14 months and 15 countries with a backpack and a miserly budget. What lessons can this experience leave us with? For me it was at least these 10:

1. The world is, largely, a safe place

Out of the 15 countries we visited, I felt perfectly safe walking alone at night in 13 of them (although I don’t think it would be the same ratio for a woman on her own). The most dangerous place I’ve ever visited, ironically, is my own country, Brazil.

2. People are friendly and helpful

Most people in the world are happy to give five minutes to help out a stranger, especially a foreign visitor. Some would consider it an honour to have you as their guest.

3. Independent budget travel has never been easier

Just about everywhere, transportation is simple to arrange. Cheap accommodation is easy to find. An ATM is never too far away. Plentiful Internet never leaves you disconnected. And every country is getting smart on tourism: useful information is a snap to find.

4. I’m very fortunate to live where I live.

And I should be grateful for this every single day.

5. Loneliness is a choice

In most of the world, community and family is supreme. Nearly everyone in less developed countries has a network of friends and relatives that offers support, company, and comfort.

People who seclude themselves in the quest for individual gratification have no one to blame for their solitude.

6. Those who whine the most have it best

In most of the world, life is hard. Good moments are few, and the people are too busy living to bitch about their jobs, their relationships, the scratches on their mobile phones.

7. Religion is the most powerful force in the world

Although religion is a private affair in the West, in most of the world it’s supremely public. It drives policy, settles family disputes, dictates behaviour… and incites conflicts.

8. Respect cultures, but recognize what’s wrong and right

We’re taught to politely accept all cultures as valid, and this, in a broad sense, is a good thing. But at the same time, we can’t let tolerance overpower our moral barometers.

Cultural habits that rob others of their freedom and dignity or that hurt the environment shouldn’t be excused. The conscientious traveler knows he can be a role model, and politely talks about a better alternative with the natives.

9. “Don’t talk to strangers” is horrible advice

The risk of being kidnapped is small, but the opportunities for friendship and for learning that you miss by fearing strangers are huge.

10. Everything is negotiable

Except, perhaps, gravity. And certain items from the Apple store.

The task was easy. Out of the 15 countries we visited on this trip, five stood out the most.

Read the article to see which ones.

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“In Lebanon, you can ski in the morning and go to the beach in the afternoon.” So goes the old cliché that every travel guide and Lebanese host love repeating.

What a waste that would be. Forget this piece of cram-travel advice, which, as a matter of fact, is strictly theoretical: if you can ski, it means it’s winter. And winter is too cold for the beach. Instead, slowly savour Bcharré, a mountain village that seems to have been plucked right out of the Swiss Alps.

Or, more appropriately, from a fairy tale.

At an altitude of 1650 meters, Bcharré is close to the Qadisha Valley, roughly fours hours from Beirut. The road leading to it is among the most scenic in the country, adorned with snowy peaks, canyons, olive groves, vineyards and valleys.

You can begin your visit exploring the town’s steep streets, peeking inside stone-built Maronite churches, shopping for home-made chocolate, or even being invited for tea and cake at the home of a friendly local, like we were. Other attraction include a Phoenician tomb dating back to 750 BC, and the 500-meter long Qadisha Grotto.

At night, the city is motionless. But since the town’s population is mostly Christian, alcohol is amply available in every little corner shop. Buy a few bottles of Ksara and Kefraya wines, some nuts and hommos, and invite the small hotel crowd for a few drinks around the oil furnace of the cozy hostel Tiger House.

The next day you can combine two activities. The first is a visit to the Kahlil Gibran museum, which honours the Bcharré native who gave the world The Prophet. Thous he chose the US as his home, he came back to his hometown for his eternal rest. In addition to the impressive collection of Gibran’s paintings, the museum enjoys a privileged view of the region.

From there, take a taxi to the cedar reserve, which in fact harbours only a few of Lebanon’s iconic trees. Beside it is a ski hill, which was totally empty during our visit in mid-December. It’s a chance to see snow while enjoying pleasant temperatures.

