Of Falls and Forests

Writers are taught to shun hyperbole, clichés and worn-out aphorisms. Our current language usage has rendered impotent some important superlatives, like “awesome” and “amazing”. Too bad because Iguassu Falls is awesome and amazing. The outer limits of my writing talent are unfortunately revealing themselves today as I struggle for fresh words to tell you about this magnificent wonder of the world. I guess you’ll just have to trust me when I say that you should add it to your personal list of “100 Places to See before You Die”.

Our flight to Foz de Iguassu in southern Brazil was long but uneventful, which, given our travel karma, we have learned to celebrate. Forty students and adults comprised our companionable group, all of us looking forward to big doses of natural beauty, fun and relaxation. We were not disappointed. We explored the falls from both the Brazilian and the Argentinean sides via every conceivable mode of transportation including planes, trains, boats and trucks. Oh, and our feet. We tramped across metal catwalks hundreds of feet above the cascading water, getting up close and personal with the majesty and power of the falling, crystal river. Many of us added the adventures of rappelling, white water rafting, and canopy zip-lining on our free afternoon. Others used that time to swim, read, catch up on email or nap. SAS trips are notoriously overstuffed with activities and this schedule was a welcome change. We even began our days at the civilized hour of 9:00 am – imagine!

Our itinerary included a tour of the Itaipu Dam. Spanning the Parana River between Brazil and Paraguay, this efficient behemoth is the producer of the largest quantity of hydroelectric power in the world, although other structures are larger. It supplies Paraguay with 95% of its electricity. Because Paraguay owns half the river that forms its border with Brazil, it is entitled to half the energy produced by the power plant, which is actually more than it needs. The government of Paraguay worked out the arrangement so that Brazil put up all the construction money for the dam; Paraguay is slowly paying them back in excess electricity from its half. Sweet deal.

After months of intense global experiences, we all welcomed the refreshing and renewing change of pace of this trip. It was good to play tourist for awhile and just enjoy the sites. I got a reminder of my true identity as a traveler, however, during our trek by open truck through the subtropical rainforest. The young Argentinean woman who was our guide came up to me after the trip and asked the common question, “Where are you from?” I was careful to answer, “The United States”, not wanting to offend someone with equal claim to the title “American”.
“I saw you taking notes and I wondered,” she replied.
“Well, I’m a writer,” I said, “and I like to get things down on paper.”
She smiled and said, “It was so nice to see someone actually paying attention and caring enough about what I was saying to write it down.” I wish for this enthusiastic and knowledgeable young woman a future full of more travelers than tourists.

What I was writing was a note to myself about an image I wanted to share with you. Our guide explained the difference between a parasite, for example a strangler ficus vine, and an epiphyte, such as a philodendron. The former competes with the host plant, often eventually killing it. The epiphyte only needs the host plant for support, to get above the dark tangle of the jungle, up where there is light and nourishing oxygen. Both the host and the supported plant grow well in this healthy, symbiotic relationship. I immediately thought of the needs of the countries we have been visiting in the developing world. Citizens of the first world sometimes seem to feel threatened and dismayed by the vast and urgent needs of these emergent countries, when all they really need is some support – loans, technical assistance, professional exchanges. After centuries of colonialism and poverty, developing countries need help climbing out of their deficient conditions, a boost up into a fresh environment where they will then be able to nourish themselves. Together we will all be able to thrive.

South Africa's Flag

By carefully thought-out design, the flag of the new South Africa contains a complex array of brilliant colors around the shape of a Y. As it was explained to me, the Y represents the coming together of two separate histories and paths into one, unified, new nation. Many explanations have been offered for the choice of colors, proposing diverse correspondences with national values and symbols. Apparently, the original artist did not prescribe the meaning, leaving it open to individual interpretation. Taking up the challenge, I’d like to offer, with all respect to a potent national symbol, a very personal color key to my experience of South Africa.

