Backlogged Blogs: Mauritius

Little Island, Big Deal
(Mauritius)

The administration did not start-off our visit to Mauritius on the best note.  The pre-port presentation left me feeling extremely unhappy.  A professor essentially said that Mauritius has no culture and that we all should just go to the beaches and drink: “this is spring break.”  I think that some of the Mauritian people, who live there year-round, especially the large percentage of the population who do not drink due to religious constraints, would disagree.  At least a little bit.

I set-out to do what we had been forbidden to do: cultural stuff.

The first day, I went on a trip to the Jummah Masjid in the center of Port Louis.  About half of the population of Mauritius is Hindu, but the Muslim population has a great influence in political and cultural affairs.

Visiting the mosque was actually very pleasant, even though it was a Semester at Sea sponsored trip.  Only two other students went: one in his thirties and one from the Ukraine.  The other people who attended were Lifelong Learners and a professor.  We were welcomed warmly by various figures of the mosque.  They showed us the beautiful architecture, including some unique features, such as the washroom having been constructed around some trees.  They fed us a wonderful briyani and talked about various current issues in Islam; they answered questions ranging from whether or not Muhammad was actually illiterate to why Muslim leaders “have not organized a protest against terrorism.”

Figures of the mosque, as well as common attendees who had been invited to meet us, were happy to discuss a variety of secular things with us, as well, particularly our education.  One member of the mosque has been living in the United States for fifteen years, was educated at Princeton and works on Wall Street; before anyone asks, yes, he had a ring on his finger.

We climbed back into the bus and headed again to our ship.  Perhaps unsurprisingly, the unconventional, radical rebel-child I am, I decided not to go out that night; I did not think to ask the folks at the mosque what I might be able to do in Mauritius after sundown, other than get drunk on Phoenix at the beach.  I had a fine time staying-up late with Natascha and Leo.  I got the idea to ditch my snorkeling trip I had scheduled for the next day and go on some sort of other unapproved, cultural, alcohol-free, non-beach, adventure with Natascha, instead.
So, day two: the awful, cultural, geological, social, spiritual, respectful, delicious, alcohol-free, active, ridiculous Mauritian adventure.

Natascha and I set-off with a couple of Lifelong Learners (Louisa and Gayle), a senior staff member (Betty) and the wife of a professor (Julie).  Interestingly enough, our driver for the day was the same man who brought the group to the mosque the day prior.  Yippie!

Our first stop was at the top of an inactive volcano.  The location provided a stunning view of much of the island, and the crater, once hot and red with lava, is now the most luscious cool green with foliage.

We carried on to the site of an enormous Shiva.  No, really, this one is a BIG boy.  With palms large enough to hold several adult men comfortably, it is impeccable to regard the detail of the figure, made on-location entirely of terracotta.  In a fountain surrounding the huge god, water flows. 

Nearby, different water sits; this is not just any water, though—this is water imported from the Ganges, so that the Hindu population in Mauritius does not need to fly to India to make pilgrimage.  Perhaps, the most interesting part of the whole ordeal is that the government paid for the entire operation to be carried-out.

The water forms a lake, surrounded by small shrines to different Hindu deities.  Just as many tourists come to gawk as Hindus come to make offerings.

The lake is peaceful, with the exception of a few areas where schools of fish flock and compete to nibble on flower petals being offered to the Ganges, as well as bits of human food being given directly to them.

After relaxing for a while in the area, we headed to our next destination.  We were going to Black River Gorge, a lovely geological site, but we were getting ourselves into far much more than any of us had bargained for.  It all started with some sugar cane juice, but it progressed into drinking from a coconut: it was Natascha’s first time, and it took her a while to comprehend how exactly the water got into the coconut, but she understands well enough, now.  Or, at least she agrees that it is not put there magically.

The pathway was cluttered with folks trying to sell all sorts of jewelry and other Mauritian momentos: everyone has their own style of dodo they hold-up to tourists with pride.

A few men tried to test us with “the magic box,” but it was too simple to amuse us.

But they got me on one thing: it was a little puppet styled to look like Little Red Riding Hood, but when you lifted up her skirt and flipped her over (scandalous, I know!), she became her grandmother.  They also had Snow White and the Witch, amongst other fairytales.  I thought about it before buying one to bring to the kids I knew I’d be seeing in India.  I’m a sucker for clever things, truly.

We had a lovely lunch at a local restaurant.  I had some curry, and we all split a caramelized banana and some pineapple mousse for dessert.  Exquisite is one way to put it, and it is an entirely accurate way to put it.  A duck obnoxiously quacked at us throughout the duration of our lunch and went so far as to pursue us in front of the restaurant.  I threatened that if he didn’t shut-up, he’d be joining the dodo; either that, or he’d at least be on the menu.

We voyaged toward the Seven-Colored Earth, an area of land created after a volcano erupted with seven distinctive colors rippling through its hills.  I had an overwhelming desire to run around on top of all of it, given the similarity in appearance to sanddunes, but that was definitely not allowed, so I definitely did not do it.

The return to the ship was wonderful; we jammed out to some sega while enjoying the beautiful countryside.  The Lifelong Learners have so much life in them, they put many of us students to shame.  We stopped for a quick bit at a beach, just to dip our sore feet into the Indian Ocean and marvel at its beauty. After that, we happened to hit some traffic coming back into port.  The line to get back on the ship was huge.  One of the LLC’s, Jodi, my “shipboard Mom,” was going through the line telling people that if they did not have any bags, they could move to the front of the line.  It was about six minutes until “on-ship time,” and it was about twelve minutes until we were at the front of the line.  Louisa, exhausted, forehead decorated with a smeared bindhi, offered to take bags for Natascha and I, so that we would not get dock time for the next port.  She got dock time, instead.  It was such an incredibly sweet and unnecessary thing for her to have done.

"We Will Succeed"

“We Will Succeed”
(South Africa)

I am not going to lie and say that I was excited for South Africa.  The consensus on the ship was that we were going to be let loose into a giant playground for sort-of-grown-ups: safaris, bungee jumping, shark dives, sky dives, etcetera.  I am by far one of the least fun-loving people you will ever meet, by social standards: my idea of a riot is playing Scrabble, watching a good documentary and socializing with friends over a home-cooked meal.

Because I have become more active over the past year, I tried to get myself psyched-up for hiking and cycling and other outdoorist (outdoorsy-tourist) activities.  I had intended to hike Lion’s Head and Table Mountain, to do a township tour by cycle, to cycle in the winelands, to do a Habitat for Humanity project and to visit the University of Cape Town.  Along the theme of my voyage: “the best laid plans of mice and men and me,” Cape Town saw a lot of changes.  This time the changes were all on me, though.

The day of our arrival, we had to get up early… really, really early.  After getting breakfast and my visa, I took some time to relax and get my feet beneath me; our ship was docked right in the center of what seemed like everything, but wound-up being nearly nothing on an emotional and spiritual level.  We had a spectacular view of Table Mountain, Lion’s Head and Signal Hill from the aft of the ship, while looking out from the forward decks, we could see the V&A Waterfront: a massive and massively affluent mall.  Little boats mulled around the water skirting the ship, and some seals and other aquatic wildlife came to play in the warmth near the hull or bask in the shade between the pier and the ship.