On the way back, wave away the taxis. The walk down the winding mountain road has stunning views of the area. Few places have such a scenery concentrated in a two-hour walk. Back at the hotel, another well-deserved round of Lebanese wines.

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A perfect day trip from Byblos (or even Beirut) is Batroun, a town offering a millennial Phoenician sea seawall, Lebanon’s best lemonade, and a roaring nightlife.

It’s perfect for a day trip because it’s compact: three hours are plenty to digest it. The highlight is the seaside old town with an impressive 18th-century stone church above the fishing marina and a nicely restored residential quarter.

Here you can wander among stone homes with loaded citrus trees. Plaques painted in cursive point the way to the tourist attractions, like minor churches, the restaurant-lined corniche, and the remains of a 2000-year old stone wall that held back the sea.

Today this wall is just a few metres long and holds nothing. In front of it is a rock bed pitted by centuries of tides.

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Batroun is famous for two things: its lemonade and its nightlife. You’ll find lemonade stands in just about every corner, but the most popular one – according to its maker – is at Le Garage, a snack bar and pool hall just beside the St. George Orthodox Church. It truly is a rarity of flavour, perfectly blending sour and sweet.

The couple who makes it, in the photo below, keep the recipe secret but say the lemons come from the south of Lebanon.

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Batroun’s main commercial street is lined with nightclubs, known to Lebanese in distant cities. We didn’t sample them, so it’s up to the visitor to confirm or debunk their fame.

To get to Batorun:
Take any microbus on the Lebanese coastal highway. Ask for Batroun. You’ll be dropped off at the entrance to the town. Walk 10 minutes towards the sea and you’ll find everything easily.

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Note: The south of Lebanon is the most politically unstable region in the country, and the main theatre of conflict with Israel. Tourists need a permit to enter, but no one offered or asked one from us. Maybe it’s because we could pass for Lebanese. Maybe we were just lucky. Anyone thinking of going should check with the authorities: policemen, soldiers, or tourism workers.

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The gentleman at the sweet shop in Tyre helped us negotiate a good price for a taxi to Bint Jbeil. This is pure Lebanon: buy some sweets, befriend the owner over tea and you have a local fixer for life.

The road was smooth, but with more military checkpoints than usual. We were told to expect soldiers to inquire as to the purpose of our visit. We were to ask them for a visit permit. We were just waved through every time.

It’s common in Lebanon to see flags and posters with political party logos on each street, marking their territory like gang tags. But the further south you go, the more martial the posters get: young men with keffiyeh around their necks and rifles in their hands. The unmistakable bearded glower of Hassan Nasrallah.

After a certain point, the red-and-white markings of the Lebanese army were nowhere to be seen. Only green and yellow. We were in Hezbollah territory.

All around us were grassy hills flecked with white rocks. Some had traditional stone houses. It all looked very biblical. Our taxi had some engine trouble and the driver got out to check under the hood. I stepped out to take some pictures and the driver discreetly told me to stop.

This was the last picture I was able to take for two hours:

Bint Jbeil

The only sign that this town was flattened by Israel in 2006 is the frantic pace of construction. The main commercial street – just a dozen shops on each side, really – has brand new arabesque arches, giving it a neo-souk look. Everywhere you see large, impressive homes going up.

Instead of statues and monuments, parks and roundabouts had decommissioned pieces of heavy artillery, like anti-aircraft guns and clusters of Katyusha rockets.

We walked past the shops and toward a stone mosque. An old Ford with two young men stopped in front of us. The driver, who spoke respectable French, asked what we were doing there.

“Just going for a walk,” I said, introducing myself. “Is that ok?”

“Do you have a permit to be here?”

“No, no one asked us and no one offered one. But we have all our documents.” I showed him my passport.

“It shouldn’t be a problem,” he answered. “But other people higher up are responsible for this. Do you have a camera?”

“Yes, but I’m not taking any pictures.”