RED:
Throughout the days before and after our time in South Africa, I have been wearing my beaded pin with the red AIDS ribbon paired with the South African flag. HIV/AIDS is certainly my first association when I think of this country, but that’s because it’s my new professional focus. I could share with you many ideas about the progress of the fight against the pandemic in this country but you’ve probably heard about as much on that subject as you’re interested in for now. I invite you to email me (marseawell@aol.com) and ask specific questions if you’d like; I would welcome the opportunity for some dialogue.
The overarching “redness” of South Africa is, for me, about pain, including the pain of real people systematically oppressed and injured by apartheid. A number of the experiences I had in Cape Town brought home to me the far-reaching and disastrous effects of this totalitarian policy but two stood out. In the first instance, some friends and I took a ferry to Robben Island, the site of the prison in which Nelson Mandela was held for 27 years. We were privileged to be escorted through the facility by a former prisoner. Unlike other guides I’ve heard stories about, ours was a reticent fellow, holding his memories close to him, elaborating in a personal way only when urged by specific questions. The one time he showed intense emotion was during a discussion of the activities of the censor’s office. He described how the prisoners’ mail was not only censored, sometimes leaving only the salutation and signature, but also forged. In an anecdote I believe was autobiographical, he told how someone in the censor’s office had learned how to copy the handwriting of a prisoner’s wife. A letter was fabricated telling of the wife’s falling in love with someone else and asking for a divorce. The prisoner’s response letter was never sent. Our guide wanted us to understand that the white guards used every physical and psychological means available to torture these political prisoners, with the latter being by far the most devastating. I was also moved by the “cell stories” that were told in the former inmates’ own voices broadcast from a small speaker in their cells. Each cell contained a picture of the former occupant, the dates he was held there and some piece of memorabilia important to his daily life – a postcard, a certificate, a set of chess pieces drawn on small, torn squares of brown paper bag. The ordinariness of their meager possessions and the power of their recorded voices combined to convey a poignant picture of their prison reality.
Several times during my five days in South Africa, I visited the townships and informal settlements, also called squatter camps, which contain an estimated 2 million of the 3 million Cape Town residents. On a walk through the corrugated tin and scrap wood shacks of a section of Guguletu, I saw a woman standing well off to the side watching a group of children and Semester at Sea students playing Ring around the Rosie. I went up to her, introduced myself and asked if she lived nearby. Her answer and the story that flowed from it were gifts to me of honesty, candor and generosity I’ll always treasure. Joyce’s story is heartbreakingly typical. In a low voice filled with pain and desperation she told me she is a widow with four children and no means of support whatsoever. I asked her how she managed and she shrugged her stooped shoulders and said, “Sometimes we have food and sometimes we don’t.” Tears welled up in her eyes, tears that were not a dramatic display, not a plea for sympathy, but rather an overflow from some deep well of chronic suffering. She never asked for anything. She gave me her story. I felt helpless to respond. All I could give her in return was my respectful attention and the reassurance that, like me, many people in the United States were concerned about her and her neighbors, that we were working hard for and donating money to organizations that we hoped could help. Joyce and I connected woman to woman and, for a brief moment, she allowed me to share her pain.