I had signed-up for a Semester at Sea sponsored hike up Lion’s Head; my “extended family” parents, Chris and Jodi (staff-members in their 30’s) were the trip leaders.  I was excited until the bus ride taking us up to the base of the mountain; my ears were popping like crazy, to the point that it was somewhat difficult to hear the conversation I was having with Natascha.  We got out of the bus and began our hike.  Lion’s Head is not that high, but it is very steep, so ascent is rapid.  I began to feel nauseous.  I left the trip early, but had the occasion to talk with one of the guides, Trevor, for an extensive period of time.  That’s when it hit me that I had tried to get into this port against my own values.  Yes, I love nature, and I appreciate physical activity a lot more than I used to, but if I am going to go into nature, I need to go alone or with people I love, and what I love even more than nature is meeting good people.  I told Trevor about Semester at Sea, he told me about South Africa, we talked about Americans and altitude sickness.  I decided to give away my Table Mountain hike ticket.  I spent the rest of the day mildly ill with a headache and nausea that persisted until the next morning.

After waking and showering, I still was not feeling too hot and did heave a bit, but I decided to give the day a shot; I could always go home early.  I got breakfast and then headed down for a trip I’m sure my mother would not have thought I would ever sign-up for, not in this lifetime: “Full-Day Township by Bike and Interactive Soccer.”

We left the port by bus and went out to a community called Masiphumelele (It’s not as difficult as it looks.); in Xhosa (Yes, that’s one of the languages that uses “clicking.”) the name means “we will succeed.”  Positive reinforcement has no linguistic barriers.  In Masiphumelele, we met-up with some local men who run a bike shop and youth cooperative known as BEN (Bicycle Empowerment Network); we got our wheels, and a few of us opted to put on helmets, then we headed out in two small groups.  It had been a long while since I had ridden a non-stationary bike, but I was, firstly, excited that they had back-pedal breaks, which I find more intuitive, and, secondly, quite an adequate rider, despite the fact that we all had to “drive on the left,” try to keep a single file and respect the speeds of those in front of and behind us.  It felt good.

Our first stop was a crèche.  “Crèche” is a French word that means… well, a crib, I suppose, but in English-speaking cultures, like in much of South Africa, it is essentially a daycare center.  We were each invited to sit with a group of about four children and entered into a drawing competition.  I drew a circle, and not much happened on our paper after that: the kids were far too enamored with all of the cameras and had a fun go at wearing sunglasses, too.  Most of the pictures the kids attempted to take did not turn-out all that well, but it was fun for them each to have a turn to try.  Before we left, they sang us a few songs, including a couple in English, even Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.
Next, we got back on our bikes and headed over to the local sangoma: traditional healers.  The occasion to meet sangoma was one of my motivators for signing-up for the trip.  When we arrived, we watched them perform a few healing dances.  All of the questions I had wanted to ask vanished, and I just found a lot of answers.  The steady, fast beat of the drums increases the heart rate: the blood rushes around the body; it gets cleaned more quickly.  I did, however, have difficulty containing my laughter at the somewhat humorous nature of traditional healers wearing western clothing.

We visited the home of one woman in Masiphumelele who creates home décor using recycled materials.  I have seen plenty of repurposed objects and recycled artwork, but I actually was impressed by some of the things this woman had created.  It is inspiring, encouraging, phenomenal and disheartening to know that creative, ingenious people are tucked away into Townships outside of Cape Town, fashioning mounted bulls’ heads out of detergent containers and erect elephants from bottle caps.

We hopped back on our bikes, and some kids from the Township hopped on the backs to catch a free ride.  While it made me nervous from that whole motherly “safety” perspective, myself, valuing my noggin, being one of those helmet-wearers, having a young child grabbing my waist, but having little security other than that… I still loved it… because they loved it.  They were having a blast, and they laughed at all of their friends who we passed on the streets.

We visited Charlotte for lunch.  Charlotte is a strong, brilliant woman who runs Nomthunzie Township Tours (website coming in January).  She has two grown daughters; her son passed away from Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, but she still has a wonderful tambour in her voice, a fantastic smile and an openness of heart that nobody can be untouched by.  She made us tea and some sort of donut-like thing, but we had packed lunches from the ship.  Our crew deserves ten cheers for everything they do for us.  We talked with Charlotte about everything from her life to her favorite television shows to her hopes for the future.  It was sad to bike away again.

Our next stop was the library, which was nothing short of inspirational.  Aside from being well-stocked, clean, beautiful and tranquil, there was a bulletin board covered with news from various clubs and groups that had formed at the library.  The philosophy club had posted a paraphrase of ye old Eleanor Roosevelt quote, “Nobody can make you feel inferior without your consent.”  It means a lot to see that in writing on a wall in a South African Township.  Apartheid may be over, but the affluent parts of South Africa are still predominately white and Townships are at least majority, if not entirely, black.  But what a Township, or, at least, Masiphumelele, lacks in financial wealth it more than makes up for with soul.

We loaded-up a few more local children onto our bicycles and pedaled out to the field where we would have our reckoning.  I’ve never been much for team sports, and soccer is far from being an exception.  The fact that we were playing on a dirt field, littered with rocks and a few random, abandoned cement foundations did not improve my outlook.  We played casually with the kids who had become attached to our bikes, but an actual team sat by, waiting and preparing to play us.  Luckily, we had some really avid soccer players on our team, so we only lost by one point, and I think we scored twice.  I even kicked the ball, maybe only once.  How about that!

We gave out another One World Futbol and then clamored back into our little bus.  We made a pit stop on the way back to the ship: we had to pick-up some Hake and Chips.  I do not remember the last time I had Fish & Chips prior to that, but it was just how I remember it: greasy, gooey in the weirdest of ways and totally satisfying.

It was not a good day; it was a great day.  If I had to live one day of this trip over again and again, this takes the cake (and hake!), so far.

Having given away my trip to Table Mountain, I took the next day to relax on a sightseeing tour with Natascha.  In Cape Town, there are two main bus tours: the red line stays in the city, and the blue line goes out to the countryside, after a short jaunt around the city.  It was great to see some more of Cape Town’s beauty, but it was even better to spend a couple of hours talking to Natascha.