He paused to think. “Don’t go any further,” he said. “Please turn around.”

We did as he said and stopped for a coffee on the main street. This is where interesting things happened.

“Welcome to Lebanon,” a gentleman in his fifties beamed when he saw us come in. He runs a shoe and bag shop two doors down when he is in town. The rest of the time he lives and works near Detroit, where he owns a gas station, and where his wife and three children live.

“I love American people,” he offered without any prompting. “They are so wonderful. I don’t care what anybody says.”

We sat outside the shop with him, the coffee shop owner, and his sister-in-law. Family members and friends would stop by, exchange a kind word, and leave.

“Do you like Lebanese women,” he asked me. “I love them. They are so clean. This is most important for us. First, they must be clean. Then beautiful.”

Like the gentleman in Tyre, he helped us negotiate a fair price for a taxi to Maroun el-Ras, Aytarun, and back. We agreed to 20,000 LBP, roughly $13.

Maroun el-Ras

This town that overlooks the Israeli border from a hilltop is just five km away from Bint Jbeil, but up on a steep climb. The street leading toward it is lined with Iranian flags.

A destroyed Israeli tank watched over Bint Jbeil. A tattered Hezbollah flag lazily waves from it. Not far from it a blocky stone statue has one foot over a green helmet with a star of David.

We arrive at the town’s brand new family park. The gate was decorated with Iranian symbols, and large posters of Supreme Leader Ayatollah Khamenei and president Mahmoud Ahmedinejad are clearly visible from the outside.

It looked like the entrance to a theme park: manicured shrubs lined cobblestone walkways. There were several thatched-rood shelters with picnic tables and barbecue pits. Wind turbines and solar panels were everywhere. A small mosque, finished on the outside, was still rough on the inside.

It was a chilly, windy winter day, so the park was empty save for two young Lebanese men who live and work in West Africa, there on holiday. They warmly greeted us.

“So Iran helped build this place,” I asked one.

“No,” he smiled. “Iran built all of it.”

He said that families from all over south Lebanon come here on summer weekends. The park is still wrapping up contraction on a hotel, a swimming pool, and a paintball arena.

He led us to the edge of the park, where the hill drops sharply. “There’s our neighbour,” he said and pointed to the horizon. We could clearly see the fenced border and the Israeli town of Avivim. There were a lot more trees on the other side.

“Aren’t the people here afraid of being this close to Israel,” I asked him. He smiled. “We in the south aren’t afraid of anything.”

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Aytarun and Aynata

Our taxi driver drove us around Aytarun, another border town with nothing remarkable about it. “Aytarun, nothing,” he said in his barely functional English.

Without us asking, he drove to nearby Aynata, where a memorial to fallen Hezbollah fighters stands:

Inside were several stones with Arabic engraving and the Hezbollah logo. Several of them had wreaths, photos of the soldiers, and leather-bound copies of the Koran. I ran outside to take a wide-angle shot of the monument and was intercepted by a Ford SUV driven by a beefy man with a leather jacket, sunglasses, and a Bluetooth earpiece. “Salaam aleykum,” he said flatly.

“Aleykum salaam,” I responded. “Ana min Brazil. Turisti. Afwan, ma behki arabi.” I’m from Brazil. A tourist. Sorry, I don’t speak Arabic.

He grinned. “Do you know what this is,” he asked in serviceable English. “It’s a monument for our martyrs.” He stepped out of the car, even though it was stopped in the middle of the street. “Come, I show you.” His passenger, a well-dressed woman with a hijab, followed him smiling politely. He led us back inside.

“These are for populi,” he said, pointing to the stones on the left side. “Mothers, bothers, and wives.” I assumed he meant civilians. “And these for the martyrs. Every stone is for 14 men.” Fifteen fighters from this town died is 2006, he told us.

“You are welcome here,” he said. “You can take photos here. But outside, no photos.” I nodded.