BLACK/WHITE:
In the spirit of the new South Africa, these two colors must be taken together. Two women, one black and one white, personify for me the vibrant and indefatigable hope that is alive and thriving in Cape Town.
Pumla Gobodo-Madikizela is a genuine South African hero whom I am proud to call my friend. I met her through Swanee Hunt and the organization she founded called Women Waging Peace, a network of women across the globe who are working at all sectors of countries involved in conflict to establish peace and promote reconciliation. Pumla was a member of Archbishop Desmond Tutu’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission and is now teaching psychology at the University of Cape Town. Her recent book, A Human Being Died that Night, won literary prizes in both South Africa and the United States. In generously agreeing to meet with me, she took time out of a hectic schedule that included hosting an upcoming conference that is to be a public dialogue on “South Africa: The Unfinished Story.” Since the end of the TRC, Pumla has been promoting in her country, as well as in other African nations and the United States, the concept and the process of forgiveness, broadening its power through the technique of public dialogue. The lessons learned by South Africa during the abolishment of apartheid and the years of healing that continue today are powerful primers for a world devastated by conflict and ethnic division. Brilliant and brave, caring and committed heroes like Pumla are amongst us and must be our role models and teachers.
Linda Biehl’s daughter Amy was a young American Fulbright scholar working against apartheid in Cape Town when she was brutally stoned and killed by four young black men in Guguletu township in 1993. Linda and her husband, Peter, who became ill and died in 2002, participated in the Truth and Reconciliation Commission’s process. In a public tribunal Amy’s murderers told their story of violent political fervor, confessed to the crime and asked for forgiveness. Pumla was one of the TRC commissioners overseeing that case; its poignant story is told in the powerful documentary, Long Night’s Journey into Day. In an almost superhuman act of compassion and reconciliation, Linda and Peter forgave their daughter’s killers, who were then pardoned. But they didn’t stop there. The Biehls established the Amy Biehl Foundation Trust in Cape Town to continue Amy’s work and to support groups addressing the lasting effects of apartheid. Still coping every day, I’m sure, with the loss of first her daughter and then her husband, Linda now divides her time between the United States and Cape Town, raising money and continuing the work. She is supported by a dedicated and hardworking staff whom I met when I visited the foundation office. The staff member in charge of community relations, Ntobeko, served as our guide as we toured a number of the programs supported by the foundation. We visited schools and community centers in several townships where children eagerly assembled despite being on Easter break and performed music and dance for us. We saw a job training program and even a golf driving range begun by the Biehls in response to a request by boys who worked as caddies in white clubs and longed to play the game themselves. Throughout the day, Ntobeko told us Amy’s story and explained her legacy that is still at work among the people for whom she gave her life. He patiently and wisely answered our questions. He walked us through Guguletu, the neighborhood where he grew up, and there I met Joyce. He showed us Amy’s simple memorial in the dusty roadside in front of a gas station, as well as the beautiful new stone monuments, just up the street, to the Guguletu Seven, young men whose unprovoked massacre by the white police contributed to inflaming her killers to violence. As I learned more and more about Linda Biehl, I tried to imagine what deep, personal reservoirs she drew from to be able to offer that level of forgiveness and then follow it up with a lifetime of work on the ground where her daughter’s blood was shed. Then I discovered one more all but incomprehensible act of reconciliation: Linda Biehl not only forgave the killers of her precious child, she also reached out to them to be partners in her work to fight the legacy of apartheid. Two of the perpetrators responded and are now employed by the foundation. Ntobeko is one of them.

BLUE:
In a happier and more personal vein, let’s move to this my favorite color so I can tell you about some of my most enjoyable delights in Cape Town. The first of my favs was the music of a live band at one of the shabeens or local pubs in Langa township. Shabeens are everywhere, consisting of a bar, a juke box and usually a pool table. A few have live music at night and we got to hear what I thought was a fabulous band but was considered pretty run of the mill by the locals. The lead singer was a young woman with a voice and body reminiscent of the young Tina Turner; I could have listened and watched her dance all night. I asked the group of students I was with what the name of that style of music was but no one knew, so we dubbed it Township Funk – works for me.
I loved the food I had in South Africa. For one thing, there was one of those sushi conveyor belt restaurants in the Victoria and Alfred Mall right beside where we were docked. Ok, it wasn’t exactly African food but it had been a long time between bites of raw fish. I delighted in the freshest fish imaginable, all the while watching the passing array and planning which dish I was going to snag off the belt next. The students in my shipboard family treated me to an early birthday dinner in another of the local waterfront restaurants, one that reminded us all of Chili’s. I was celebrated with the wait staff’s rendition of an unfamiliar Happy Birthday song and a dish of ice cream topped with bubblegum-flavored syrup and blazing with sparklers. The best meal by far was a happy accident. Linda and Tom Hunter, Faye and John Serio, and I arrived at the restaurant we had made a reservation for and immediately rejected it. We wandered up the street to look for an alternate choice. John talked the manager of a fascinating-looking but fully booked game restaurant into seating us outside in their as-yet-unfinished courtyard. We quickly turned into a delightful private dining room, overlooking the fact that we had to go through the restroom to get to it and ignoring the red plastic mop bucket holding open the adjacent pantry door. Our host started us off with complementary shot glasses of some potent South African white lightning that effectively protected us from the slight chill of the night air. We sampled springbok, eland, kudu, ostrich and quail as well as an immodest quantity of South African wine. Good food, good drink, good friends – a winning combination all over the world.
My last South African favorite is actually blue, some of it anyway. It – or rather I should say she – is a magnificent wooden mask used in ritual initiation ceremonies of young Zambian men. The dancer wears the mask as he works himself into a trance, invoking the spirit of the ideal woman. His dance then instructs these boys in the essence of womanhood, why they must be valued and how they should be treated. Zambia was the first country in Africa in which I spent any real time and it holds a special place in my heart, so I love that she’s from that culture. I spent a significant piece of my life raising boys and trying to teach them to respect and value women. I delight in the very special women who are part of their lives now. The mask’s face is a dark brown wood, her hair is raw wool in shades of grey and blue, and she has blue and white beads over her forehead. Her expression is powerful enough to have stopped me in my tracks as I passed the shop window. I certainly wasn’t in the market for such a major piece of art but never mind. She chose me and I fell irretrievably under her spell. Now you will all have to come to my house to see her.