The following day, Natascha, Mackenzie and I took the red line.  We saw many of the same stops and got a lot of good chatting in, but we also decided to brave Table Mountain.  I’ll have you all know that we climbed it naked, during a hailstorm, backwards, on our hands, with 90 orphans on each of our backs.  In other words, we took the cable car.  I did feel a bit nauseous, but after a sit at the top and adjusting to the change in pressure, I was fine to explore and enjoy the view.  We enjoyed some room-temperature cheesecake at the top before heading back down to catch the bus again.  We got off at the mall and had ourselves some ice cream.  A few hours later, Carren and Emma joined us for some amazing Italian food.  We were able to discuss a lot of interesting things, including a trip to the Amy Biel Foundation that Emma had participated in, the utter disappointment of Semester at Sea “service” visits, and the ongoing and obvious racism in the area.  I had wonderful squash ravioli and some lamb—let me tell you, good food is one thing, amazing food is a totally different thing.  We were disappointed with the thought that we could not bring leftovers back on the ship, but Emma, being the complete sweetheart that she is, suggested that we bring our leftovers to port security: the on-duty guard was very appreciative.  Having people like Emma around is great.

When I woke-up, I was too tired to stay-up, so I missed my Habitat for Humanity trip.  It was not the hugest tragedy.  I had a wonderful lunch with some of the most mature people on the ship and, later, went out for sushi with Jeanette.  It was a relatively uneventful day, but it was plenty wonderful.  My “extended family” was supposed to meet for dinner, but all of my “sisters” bailed, last minute, except for Natascha, who was only “adopted” into the family on the first day of South Africa.  We decided to go out for dessert; I had Ferrero Rocher ice cream.  I died.  I gained seven and a half pounds.  I loved it.  But really, I loved spending time with my “parents” and Natascha.  I had been lacking the “people” portion of the happiness equation, and South Africa was very healing for that.

On the final day, I took a risk: I did what I wanted to do.  I ditched my FDP to the University of Cape Town, I ditched an opportunity to film for my documentary, and I went on a trip to learn about the Desmond Tutu HIV Foundation: a trip back to Masiphumelele.  We visited the “Tutu Tester” and the “Tutu Treater” and learned about their efforts to test township citizens for HIV, TB and other grave conditions.  We also got to see the new youth center they are constructing, directly across from the secondary school, so that kids and teens can get health counseling without the risk of their parents being in earshot, but also so that they can get tutoring, play sports, learn new things and have recreational activities readily available to them other than the sort that spread HIV.  I knew on the first day I visited that I would return to Masiphumelele: now I know why. 

(To be continued…)

You're Ghana--Love It!

My values have been challenged.

 

I often seem, if only to myself, unshakeable.  I am serious business.  My personality wears pumps.  But I have been shaken: mainly by how unshaken I was by my time in Ghana.

 

I have never been to a place like Ghana, before.  “Like Ghana.”  What is “like Ghana?”  “Like Ghana” makes me an ethnic minority, but I have been an ethnic minority.  “Like Ghana” means a “third world” or “developing” nation, but I have been to “the third world.”  “Like Ghana” means a place where it is hot, where settlements grow spontaneously, rather than according to plan, where people pack buses like it’s a fun challenge, a place where the currency has been artificially deflated, a place where the police carry guns—big guns, where people speak a language other than English as their first—a language I have little understanding of, a place where people from back home call you “brave” for having gone out without a tour guide.  I have been to all of these places, but none of them were “like Ghana” in the ways that matter most.

 

We landed in Takoradi, the piece of land closest to 0-degrees by 0-degrees on the globe.  Takoradi was once the most major port of Ghana, but it has been strangled by the growth in Tema: Ghana’s only planned city and the port nearest to the capital, Accra.  In order to combat the decay in Takoradi, the national government has sought to make some changes, namely charging one port with imports and the other with exports, so that both have a good deal of business, but the one does definitely outweigh the other.  Ghana exports a phenomenal amount of lumber and, as a consequence, has a problem with deforestation.  Ghana also exports cocoa.  Ghana imports most things that are considered high-tech or medium-tech products, including computer-related products, most of their electronics, etcetera.

 

I knew from the moment that I stepped off of the ship into the port that Ghana was different from other places that I had been… because Ghana is a lot like me.  I knew I would never be able to leave Ghana, in full; that a part of me is there, tucked into the eyelashes of a child in Kasoa.  I had to admit this to myself when I sat down to write this blog and realized that I only have one photo from four days in Ghana: it is a picture of Jeanette petting a stray kitten.  This is the same sort of thing I would take a picture of at home.  I did not feel the need to photograph Ghana, although it looks so different from the world I am used to.  I also did not feel a moral obligation to not photograph Ghana, how I might feel about sacred places.  Ghana did not shock me.  Ghana held me.  I feel like Ghana is a place we have all been, or, at the very least, it is a set of values that some of us hold, but cannot express actively in our culture.  It’s like déjà vu, but it doesn’t hurt: it’s a welcome home.

 

The first day, I stayed on the ship.  I had been recovering from temporary ails and wanted to make sure my immune system was up to snuff before I let it out into the world of malaria, dengue fever, etcetera, etcetera.  I did, however, have the chance to attend a lecture onboard given by a couple of Ghanaian NGO workers; the theme was environmental activism and policy in Ghana, but we got so much more than we had bargained for.  We learned about all strains and stresses of Ghanaian politics and culture, and we had the added bonus of being trusted to learn about a disturbing, but oddly inspiring situation in northern Ghana.

 

In some tribal areas, there is still a belief in witchcraft: once a person, usually an older woman, is branded a witch, her community abuses her and drags her through a process of verification with the local fetish priest.  Even when the accused is proven to not be a witch, she is barred from reentering her community.  There are fetish priests who have been given the charge of providing shelter and purpose to literally hundreds of these women.  But there is good news.  The woman who spoke to us about this spoke of her organization’s efforts, if not a solution, the first step being education: documentaries produced to be aired on public access networks, talking about medical conditions that might cause strange behavior people would otherwise associate with witchcraft.

 

The next day, I set off on an adventure Jeanette had agreed to partake in.  Yet again, things rarely go as planned, but that does not mean that they rarely go well.  We walked out of the port; the air was cool, whereas we were there at the end of the rainy season.  It was not the most beautiful port, but it was full of friendly Ghanaian men, that’s for sure.  Cab drivers vied for us as soon as we exited the gates.  Entering a run-down cab, Jeanette laughed and asked if I knew any prayers about auto safety.  Whatever anxieties may have been present vanished to the tune of a female radio host’s voice: she told all of her listeners, “appreciate everything, allow good things into your life.”  The station also advertised scholarships and investment plans.  It was not American radio.

 

In the center of Takoradi, we found our way into a minibus: it was certainly high class.  It was air-conditioned, shiny and new, and some of the passengers were wearing suits.  In order to keep prices low, and they were low, we did not leave until all of the seats were taken.  We did not have to wait longer than ten minutes.  Shortly after we pulled away from the city center, it began to pour.  Nothing changed because of the rain: women continued to try to sell the goods they carried on their heads, children still ran around, our vehicle still pushed forward.  The woman on the radio began to talk about relationships between older women and younger men and how what matters most is love and respect.  It was not American radio.