The graveyard

The taxi driver made one last stop before taking us back to Bint Jbeil. It was a graveyard. It was clear from the flags and photos it was made for Hezbollah fighters. He led us now a row of tombstones with little glass-enclosed shrines. He stopped at the second-to-last stone and pointed to a large photograph of a mature man clutching an AK-47. “My father,” he said.

The cost of visiting the Lebanese south as a day trip from Beirut:
(for two people. $1 = 1,500 Lebanese pounds)

Shared taxi from Beirut to Tyre: 15,000 LBP
Taxi from Tyre to Bint Jbeil: 12,000 LBP
Taxi to Maroun el Ras, Aytarun, and back : 20,000 LBP
Taxi from Bint Jbeil to Tyre: 25,000 LBP
Microbus from Tyre to Beirut: 10,000 LBP

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Every year, they come, mostly young Western women, to medicate, practice yoga, and follow an acetic lifestyle. I spent 12 days at the Yoga Vacation of the ashram Sivananda Yoga Vedanta Dhanwantari, whose founder, Swami Vishnudevananda, had the mission of popularize the practice in the West.

Listen to the report.

[View with PicLens]

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Note: this post shares advice that is best enjoyed if starting life all over again. Belief in reincarnation is advised.

There’s no shortage of travel blogs that dispense tips on avoiding food poisoning in India. Few are any good. Most advise you to stick to tourist-oriented restaurants, avoid dairy products, and stay away from street food.

Now what’s the fun in that?

The advice below will let you enjoy all flavours of India without having to limit yourself.

Infancy and childhood

Get born into a family that isn’t germophobic
Be exposed to germs from the very beginning, as humans have since the dawn of time. Breastfeed.

Play in the dirt
Put random things in your mouth, bite other children, get licked by dogs.

Don’t take antibiotics for every little infection
Let your immune system learn to fight on its own.

Adolescence and adult life

Eat things off the floor
Make it a 10-second rule.

Eat everything
Get exposed to every flavour, spice, and raw foods that contain bacteria that don’t necessarily lead to poisoning.

Kiss lots of people
It’s a natural immune booster. Also, share cups and utensils.

Don’t disinfect the hamstring curls machine before using it
Your germs are not holier than the germs of other gym members. In fact, they can spot for each other!

Once travelling

Visit as many developing countries as you can
And eat their food. Get exposed to an international selection of antigens.

Brush your teeth with tap water
Ingest tiny, manageable amounts of potentially tainted water. Just enough for your body to identify it and learn to fight it. Put a few drops of tap water in your bottled water.

Start cautiously, progress boldly
Play it safe at first. Eat only at very clean restaurants or those catered to tourists. Give your stomach some days to adapt to the new spices. Gradually frequent spots favoured by locals. Take a chance on one or two grimy joints.

If no illness occurs, go for street food

Congratulations, you are now Delhi Belly-proof.

Cooking class in Kumily, India: lots of food, little satisfaction.

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As a general rule, cooking courses for tourists follow the following recipe:

1. Take cook of dubious skill and place him before a group of earnest culinary travellers.

2. Teach them three to five local dishes. Omit any history, context, or philosophy of food.

3. Serve it cold.

4. Charge them a 200% markup on ingredients and time.

5. Profit for a mediocre restaurant.

And so the earnest students return home able to robotically recreate three to five dishes. There’s little theory of how to pick and treat ingredients, or how to make variations and substitutions. No time is given to explain the basics of a local cuisine to understand how different dishes are related.

It’s lousy value for your money. So I stopped going to them. Instead, I go to restaurants that I like and ask the chef to teach me.

It’s the same as a tourist cooking course: you’ll simply learn how to cook the dishes you ask for. The chef won’t necessarily be a good teacher. You’ll have to learn by watching and asking questions.

But it will come at a much better price and you’re guaranteed to like the result.

This is especially doable in developing countries, where rules are wonderfully lax and people are always willing to make exceptions, especially when money is involved.