GREEN:
I’ve told you in a previous piece how I love the leafy green shade of the African trees that are used as outdoor community meeting and ceremonial spaces. Just such a tree was at the center of a stunning play I was fortunate enough to see performed at a beautiful contemporary theater on the campus of the University of Cape Town. The Syringa Tree is a one woman show drawn from the life of the playwright Pamela Gion, whom we were also privileged to see perform it. This remarkably talented actress portrays 24 different characters using only a large swing as a prop, varying her voice and body language in an amazing display of virtuosity and talent. The play chronicles several generations of two South African families, one white and one black, as it reveals a powerful and intimate portrait of the realities of apartheid. Although this award-winning play has been mounted in many international cities, including New York, this was its first
run in Cape Town. I can’t imagine a more appropriate or enjoyable choice for a theater experience here.

YELLOW:
Meeting Vicky at her two-room bed and breakfast in Khayelitsha township brought me immediately into the golden sunshine of her optimism and hospitality. For all its poverty and misery, its injustices and despair, Khayelitsha is also home to creative, brave and industrious people who have a more hopeful story to tell, and Vicky is one of its brightest lights. Seeing busloads of tourists day after day driving through her neighborhood but never stopping or getting out of the bus, she decided to start a small inn at her home where people could spend some time meeting people in her community, getting to know who they were and learning about their rich culture. Over the years she has hosted numerous groups and individuals who have expressed their gratitude to her by leaving contributions which she uses to enrich the lives of the neighborhood children. She told us a story about wanting to take the children on a field trip to Robben Island this year but she didn’t have enough money for all of them to go and how difficult it was to leave some behind.
My son Dave and his fiancée, Katie Galloway, were the reason I had the joy of meeting Vicky. At Christmastime in 2003 when Katie was studying in Cape Town, Dave flew over to spend the holidays with her. They heard about Vicky’s B&B and decided it would be a wonderful place to spend Christmas day. They quickly fell under her magical spell, the power of her caring and commitment. Big Dave played Santa to all the kids, passing out presents Vicky had bought each one of them from her donations. Katie spent her time draped in small brown bodies, hungry for her special attention and caring. They made particular friends with a couple of the children whose photographs occupy an honored place in their home in Seattle. When the Galloways and Seawells gave Katie and Dave an engagement party, the couple asked their friends and family, in lieu of gifts, to bring small cash donations for Vicky’s community. It was my enormous honor and pleasure to bring these gifts to Vicky. When I told her who I was, her face lit up. She ran to get the collage of photographs framed on the wall and showed me Dave’s picture. When I gave her the snapshots Katie had sent, she called out the window to the children and they all came running to see themselves, giggling with glee and saying “Dave! Katie!” over and over. With the help of Katie and Dave’s generous and selfless gift, I’m certain that Vicky will go on fostering opportunities and spreading joy into the darkest corners of Khayelitsha.