 

I had intended to meet-up with an organization known as the Cheerful Hearts Foundation, located in Kasoa, a suburb of Accra.  It was supposed to take around two and a half hours.  We alighted in Accra and tried to get a cab back to where we belonged.  Our driver told us that he knew where we were going, but I began to doubt him when he drove off of the main road into what seemed to be countryside.  Ghanaian men know when to stop and ask for directions: ten minutes after they should.  Some bits of life are the same everywhere!  But what was amazing about going down these back roads and being as lost as a tadpole in a grocery store was that we got to experience one of the most amazing things about Ghanaian culture.  There’s that old saying, “it takes a village to raise a child.”  It takes two villages to try to find the Cheerful Hearts Foundation and still not get there.  Every single person we asked for help was receptive and interested: some in our odd appearance (mainly children), but most in where the heck 369 Shaributu Road really was, if it really existed.  We asked the old, we asked the young, we asked women, we asked men, we asked Muslims, we asked Methodists.  And for every person who did not know, we would be given two more people who might.

 

Eventually, we decided to get to an ATM and an internet café, pay our driver for his fantastic efforts and try to make sense of our mess.  The sense we wound-up making was that we would get some food into our tummies, call it a night in Kasoa and try to get to Cape Coast to visit another organization I had my sights set on.  Easier said than done.  After spending about twenty minutes in an internet café, though we paid for an hour and were offered a refund for something like 40 cents, we realized that we would be free-falling.  But we would have to free-fall into dinner before anything else.  We were hungry, and Jeanette had spied a Chinese restaurant on our way into Accra. 

 

You can snark at us all you want for getting Chinese food in Ghana, but it is just as valid of a cultural experience as having Ghanaian food in Ghana.  If you bring a Chinaman to a “Chinese restaurant” in the United States, he will laugh, then cry, then vomit.  International cuisines are always adjusted to the tastes and means of local people, and that was no different in Ghana.

 

So, we wanted Chinese food, and a bunch of cabdrivers wanted us in their cabs.  Looking confused and foreign, we were offered some help.  Again, the chain reaction of knowledge-seeking took place: we told them all we knew about the Chinese restaurant with the blue sign, and seven or eight people down the line, we were able to tell a cab driver where we needed to go and have him actually understand how to get us there.  On the one hand, these people were probably friends with the cab drivers.  On the other hand, the streets are a social area in Ghana: at home, a cab driver wouldn’t have his friends there to stop passersby to get totally random directions.

 

We got to the restaurant.  It was open.  They did not have all of the food listed on the menu.  But what they did have was amazing.  I ate absolutely everything I could.  The fried rice had no soy sauce in it, but lots of little bits of meat and veggies.  We had wonderful spicy chicken and gooey delicious shrimp.  It tasted very little like the Chinese food I am accustomed to: the peanut oil flavor was very strong, and the spices were different.  But I loved it.  So much.

 

Noticing how late it had gotten, we decided that we did not want to go to Cape Coast and try to find a hotel in the dark.  Conveniently for us, the Chinese restaurant was part of a hotel.  A very nice, but well-priced hotel.  It happened to be one that catered mainly to Emiratis, so we got to stay up late watching Aljazeera, Ghanaian and Nigerian shows.  It was objective, informative and not American television.

 

Up in the morning, we got in a cab to Kasoa and in a TroTro to Cape Coast.  It took at least a half hour for the TroTro to be filled to capacity.  Different sellers flocked the TroTro with their goods, but one woman really stuck out to me.  She was the matriarchal type, telling people how to arrange themselves and their children into the TroTro, so that everyone would fit and be comfortable.  As time passed, I decided to buy some of her biscuits.  They were pretty good.  I will remember that woman’s face for a long time.  I think that part of what I liked about her, aside from her being good to other people, was the fact that she reminded me of my friend Lisa, back home: she had the same humble smile.  She was satisfied being good to people.

 

When you go to Ghana, take a TroTro.  Take it to nowhere.  Take it to Banana Inn TroTro Station.  It does not matter.  You’re not in Ghana until you are in a TroTro, until you are crammed between two other women, smelling a roomful of smells in the space between your nostrils.  It was the most pleasant experience of Ghana, possibly of my life.  Though I was physically uncomfortable, I could not stop smiling.  I made faces at babies, I chatted with my neighbors: it was a social occasion.  When the police pulled us over for having too many people in our TroTro (by about 50%), I began to worry.  We were back on the road again in no time, though, and we were in Cape Coast just as quickly.

 

We were able to get a cab directly to the headquarters of Women in Progress/Global Mamas.  Women in Progress is a Ghanaian NGO dedicated to the socioeconomic advancement of women; Global Mamas is their fair trade distributor for the items their beneficiaries make.  I was happy to get to talk to one of their staff members for a few minutes about the state of Ghana and the improvements that WIP/GM has contributed to.

 

Upon exiting the office, Jeanette and I were distracted by both a stray kitten and a cloth stall with the most beautifully patterned fabric.  We took some time to pet the kitty and talk to the women selling the fabric.  Not long after that, we got a cab back to Takoradi.

 

Jeanette pets kitty.

Our cabdriver promised me that, if I return to Ghana next year for school—which I have considered, he’ll have a husband waiting for me.  It’s impossible to go to Ghana without promises of marriage.  It’s somewhat sweet, but somewhat sad.

 

Back in Takoradi, we shopped and were propositioned by, of all people, port security. 

 

Getting back on the ship was difficult: it felt cold, it felt empty… it felt dirty.  Don’t yell at the crew, it was just as clean as usual!  It felt dirty on a moral level.  Yes, there are people in the world who live heart-to-heart, rather than minute-to-minute, and they are more than happy.  Yes, there are people who put making a difference above making a dollar, and they are more than happy.  Yes, there is laughter in every corner of some people’s hearts.  Yes, you are walking away from this.  You are returning to a life of schedules and steel rafters, concrete life-containers and rat race rhythms.  You are returning to the belly of a machine, after having returned to the womb of your soul’s mother.

 

I will not lie; I became very depressed during the week between Ghana and South Africa, and I had seriously considered getting a flight back home from Cape Town.  That would not have helped.  The only thing that can help this is for me to further evaluate and reevaluate and rereevaluate my values, to decide what is necessary for my spiritual health and to make that fit into my personal culture, even if it makes it difficult to function within the local culture of my community.

 

 

On to Cape Town...

I have just returned from the world:

a place I never knew I had left;

where the earth is rich with the red of life,

rather than the red of death;

where love is both in the forefront

and squeezed into the margins;

where time is a gift,

rather than a prison,

and it is owned by goodness,

rather than ritual.

 

I am dirty.

I am sweaty.

I am more alive than life itself:

Yes.

 

Here reeks of motion:

the bite of human sweat,

sweet grass, by the season, wet.

 

Oh, Ghana, oh,

Ghana.

 

My sensibilities are not offended,

but are saddened

by your beat:

your hum and drum hold

half my heart,

but the clockʼs tick

holds my feet.

Moroccan the Boat--er--Ship.

I know this is late, but you'll all live, right?