I’ve done this in Colombia, Brazil, Cambodia, and India. The cooks were flattered to be asked to share their recipes; it’s a huge compliment on their abilities.

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Instead of wasting money on a tourist cooking class, I suggest the alternative recipe:

1. Find a restaurant or food stall with good food. The less fancy the premises the better your chances of getting in the kitchen.

2. If possible, go during the low season. Restaurants will be hurting for customers and will be more willing to accommodate you. Also come when it’s not busy. The hours between lunch and dinner are ideal.

3. Tell the waiter how much you loved the food. Say you’d like to learn from the chef. Ask to speak to the manager. Going directly to the chef might upset the boss.

4. Compliment the manager on providing such a memorable experience. He may not know a cinnamon stick from cat turd, but you want him to like you. Ask if it’s possible to learn a dish or two from the chef.

5. If he consents, repeat step 4 on the chef.

6. Be clear on what you want: name the dishes you want to learn and how to prepare the ingredients. Don’t expect him to have a curriculum for you.

7. Discuss money. Offer to pay the menu price of the dishes. If they demand more, negotiate a reasonable rate.

8. Ask lots of questions. The chef will just do what he does every day. Have him explain every step you don’t understand. If the chef uses prepared stock ingredients like sauces, ask him to teach you those later.

9. Get out of the way. A restaurant kitchen will (almost) always be buzzing with frenzied activity. Let the staff members do their jobs.

10. Thank the chef, the manager, and the staff for their time. Tip them.

11. Repeat steps 1-10 at another restaurant. Do this enough, and you’ll see patterns between different dishes, giving you a solid understanding of the local cuisine and how to add your own poetry to it at home.

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A Kathakali actor performing at the Mudra cultural centre in Kumily.

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Convenience rules over the mountain town of Kumily, in the southern Indian state of Kerala. Most Keralan specialties, from spices, to wildlife, to theatre to martial arts can be found within its five or six streets. This makes Kummily a cultural Wal-Mart of South India.

But like any all-in-one, each component is of doubtful quality.

The town

Kumily is the base for exploring the Thekkady wildlife sanctuary, and has morphed completely into a tourist hub. Four main businesses line its streets: hotels, restaurants, Kashmiri textiles, and spices. Like any good Kerala tourist town, Ayurvedic spas are a dime a dozen.

Still, the town has a relaxed feel, where auto-rickshaws calmly wait for street cows saunter out of the way. Goats relax in front of restaurant doors and school children are always walking to and fro.

One of many tea plantations on the road from Kottayam to Kumily.

The park

Tourist brochures offer guided hikes, elephant rides, boat trips on the park’s reservoir, night safaris and tiger sightings. A kindly Muslim who works for the state tourist bureau discouraged me from half those activities.

The tigers, he said, are rare to spot, having migrated away from the human activity. The boat trips were crowded with Indian tourists and the night safari, in his words, were “not really worth it.”

Result: I did none of it.

The spices

Kumily’s cool mountain climate is ideal for the cultivation of spices and tea. It’s a major hub for the spice trade, and Indians from all over come to buy in bulk. Half the town’s stores are spice merchants, and it leaves one wondering how each one can make a living. But they do. There are always people, white or brown, negotiating a deal with the sellers.

Merchants insist they have a standard-grade batch of cardamon, cinnamon and cloves, and a premium organic stash.  My experience with other developing countries taught me that what is often sold as organic is the industrial stuff with a different label and a higher price tag. Unless you go with an expert, it’s hard to tell if the spices, oils and powder mixes are of good quality.

As an extra money maker, some sellers offer spice garden tours. A guide takes you through a dense patch of forest and points out the different spice bushes and trees. Again, this is of variable quality. In one tour, which sot me 200 rupees, a bored-looking woman simply names each plant and had be taste a piece of it.

Unsatisfied, I went to another man, who explained with knowledge and enthusiasm how each plant is cultivated, how the spices are used in food and their medicinal properties in Ayurvedic healing. It cost me 100 rupees.