For all its brilliant colors, the crux of the symbolism of the South African flag is the Y, the joining of disparate elements into one powerful unity, the new South Africa. I heard it repeated often that people try not to refer at all to race any more, calling themselves not white or black or colored but South African. I believe that the hope of this country is in its children. The children in Khayelitsha, in all of Cape Town and across this vast country have compelling role models of every color to show them the way to their healthy and prosperous future, a future they can only reach together.

Tanzania Solo

I ventured alone to Dar es Salaam in Tanzania after our ship docked in Mombasa, Kenya to meet with folks from several HIV/AIDS agencies. I had been listening to many excited conversations about the plans 645 members of our community had for safaris in east Africa. I felt out of phase but having both work to do and several previous safari experiences, I pressed ahead with my divergent agenda. I was rewarded with lessons both professional and personal. And, despite much angst, I easily made it back to the ship in time to depart for South Africa.

Not many of you, I’m fairly certain, are interested in the details of what I learned about HIV/AIDS in Tanzania, but a few observations might be worth sharing. If you’ve come to this site looking only for travel color, skip down a couple of paragraphs.

As I’ve read and tried to learn about HIV/AIDS in the developing world, I have noticed a progression of preoccupation with different components of the issue as a country attempts to respond to this horrific pandemic. The first stage seems to be recognition of the problem and its extent. Russia, former Soviet states and Eastern Europe appear to be at this point now. The second stage is to formulate a coordinated response in each country, usually done by the Ministry of Health, often with the help of other partners such as the Clinton Foundation and/or universities like Harvard and Columbia – the process China and India, for instance, are now involved in. The third step centers around finding huge sums of money to address prevention, testing and care and treatment of people living with HIV/AIDS (known as PLWHA). The Global Fund for HIV/AIDS, TB and Malaria, PEPFAR (President Bush’s program), NGO’s of all sizes, faith-based organizations, and donor nations such as former colonial powers all have a role to play in funding these enormous efforts. Once the extent of the problem is known and money has been promised, the focus shifts to rolling out plans that have been made that entail resources such as drugs, labs, information and tracking systems, distribution systems and, my personal focus, health care workers in adequate numbers with appropriate training. These components of a country’s response are both crucial and exceedingly difficult, not that the previously mentioned ones aren’t as well. Problems get highlighted such as brain drain of newly trained workers to other, more developed countries (there are more Malawian doctors in just Manchester, England than there are in all of Malawi) and the disparities of health care facilities between urban and rural areas. These are not new problems but they are demanding new solutions if this pandemic is going to be addressed. All this I was aware of before I came to Tanzania.

Now I have seen firsthand the next stage: the intersection between solving the problem of HIV/AIDS and the complexities and intransigence of poverty in the developing world. At two agencies I asked what was the single largest impediment to addressing HIV/AIDS and the answer came without hesitation and identically in both: food. At Pathfinder International, we talked about their home based care program in which volunteer community health workers visit AIDS patients in their homes, taking basic medical supplies like gloves and bandages but also providing teaching, support and caring. We would think of this as hospice care. They kept reporting on the starvation of these patients due not only to the wasting of the disease but also to their social isolation because of stigma. So Pathfinder started sending food to the patients as well. But, of course, much of it never made it to the patient. The volunteers and their families were also very hungry. Now they send food for both the patient and the health care worker. I visited PASADA, a model program run by the Catholic Church in Dar and spoke with a small group of nurses there. I love connecting with these talented, creative, tireless, and caring sisters of mine who are on the front lines of this enormous battle. They said that adequate nutrition was the single largest barrier to starting their clients on anti-retroviral treatment. This large, well-funded program has only 100 people on ARV’s. One reason was that people could not demonstrate an ongoing food supply necessary for successful treatment, often because they were too sick to work and, again, cut off from their families. In the developing world, huge amounts of food are needed for these patients, their dependent families and even the volunteers. The World Food Program is working to deliver food to Tanzania but only to a few geographic areas that are in the worst shape. Unfortunately, poverty and HIV/AIDS are everywhere.