No pictures this time... sorry.  Hopefully soon.  :(



As most of those who know me know, I was considerably excited to be going to Morocco. When I found-out that our ship would be arriving a day ahead of schedule, I was even more excited. When I found-out that, again, I would not be able to use my debit card for direct transactions, my enthusiasm was curbed, dramatically, whereas that meant I would not be able to purchase a plane ticket to my intended destination of Agadir. I will have to return for that, some day. So, I made do with a makeshift experience of Morocco. Roll with the punches.



Because Semester at Sea knew long enough beforehand that we would be arriving early in Morocco, they were able to schedule a few little day-trips to take place shortly after our landing. Because nobody had plans for a day that did not exist in our minds as being on-land, the trips went to lottery, and I was lucky enough to have gotten the chance to visit the SOS Village (orphanage) of Casablanca. Our logistical pre-port happened right after breakfast and those of us on day trips had to leave a bit early, but not so early as to miss comments made about dressing modestly and respectfully. Not everyone pays mind to the pre-port presentations, though.



I chose to spend most of my time off of the ship in Morocco wearing hijab (a headscarf). Morocco is an extremely liberal country, in regards to Islam, so whether or not a woman covers her head is her choice, as in the United States. I chose to cover my head out of respect for hijabis (women who wear hijab regularly as a part of their religious or moral lifestyle) and because I feel like I truly understand why women choose to be hijabis. The first reason women choose to be hijabis is to show deference to Allah (God), the same reason that Orthodox Jews cover their heads; the second reason is to show respect for oneself, the same reason that many people in the United States dress modestly. People can argue about whether or not hair is immodest or sexual, but I think that a lot of people on this ship will have a different view of it on Neptune Day, when a bunch of my female classmates get rid of theirs. The point is that there is a tradition of modesty in the culture, and I chose that as one thing I wanted to respect.



I felt like I had made the right decision when the orphanage director thanked me for covering my hair and told me that it is important in Morocco and would earn me more respect.



The children in the SOS Village (a non-adoption facility model originally created in Austria) knew Arabic, a good deal of French and a surprising level of English. Between different students and the children, we were able to have small, but meaningful conversations. The visit was intended to be a service trip, but we did not wind-up doing much work; we toured the facilities, but the visit ultimately digressed (or progressed) into private conversations and several games of soccer and basketball, perhaps encouraged by Professor Rohwedder’s donation to the orphanage of what is supposed to be an indestructible soccer ball, made from the same material as Crocs (Crocs was cofounded by an SAS alum, by the way).





The second day of makeshift Morocco, my friend Jeanette begged me (literally) to go on the Casablanca City Orientation with her. I am glad that I decided to go.



The orientation was a basic city tour with a lively guide-woman with a fire that I doubt many of us had expected. We saw the four major districts of Casablanca and heard a good deal about the multinational history of the country, as a whole. We visited the compulsory palace, but the main attraction was, of course, the Hassan II Mosque. The Hassan II Mosque was designed by a French architect and construction was completed in 1993. It is the third largest mosque in the world, smaller than only the ones in Mecca and Medina. Its most interesting feature, though, is the fact that a large portion of the floor is glass and two-thirds of the surface area people can pray on lies directly over the ocean. This is amazing, in and of itself, but it is extremely symbolic in Islam because the Qur’an states that the dwelling of the Lord is above the water, so praying over water is like trying to pray in an airplane: attempting to get closer to the source, or closer to the target of your prayers. Very cool.



I think that the best thing about the city tour, though, was being able to just witness people living their lives. Our bus stopped by a famous tourist beach for people to break for drinks and to use the restroom, where I saw a good number of families and friends enjoying the holiday (we arrived on the last day of Ramadan, the month when Muslims fast; the tour was on Eid ul’Fitr, the festival that ends Ramadan). I saw more men than women pushing strollers. I saw a hijabi walking with her arm linked to that of a girl who was dressed immodestly by American standards (spike heels, skintight clothing, low-cut top), but they were so obviously good friends. I doubt that I would ever see such a thing in the United States. We may have more ethnic and religious diversity than Morocco, merely because the United States is an immigrant country, but we do not mesh and bond as easily as Moroccans of different creeds seem to: Morocco is a nation with many cultures: Berber, European, North-African, Arab, Spanish, French, Portuguese, Muslim, Christian, Jewish. The United States is a country with many nations: whites, blacks, Asians, Hispanics, Christians, Jews, Muslims, Atheists. There is a monolithic difference.





Prior to sailing, I had signed-up for the overnight trip to Volubilis and Fes. The description piqued my interested because it said we would be visiting the oldest university in the world that is still functioning; said school is located in Fes. After having dealt with bank-related problems for all of Spain and the first couple of days of Morocco, I was ready to sit-back into a pre-paid adventure and not have to do so much with the SAS f-word (flexibility). But in the best laid plans of mice and men and me, and yes, SAS, as well… things are not always what they seem, and what is on paper is not always what is in store.



We all, including the three brave, young children of one of the ship’s nurses (with their parents, of course), hopped on a tour bus and headed out of Casablanca early in the AM. We had a few hours drive to the city of Meknes where, aside from being able to appreciate a community designed to have open spaces and let the sun in, I was able to withdraw cash from an ATM. I was relieved, and I happily meandered around the main loop of the city square, passing through a souk where people were peddling all sorts of things I had absolutely no interest in buying with my newly obtained dirham.



After returning to the bus, we made our way to Fes for a wonderful lunch tagine. A tagine is a unique piece of pottery used to roast and steam food at the same time; whatever is cooked in a tagine is also called a tagine. Ours was beef, potatoes, carrots and some other sort of vegetable I avoided because it looked like a nightshade, and I tend not to have a taste for them. Lunch was a great opportunity to get to know some of the Lifelong Learners, who really are one of the best things about Semester at Sea. Our lunch was quite long and leisurely; I think we were in the restaurant for well over an hour. But once we got back on the road again, it seemed like we had only broke for five minutes.



Morocco, and most other countries I have been to, in general, are very different from my part of the United States (the northeast) because they really do not have suburbs. Cities are dense and far apart, but the space between them is usually green (or whatever color nature or farms are in that area) and sparsely settled. Everything is shoulder to shoulder in Connecticut. I prefer the way things are in Morocco, especially considering that they do have railways connecting their cities.



We went out into the boonies. That’s fine, considering that we needed to get out there to see Volubilis. Volubilis is not a modern city, but, rather, a set of Roman ruins. Yes, Roman. Yes, as in the Roman Empire. Yes, as in the same thing as in Rome. They did not have a coliseum, but they had expansive houses and public baths. They even had a traditional fertility symbol used in marriage ceremonies; I did not photograph it, though a good number of the other people on the trip did. It was not the sort of thing I want my aunts and uncles to see when they look through my photo album. While it was not the most interesting thing to me, and it’s not why I signed-up for the trip, there were parts of it that struck me strangely. I have seen Roman ruins in other countries, and it is amazing that they are so similar. Why wouldn’t they be? They’re all Roman, after all. The Roman Empire, when it spread into new territories, did not adapt itself to the local culture in the way that the Persian Empire did. That is why the structures are uniform. I also found it interesting that our local guide for Volubilis (many countries require that a local guide be hired in certain cities, as an economic gesture, but in this case it was merely because the man is an expert) seemed to know Latin better than he knew English. He would mutter a lot in both Arabic and Latin, but he was a very knowledgeable and kind-spirited man, always looking to keep the children in the shade. Because the ruins are on the top of a hill and ruins, rather than full structures, they are in full sun, which is not the best in an arid climate after noon.



