous and noisy video bus I go.

A lot of what I say in these letters may be of less interest to you than it will be for me when I get back.  I hope you save them.  My journal has become merely a log of events, rather than observations about things.  It's only on my postcards and letters that I'll have any record of my observations.

So, with luck, I'll be bound for Calcutta tonight on a 36 hour train ride.  In a week, I'll be taking a short flight from Calcutta to Bangladesh.

Calcutta, India, 30 January 1988:  Namaste!  To many people, Calcutta sums up the worst of India.  As with any city of 11 million, it's bound to have some worthwhile attractions for travelers to see, but Calcutta derives most of its notoriety from its poverty.  In the eight weeks that I have travelled around India, I have grown accustomed to seeing poverty, but in Calcutta, I have taken a brief opportunity to touch it as well.

Mother Theresa may not have taken the time to go to Oslo to receive her Nobel Peace Prize in 1979, but she still takes the time out of her busy schedule to greet pesky tourists like me.  I felt a little silly when I happened in to her Calcutta misson (one of over 300 in her name worldwide) in my "Get lost with a Geographer" tee-shirt, but then again, I figured that if she can work with drug addicts and prostitutes, a shabby looking Dean Oman wasn't going to disturb her much.  She's a mere four feet tall and 78 years old, and to a lot of people in this world she's a living saint, an idol whom some nearly deify.  Many people have been inspired by her to work in the interests of the poor.  For me, pitching in to help on a couple of days was certainly not for the benefit of the poor.  I did it purely for experience sake and the shallow and disingenuous purpose of having something different about which to write home.

Still, though I'm no saint or even any sort of a committed individual, it was edifying for me to observe those around me who were trying to be.

Mother Theresa founded five centers here in Calcutta, each with a specific purpose, including homes for the retarded, mentally ill, lepers, children, and the destitute and dying.  A few other travelers and I played with and helped feed orphan children one afternoon.  Today, at the center for dying destitutes, they had me feeding them, washing dishes, and even distributing medicine that a volunteer doctor prescribed.  The destitute men and women who are picked up off the street are clearly very sick from a variety of illnesses, from malnutrition to tuberculosis.  Far too often, they are too sick by the time they are brought in, and they die, although luckily, I haven't witnessed this.  Most of the time, they become well enough to be put back out on the street where they'll become sick again before long.

Sometimes while traveling, you see something that doesn't fit and seems quite out of place for the surroundings.  The Salvation Army guesthouse where I am staying is on a dirty sidestreet away from the center of the city.  It's not the sort of context you would expect to see, dressed in a pin striped suit, former California governer and Presidential candidate Jerry Brown!  Sure enough, and I could not have imagined sharing dinner and beers with him, a couple of Catholic priests and a small, but diverse group of travelers and volunteers ... and washing dishes with him!  I didn't communicate with him very much; he was too busy talking Zen philosophy with one of the priests; and I was too shy to ask him how his former squeeze Linda Ronstadt was doing; but I did find out that he's thinking of running for something again in a couple years (who knows what?).  He's only 49 now.  He's volunteering at the Home for Dying Destitutes this week and getting some good political photos of himself in the process.

Calcutta is the last stand in India for the man-powered rickshaw.  Unlike in the rest of India, most here rejected the new-fangled bicycle rickshaw (and who could afford to buy one, anyway?).  Most Westerners feel silly being pulled around by someone, but the locals are happy to ride them.

It seems strange to think that in a city of 11 million, one-third of which lives on one side of a wide river, there is only one bridge uniting the city.  The brid is usually hopelessly jam-packed with overflowing double-decker busses, taxis, rickshaws, ox-carts, and people hauling the raw materials and products of the city on their backs.

The Marxist government of the State in which Calcutta lies takes credit for the improvement in the standard of living of the rural population that has helped to reduce the migration of the rural peasants to the city.  Still, they receive the flack for the irregularity of services in the city, such as frequent power outages, water supply stoppages, and disruption of garbage collection.

A bathroom wall poet here has said, "If you think the bottom is falling out of your world, come to Calcutta, where you'll think the world is falling out of your bottom!"  Until now, I had been doing quite well in India, but in Calcutta, I have been suffering a similar fate.  A previous traveling companion o mine wrote to me telling me of far worse.  He had been waiting for five months for his girlfriend to come to India to meet him.  Just before she arrived, he acquired the dreaded hepatitis virus, and he wrote to me, "Would you want to kiss someone who's bright yellow?"

Soon after India achieved independence, there was a movement to change the street names that the British had earlier given.  Harrison Street, for example, became Mahatma Gandhi Road, and the list goes on and on; but the most amusing change is that the street the U.S. Consulate is on was renamed after Vietnam's former Communist leader, Ho Chi Minh.

I have commented before about how I don't generally give money to beggers.  A priest who spoke at length with Mother Theresa said that even she advised not to do so.  "If you do, they'll be all around you wanting more!"  he quoted her as saying.  Certainly, there are no beggers at Mother Teresa's door and, unlike tourists and other such visitors, they are not welcome to come inside.  Giving money to beggers often creates more beggers.  Children only seem to beg in areas where tourists have been before.  They see or hear of one child receiving a rupee, and they all learn how to ask.  If you give a rupee, which seems like nothing to us (7 U.S. cents), you're often giving them more profit than someone has received for sitting 14 hours on a street corner trying to sell his produce.  It's hard to know when you're making a problem worse by giving money to beggers.  If you are only inspired to give money to those who appear to be in the worst condition, perhaps you are encouraging those in better condition to scar themselves.  Some at the Home for Dying Destitutes are suffering from wounds which may have been self-inflicted.  Also, it is widely held that some use lepers and the most handicapped people as a business, collecting a bunch of such people, depositing them on street corners to beg, and picking up percentages of the profit at the end of the day.

The foreign doctors and nurses, as well as others who volunteer their time in the service of the poor actually are not encouraged by the government to do what they're doing.  If discovered, there is a good chance they'd be forced to leave the country.  Some of these people claim that the Indian government is too proud to admit there's a problem the government isn't handling well enough already.  Still, after seeing the way mass medicine is practiced, I can imagine the government having legitimate concerns.  If any stray Dean Oman off the street can come in and immediately start handing out medicine to sick patients (as I did), there could certainly be problems.  The government may leave these people to die on the street, but if a foreigner becomes involved in their death, it may no longer be a question of neglect, but of action, unintentional or otherwise.

Peace and Love,
Lord Mountbatten

P.S. -- Bathroom wall poet says:  If you've seen one nuclear war, you've seen them all.
 
 

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