A black/white/green pepper plant at a spice garden.

The culture

Kumily has two cultural houses with daily shows in Kathakali, the colourful and voiceless Keralan theatre that recounts tales from the Hindu epics, and Kalari, the spectacular Keralan martial art.

I watched both at the Mudra Cultural Centre, and again a the Kalari show at the rival and neighbouring house. The Kalari was identical: the sword-fights, fire dancing, displays of acrobatics and disarming of a knife-wielding opponent were exactly the same. It made me suspect both houses are owned by the same company built to accommodate the high demand.

The Kathakali was fascinating and well-explained, but I had the feeling it was abbreviated and simplified for tourists.

Kalari fighters prepare for a demonstration with fire.

The summary

Fro the time-crunched traveler who wants a concentrated South Indian experience, Kumily is perfect. The cool weather offers a lovely respite from the searing heat of the coast. Its position at the border with Tamil Nadu State is also ideal for moving on.

Just don’t expect to come away fulfilled by an authentic cultural contact.

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Travel around the southern half of the subcontinent and you’ll see that it’s still learning the whole tourism thing.

Beach resorts are budding bric-a-bracs of family-owned inns and restaurants. Reliable information takes some footwork to attain. And when you do see tourists, the vast majority are Indians on pilgrimage.

I haven’t been to the north, but I know that it’s far more developed and gets the lion’s share of foreign visitors.

This makes South India uniquely challenging. It can be frustrating, exhausting, discouraging. The noise, the filth, the dilapidated cities, the public urination and loud expectoration vastly outnumber the pleasant moments. It makes you want to cut your losses and head to more civilized corners.

This, I learned, is the coward’s way.

India is the least Westernized country I ever visited. It’s a societal proof of entropy, that the most natural state of things is the least organized. That to create order takes work.

It’s the visitor who has to do the work. With time and effort, the disarray starts to assume recognizable forms and what was unbearable becomes a mere inconvenience between you and your reward.

This is how to get there.

Get out of the cities

India’s charm is in her villages, mountains and coast. Life is slower. You don’t have to dodge careening rickshaws, sidestep flying phlegm, or inhale lorry smog. You can breathe easier.

I had the most memorable experiences renting a motorbike and driving along the Kerala coast, stopping at fishing villages and being welcomed by the locals.

Get invited to a home

Doesn’t matter how. Use Couchsurfing. Chat up a family at a restaurant. Get caught outside in the rain at a residential area. You’ll be invited in. Indians morph into different people once inside their walls. You’ll see how unshakeably generous (and tidy) they can be.

Read a book

Anything that will help you understand the customs, the superstitions, and some of the history. I recommend The Elephant, the Tiger and the Cellphone, a collection of essays by Shashi Tharoor.

Know where to go

Unlike many places, South India is not, generally, a good place for independent exploration. Strolling around a town, you won’t likely stumble upon a hidden gem. Arm yourself with local information and be surgical in your touring.

Join the mess

Eat with your hand. Burp. Spit. Cut in line. Do all the things you were programmed not to do. It’s liberating. And it makes it less jarring when you see others doing it.

Seek the finer things

You appreciate India more when you spend time with the cultural gifts it gave the world: learn about her music, the styles, the instruments. Watch her better films. Go to the theatre and to dance performances. Take a cooking course.

Take breaks

Travelling around India is taxing. Recharge by doing nothing at a beach town or a cool mountain village.

Find other travellers

While I usually avoid other tourists (I don’t travel to be around my own kind) India has proven an exception. Fellow Westerners offer a comforting familiarity. You can have more detailed, nuanced conversations, share stories, experiences, and frustrations. And you can glean some wisdom from someone who has been where you are.

Bribe away

You won’t heal the country’s corruption cancer by abstaining from it. 100 rupees, little more than US$2, goes a long way. Slip someone a bill before receiving a service and watch the difference.

Accept inexplicability

Don’t try to understand the contradictions you see. It is what it is.