After trekking around in the heat, we were all very happy to get back to our bus and the word “hotel” sounded like… well, it sounded pretty darn good.



I was a bit disappointed with the fact that we were staying in a western-style hotel, but I realize that I signed-up for a tour, not a nomad camp stay or family visit. But when the guy in the souvenir shop attached to the hotel (exhibit “a”) just assumes that he should speak to me in German (exhibit “?”), I think that it’s a bit too distant from the local culture to be socially responsible, if we are supposed to be becoming better global citizens. Then again, because the hotel was western-style, it had a great pool I was able to go in without having brought my swimsuit (not that underwear is terribly less modest).



The next day began my quarrel with the f-word. As much as I try to tell myself that I got a lot out of Fes, I still feel pretty disappointed. To put it bluntly, it was a shopping tour. We saw a potter, a weaver, a brass-worker, a leather-tanner and were invited quite cordially to make offers on all of their wares. The small trips we had to cultural sites were merely to take pictures; we received almost no explanation. I think we passed by that university I had been so excited to visit. We went into the courtyard of the Qur’anic school, just to photograph it. But I will try to focus on the things I learned on this shopping trip. One thing that was very obvious to me, as subtle as these things were, was the simple fact that girls who had their heads covered got better treatment: less aggressive sales pitches, having things carried for them, being offered better prices for the same items. Actually, I think that’s all I really got out of it, aside from being annoyed by high-pressure group sales. Pictures!



From left to right: a tannery, the Jewish quarter (as seen from the bus, distinguishable by the balconies), a sad little donkey transporting a bunch of water bottles. Seriously.



And here are the nurse’s two extremely well-behaved daughters riding on a donkey through the medina of Fes.



And that was my makeshift Morocco. We’ll see what goes on in Ghana.



Until then, health, happiness and peace,

Celeste

Que quiero y que tengo.

So, I owe you all a blog about Spain, don’t I?

We landed in Spain on the fourth of September, the morning after the ship medical staff had performed the Flamenco de la Salud, which consisted of excessive castanet usage and another reminder to use common sense.

I had lunch on the ship, and this is when I realized that the crew tries to make the food more comforting while we are in port, probably to make people who are staying on the ship feel better about not being out on the town.  At lunch, I met a girl named Ariel, and she and I went out with a guy named Vince to see what was up in Cadiz.  The port of Cadiz is right in the center of town, but it was not a bustling area.  It was time for siesta, so we were nearly alone on the streets.  We saw a lot of lovely gardens, but what really threw us over was the beach (see photo).  You’d think that we wouldn’t want to see water after having been on a ship for a week… but reality is a funny thing.

We sat down at a café and had some water before wandering back to the ship to meet-up with others.  I, eventually, found Dennis and cornered him to finalize our plans for Madrid.  After a few hours, we decided that we would chuck out in the morning: we had to pay for first class tickets because everything else was sold-out.  We left early on the fifth and arrived around lunch time.  The gentleman at the information desk in the train station gave us simple directions to our hostel and some good tips for getting around Madrid.  People like him make the world go round.

We went to our hostel… and the hostel told us to go to another hostel.  But I think that the hostel we wound-up in was probably better.  The bad thing was that I emptied my euro-coffer in one fell swoop paying for our room.  See previous entry for open letter to my bank.

We took a bit of time to get settled in and grab a bite to eat before heading to Las Ventas for a bullfight—what?!  Yes, Mom, I’m sorry I had to tell you that way.  I made video blogs, but they would take too long to upload.  I’ll just have to save them for a Christmas DVD or something of the sort.  Maybe.

A lot of people on the trip are trying to face their fears: those who are agoraphobic are going skydiving.  I’m not afraid of heights.  I’m afraid of not being able to challenge or question myself.  Ever since I learned about bullfighting I just knew that it was wrong, that it was morally bankrupt, that it was sick.  And because this is something I knew, that is why I had to challenge it.  Luckily, I am comfortable enough with Dennis that I could cry in front of him without feeling too lame.  I would have preferred to go with my brother, but he didn’t come on this trip.

The way I tried to challenge my view of the bullfight or to justify the opposition was to think of it as an art form, like folk dancing, paying homage to the struggles of our ancestors.  And I think that is the art people find in it.  I feel like the bullfight I saw was unfair, the kills were not very clean, the bulls seemed to be taunted and, what really shook me was when one of the bulls lay down in his own blood rather than face the matador one last time.  It made me feel sick.  I actually felt like it was a worse scene than a lot of the footage I have seen from slaughterhouses.  But I think that it was good that I went.  One of my friends, Jeanette, went to a different bullfight in a small village where they only have one each year.  She thought it was more artistic and respectful of the animals than what I reported from Las Ventas, where there is a bullfight every Sunday.  If I ever see another bullfight, I would only consider seeing one in a small village, where it is less commercial and more traditional.  (One picture: not much gore, will post videos and other photos later for those who are interested in seeing what I saw.)

The next day was ridiculous.

Madrid has a fantastic metro.  They have horrible streets.  And people have no idea where they are, except for cops, who are very helpful.  It took us a good while to find a place where Dennis had wanted to get some business cards made, which was a real task.  My Spanish isn’t that bad, but in Madrid everyone speaks Castilian which can be difficult to understand.  But he likes the cards.  If he’s happy, I’m happy.

I was over a half hour late to my appointment with an NGO for an interview, and the fellow had decided to pack-up and go home.  The street was almost impossible to find: we got off at the right metro stop, but everyone pointed us in a different direction.  By the time we got to the train station with the bus terminal, we were late for Dennis’ class, so we moped and went back to the hostel, banking on “mañana.”

Dennis’ girlfriend used to live in Madrid, so she had a whole list of recommendations for him.  We went to Casa Minga and ate the house specialty: a whole chicken, Manchego cheese, bread and cider.  It was not bad.  He also creeped on her old apartment until security told him to go away.

The last morning, we found our way out to the CrossFit we had been trying to get to the night before, thanks to a very helpful (and attractive) policeman and an elderly British expat.  It was my first CrossFit class.  (In the video blog, I pause for about three seconds here and make a variety of faces.)  I did not have expectations, but it was not that bad.  CrossFit Madrid is run by a nice guy named Javier; I had been e-mailing him beforehand.  There was only one person from Spain in the class… then Dennis and I.  I was not sore immediately after because I did not have time for that kind of crud.