That’s probably more than you wanted to hear about HIV/AIDS in Tanzania and it was only a tiny fraction of what I learned there. It was a very professionally productive trip. I also had a few personal experiences that have been rolling around in my mind ever since, trying to fit into my concepts of myself and the world. Traveling alone proved to be more of an obstacle than it has before. My tentative explanation has to do with a new realization about my attitudes in this post 9/11 world: I feel more uncomfortable in Muslim cultures – and I hate that feeling. I could see four mosques from my hotel window in Dar and I enjoyed the rhythms that periodic calls to prayer gave to my days. When I heard them, I began pausing in whatever I was doing and just spending a couple of minutes reflecting, nothing elaborate or ritualistic, just a moment to refocus. What a wonderful tradition. But then early one morning, looking out my hotel window, I saw a group of about 30 young men running down the street, chanting, carrying a flag and being joined by a few other pedestrians. My mind went immediately back to the embassy bombings and the anti-American demonstrations of a few years ago. Two explanations occurred to me: either this was some kind of demonstration or a running group taking advantage of the cool of the new day. The ordinary logic of the second explanation was overwhelmed by the small undercurrent of fear in the first. If it was a demonstration, why would I feel in any way threatened? Instead of some anti-American, radical Islamic group, it could have just as easily been local plumbers rallying for better wages. I had a day on Sunday in which I thought about going to Zanzibar on the local ferry. I’ve done that kind of thing many times in plenty of developing countries. But there were no other tourists around and I just felt like I stuck out too much. We had had an onboard briefing by diplomats from the American embassy in Nairobi who told too many horror stories and advised us to do our best to blend in. I wanted to go but my gut was telling me not to, so I didn’t. My loss, my lesson.

One delightful consequence of my traveling alone was getting to meet Jumani, a wonderful cab driver in Dar. My colleague, Ed Wood, the clinical director of the Clinton Foundation HIV/AIDS (CHAI), had recommended him to me before my December trip; they have become great friends. Edwin Macharia, the assistant country director for CHAI who facilitated my time in Dar, mentioned Jumani again so I engaged him to drive for me for two days, one working and one exploring the city. Jumani is a treasure. He has a brand new, three-week-old baby whom he named Ed. I asked Jumani if the baby was keeping him up at night and he said, “Oh Mahjorie, that baby he cry and cry!” At the end of our time together, he said, “Oh Mahjorie, you’re leaving. That makes me soooo sad!” I wish Jumani could have driven me to Zanzibar.

I went to a cultural village museum that had recreated about 15 different types of houses lived in by the various peoples of Tanzania. It was a very low tech place and I was the only tourist on a sweltering Saturday afternoon. About 150 secondary school kids were also there, all dressed up in their school uniforms complete with navy blue jackets and ties. We all gathered on wooden benches under a large leafy tree for a drumming and dancing performance. I’ve come to love this African tradition I’d seen in Zambia and Rwanda as well of choosing the space and shade under some wonderful tree to hold public meetings and celebrations. I felt welcome there, if something of an oddity. A few girls came to sit with me and shyly answered my questions in fairly good English. Most of these children are trilingual, speaking their tribal language, Kiswahili and English. Their first question for me was, “What tribe are you from?” They didn’t pay a lot of attention to the dancing, giggling and talking behind their hands. But they loved the skits that followed, laughing uproariously and trying to translate the jokes for me. They told me they wanted to be accountants and teachers, doctors and lawyers. They made me want to work harder, to keep on trying to make my small contribution to the gargantuan task of ensuring a healthy future for them and for baby Ed.