We went back to the hostel to get our things out of storage and then we went to an art museum (Prado).  Art museums creep me out a lot.  I feel like there should be more singing and dancing.  And I was not that satisfied.  The collection was predominately portraiture.  I’m more into French painters—JLD, word!  There was one painting I liked, of Saint Margaret, and a ton that I recognized.  We had an eight-hour bus ride home.  Dennis slept like a baby because he tends to do that, but I could not fall asleep for more than five minutes because I knew that we would miss our stop if I weren’t awake.

We got back on the ship at around 7AM, I took a nap and then went out to the beach with Jeanette.  My body started feeling the CF workout and all of the walking and the stairs and that time of the month in combination… but the ocean washed it all away for at least five hours.  It’s no wonder doctors in Europe prescribe trips to the beach… that ocean is magical.  Of course, when we got out and dried off and started to head back toward the ship to avoid dock-time, I started feeling aches and pains again.  But those were remedied by Chinese food.  Yes, I had Chinese food in Spain.  No, I do not think that is stupid or weird.  Chinese food in Spain is not very sweet and it’s not super salty like American Chinese food… it was a lot like Thai food.  And we actually had tiramisu and chocolate mousse for dessert.  How’s that for multicultural?

When we were all waiting for the ship to tug off, Adam caught me up on seventh deck.  Adam is my partner in one of my classes; he goes to the University of Madrid, usually, so when I told him everything I did, he knew where everything was (except for the CrossFit).  He even knew what I ate at Casa Minga.  We just talked for a couple of hours and watched the sun set (picture) until the wind got to be too much and we went back inside.  That’s when Jeanette and I talked about our respective bullfights and started making a list of ways Semester at Sea could be improved.

The next morning, I woke up a few feet away from Morocco…

(To be continued.)

The frightening thing is that there are people who live like this all of the time.

Dear People’s United Bank:

Before leaving on this voyage, I called your customer service center to inform you of my itinerary.  I was not bragging, I was just trying to make certain that I would be able to use my card.  I told you all of the countries I would be visiting and when I would be done traveling.  I even informed you of a few suspiciously large looking capital flows I was aware of.  Your customer service representative took note of each country and the specific transactions I mentioned and told me that the only country I would not be able to use my card in would be India.

I have not, yet, been to India.  But as you know, I had to spend five days in Spain without use of my debit card as either a line of credit or for ATM withdrawals.  Thankfully the person I was traveling with allowed me to incur about 200euro worth of debt through him, but it certainly was no fun being broke and having to rely upon someone I just met, the lack of fun was probably exacerbated by the fact that I was in a foreign country.  Oh, and your call center is not open on Labor Day Weekend.  The rest of the world does not recognize the same holidays, so it would make a lot of sense for you to open up a segment of your call center specifically dedicated to travel issues during holidays.

When I finally did get through to your call center, I incurred international charges on my phone (which I had planned to use as only an alarm clock for four months) only to be told that my card was probably locked because I had been guessing at my pin.  The problem with that logic is that I had been rejected for at least 12 transactions before ever thinking to try an ATM.  The ATM situation was furthermore irritating because I am fairly certain I knew my pin, unless of course, when I got a new card shortly before leaving (the gentleman who was ordering for it clarified that it would be the same number as my old card, whereas I knew it was neither lost nor stolen—I actually have it with me, as I put it somewhere I knew I would not lose it before this trip and found it in my luggage), you may have assigned me a different pin along with the new number.

When my mother contacted you, you told her that I never said I was going to Spain.  She was standing next to me in the kitchen when I called your center before leaving and informed you of my full itinerary.  You also told my mother that Spain was on your “fraud” list, even though your service representative told me that Spain was fine, as other members of the E.U. have been for me in the past.  Additionally, you told my mother that you can only keep track of travel destinations for up to a month.  Why did you let me waste my breath talking about Halloween in Singapore, then?

I still cannot make purchases with my card, here in Morocco.  I have been able to use the ATM, thanks to my mother and brother for working to get this all straightened out to the best of their abilities.

But because I cannot charge on my card (with the exception of on this ship), I cannot buy transportation tickets for long distances (whereas most airports and many train stations do not allow for people to pay in cash).  This means that I did not get to go to Agadir, as I had planned to.  I am sincerely disappointed.  I hope that you fix whatever your problem is by the time I get to South Africa: you have a couple of weeks.

What bothers me most about this, though, is the fact that every ounce of it has been passed-off as being my “fault,” and none of your representatives ever issued an apology to me.  I did everything I was supposed to do and little to nothing of what I was not supposed to do, and for some reason your end of the bargain has not been held up substantially.

Do you know how frustrating and frightening it is to be in a foreign country without readily available cash?  Very.  Imagine that you have a twenty-year-old daughter and she is in that same situation.  It would probably be more frightening to you, were you to work somewhere other than a bank, were you to be a professor, thousands of miles away, needing to deal with the first weeks of class, an increasingly complicated car, a son, a dog and the life in front of you.  Your daughter being broke in a Muslim country with the aspiration of getting to a city about 300 miles away might worry you.  If she does it, it could be dangerous.  It might sadden you if she does not, though… because she wants to go there even more than she wants to go to UPenn for grad school.  The fact that she is on the trip of a lifetime that she got a one-time $13k scholarship for might make you kind of angry at the bank for not having her card in order: she’s never going to get to do this again.

When I return to the United States I will be finding another bank to deal with, but until then I am stuck dealing with your shenanigans and would appreciate it if you could make this as simple of a send-off as possible by fixing whatever the problem is.  The first step is that you have to admit that there is a problem, then you need to acknowledge that it is on your end, and then you need to remedy it.

I am grateful for how fortunate I am to be on this trip.  I am extremely frustrated that there is no reason for things to be this complicated.

Sincerely,

Confused in Casablanca

Help, I've begun to write pirate-themed poetry.

“Be brave, take chances, accept the unexpected.”

I am reporting to you, my dears, from a ship in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.  I looked-up from the stern of the ship tonight to see more stars than I have seen in years—probably about twenty stars.  Even in the dark, the ocean is distinguishably darker than the sky.  We saw another ship passing us in the night.  The temptation to signal, somehow, anyhow, was overwhelming.  But we stayed silent.

I have been aboard the MV Explorer since late morning of the 27th of August.  I am stationed in a cabin that is much like a normal dorm room, except significantly smaller and bearing a tendency to rock and roll.  To those of you who haven’t figured it out by now, my name is Celeste.  My roommate’s name is Megan.  We get along well.  Our cabin steward’s name is Edwin; every morning he makes our beds, just for us to unmake them again.

This is the beginning of my semester at sea.

Sea-legs are spread widely and move in a cumbersome way.  Shifting one’s weight heavily from one side to the other is the only way to maintain balance on a heavy vessel doing the same.  Walking down the stairs or in the hallways, when a particularly dramatic lurch comes about, everyone is suspended in time for a second: some with legs in mid-air, others standing awkwardly, as if poised to attack.

Maintaining hydration, breathing deeply and keeping one’s stomach about half full prevent seasickness.  And yes, half full, not half empty.  One of the main agitators of seasickness is homesickness.

The first day, I was sick, but just barely on the right side of the threshold that kept me out of bed and out of the bathroom.  All of yesterday and today I have been fine, with the exception of a bit of nausea before breakfast (no, I am not pregnant) and similar feelings, now, that I am taking a moment to be homesick, to miss my beautiful friends and wonderful family.

Familiarity has never “bred” contempt for me, in regards to the city I live in, the circles I choose to be in.  But I think that even the people who claim to hate their families and all of the people around them are probably missing their own beds—although the rocking of the ship does make most of us sleep like those notorious treetop babies, are probably missing their typical food choices—although the kitchen staff has been doing an incredible job so far (Mom—when I get home, there’s this great eggplant and zucchini dish we need to add to the repertoire.), miss their own friends—although so many students here are wonderful, and probably even miss their own “not-so-favorite people”—even though there are easily at least two of every major personality flaw strutting about the decks.  The sense of lacking ownership is a scary one: we are living on someone else’s property, working on someone else’s time.  We are becoming part of other peoples’ families and trying to be friends with other peoples’ friends.  The only thing I own here is myself, and I need to make certain that I do not lose sight of that.

I am on Dionysus Deck—not as rambunctious as it sounds, in the Caribbean Sea, also not as spunky as it sounds.  These are just organizational titles, like how in middle school we had “teams” like the “schooners” and the “sharks” and “red group” and “blue group.”  Speaking of my dolphin heritage (shout-out to ESMS!): there was a group of dolphins hopping along behind the ship earlier.  I assume that the stream of bubbles and foam left behind is a lot like a giant Jacuzzi for them.

I had my first class today, Higher Education in the Global Economy.  The professor is Dr. David Breneman.  He’s pretty esteemed, works with OECD, worked at Harvard, has been a college president… this that and the other.  I am excited for the class, and I do not mind at all that there are really only a few students in it.  One of them is named Leo; he goes to school in Hawai’i, but he’s originally from the New Haven area.  He’s 29-years-old, and he helped me carry one of my super heavy suitcases into the hostel I stayed in while in Halifax.  Actually, he carried it all by himself.  He also has the same shoes as me—Vibram Five Fingers, classics, black—wicked!  The fact that he is an intelligent human being is also comforting.  These things are familiar to me, having been a community college student I am used to having older students around me.  Familiarity breeds content (this sentence is grammatically incorrect, but I am trying to be poetic, okay?).

Another student I am a good friend with, Jeanette, is 26.  She is originally from Illinois, but goes to school in Minnesota.  Her school is about 10-percent American Indian, which is a phenomenal amount.  She studied the Dakota language for a year, her favorite hobby is mock trial; she is one of the strangest people I have ever met, which makes her seem very normal.

But it’s not just a bunch of students and a few professors, here.  Two of the most interesting people I have met so far are in neither category.  As we were setting sail, I went out to the deck to wave goodbye to the Americas and feel the wind in my hair.  An older woman was standing beside me on the rail and decided to strike-up a conversation.  She went on Semester at Sea when she was my age and has been plotting how to get back on ever since.  Her in?  She’s the ship-doctor’s wife.  There are always benefits to marrying a doctor—remember this!  This morning at breakfast, I sat down alone, partially because I was afraid that my nausea might not be cured instantly and could have worsened, and partially because I have come to find that sitting down alone becomes an adventure in meeting people, due to limited seating.  One of the totally random people who decided to join me was a fellow named Greg.  He’s not a student, he’s not a professor, he’s actually not doing any work on the ship whatsoever… as far as the program is concerned.  He’s in commercial real estate and trying to work via e-mail.  But he decided that it would be good to bring his wife and his five kids, ages 8, 10, 12, 14 and 16, who he has been homeschooling, on this voyage.  Why can’t Greg be everybody’s dad?

Between long talks with people from everywhere, long stares out into what seems like nowhere and enormous games of Apples-to-Apples, it has been a good few days.

I miss my mother.  I miss my brother.  I miss the family dog.  I miss my friends.  I miss our wonderful stationary home.  I miss being able to Google anything and everything at any time and every time.  I miss the sureness of self that I have on solid ground, in Connecticut, even in Korea and Ecuador.  I miss knowing that where I am is exactly where I need to be.  But I am so fortunate, and not just for this opportunity.  For all of those things I miss.  And for who I am.

On our first day, we were asked to visualize something.  I’ll walk you through it, but you can’t read with your eyes shut no matter how many Dr. Seuss books you’ve read, so just try to imagine it with your eyes open.

You are stepping off of a ship, or a plane, or even out of a car.  It is hot in a way you have never fathomed heat.  It smells like a million things, some good, some bad, some familiar, some totally unidentifiable.  There are hordes of people who look unlike you, bustling around, noisily.  You find a clearing with a bench and you sit for a minute to catch your bearings.  A small child approaches, dressed in faded clothing, holding her hand to her mouth.  Not long after, a group of seven children approach from the other side, some smiling, but most holding their hands to their mouths.

We were asked how we felt in this situation and what we would do.

I do not understand why classmates of mine who have come from substantially better-off upbringings should feel helpless in this situation, should feel like there is nothing they can do other than to “be with” the children and make them laugh.

There’s nothing wrong with being with others or making them laugh—I could use some of that right now, myself.

My initial response was to find an ice-cream vendor.  Remember, this is a very hot imagined scenario—ice cream seems like a smart choice.  As I thought more about it, I figured that I should try and see if the children had any common understanding of a language: English, French, Spanish.  Then I could talk to them about the situation.  If they had no parents, I could find them an orphanage.  If they had poor, starving parents, I could find a way for their parents to participate in a microfinance project, such as the ones sponsored by the Grameen Bank, or a livestock program, such as Heifer International.

While I may be saddened, I can't imagine feeling entirely helpless.  Every single person who wants to help can help, and every single person who wants to help can help on his or her own terms.  Nobody has to be uncomfortable, although I highly recommend it from time to time.

Sorry for the enormousness of my blog-rant, but this is where I am at right now.  I am holding on to the idea that I know how capable I am, I know how strong I am, I know how forward I am.  I know that I am what people cannot buy or sell.  I am someone who owns her own life.

Even if I do not have my family, my friends, my house, my daily routine, my stuffed elephant and my stuffed platypus all in close proximity, I have myself as close as I can possibly be kept.  I have my life, I have my values, I have my goals, I have my achievements, I have my spark, I have my wit, I have my laughter, I have my own tears, I have my memories and I have my love.  But I also have the love that waits for me back home.  And that's what makes days like these—long, dreary, uneventful—something I can handle.

Much love to you all.

Semester at Sea! -- So Very Close!

Itinerary:
Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada
Cadiz, Spain
Casablanca, Morocco
Takoradi, Ghana
Cape Town, South Africa
Port Louis, Mauritius
Chennai, India
NEW PORT:Singapore
Ho Chi Minh City, Viet Nam
Hong Kong / Shanghai, China
Yokohama / Kobe, Japan
Honolulu / Hilo, Hawaii, USA
San Diego, California, USA
**Itineraries are subject to change.