Technical Difficulties

I'm sorry that there are three copies of my India post. The Internet on the ship goes down frequently and I can never tell whether something has posted, because there is also a delay on the site. All this because at $.40 a minute you have to do things as fast as possible. So far when I try to delete one, all are erased. Don't you just love these little technical glitches? I am in Dar es Salaam, having flown here yesterday from Mombasa where the ship docked. I'm meeting today with Clinton Foundation folks and their partners to look at the progress of the rollout of HIV/AIDS drugs here. Across the weekend I hope to see a little of the city and then will be meeting with Pathfinder International people on Monday. I'm glad to finally get here after my aborted trip in December. 645 members of the shipboard community were headed off on safari as I left. I know they'll bring back wonderful stories and pictures.

The Elephant that is India

THE ELEPHANT THAT IS INDIA

Looking down a narrow, crowded street in Pondicherry, a small city on the southeast coast of India, I saw the head of an elephant, a real one. For a weekend explore of the area south of Chennai, two friends and I had hired a car and driver and it was from him that the answer came to this puzzle and many others like it. He explained that down that street was a Ganesh temple. In Hinduism, Ganesh is a god with a man’s body and the head of an elephant. He is the son of Shiva and his consort, Parvati. When Ganesh lost his head, his mother replaced it with that of an elephant, the closest one handy. Ganesh is the god of wisdom but more popularly revered because of his powers to remove obstacles, in all things sacred or profane. People pray to him at the initiation of any endeavor, even an ordinary work day. Ganesh temples that are wealthy enough have their own live elephant in addition to many beautiful sculptures and shrines inside. I scrambled out of the car and proceeded to break one of the common sense rules of travel: If you’re not quite sure what’s going on, stand back and watch the locals for awhile. Had I done that first instead of later I would have seen that worshippers pass by and place in his outstretched trunk either food (which he immediately eats) or a small bill (which he passes to his handler). He then places his trunk on the believer’s head and they go about their day confident in his blessing. Rushing up to him, I ignored the rule and the kindly old guy must have decided to bless me on credit – he plopped his trunk right down on my head! Startled but wiser I went off to explore the temple.

My encounter at the Ganesh temple reminded me of the old fable, retold in a recent Global Studies class, about a group of blind men first encountering an elephant. Each one catches hold of a different part of the animal and argues adamantly about the characteristics of this new creature. The blind man holding the tusk remarks as to its cool smoothness while the one patting its side insists it is warm and wrinkly. The guy who grabbed its tail asserts that it must be like a snake while the one trying to reach around its huge legs will have none of that comparison. Our entire shipboard community ventured out to explore the elephant that is India. We returned with a multitude of sundry, colorful and energetically defended reports. Comments I’ve heard have ranged from “I couldn’t wait to get out of India! I am SO over it,” to “I felt incredibly comfortable in this country. I’m definitely coming back.”

People who never left Chennai formed conclusions that sounded like the blind man who had ended up around back and stepped in fresh dung. While there are many interesting things to see in Chennai, the situation at the harbor where we docked combined with the normal, Indian overwhelming assault on your senses to produce what most people agreed was quite an unpleasant experience. In order to go anywhere except onto a tour bus, we had to pass through two Indian immigration inspection stations showing two official forms and two pieces of ID, walk several blocks along a road filled with huge trucks carrying cargo and across three active railway tracks, and then face our nemesis, the auto-rickshaw drivers and their touts. With very few exceptions and no matter how firmly you gave your instructions, they always took you to at least one and often three shops that paid them a commission for delivering customers. I had been told to ask for the Connemara Hotel in the central shopping district, instead of a particular store which would label me as a shopper, but that rarely worked either. They lied, they cheated, and they pulled off onto side streets and demanded more money. They are clearly organized because the first day all the vehicles that left from the harbor entrance at the same time ended up at the same store, which was the destination of no one. The uniformed harbor officials are no help; I heard several stories of their various ploys to extract bribes for passing through the gates. Walking is not a solution because the harbor is far away from where most people want to go. Walking a few blocks into the city to escape the rickshaws at the harbor is hazardous due to the traffic and lack of sidewalks and anyway the rickshaw driver you hail will probably not speak English or be able to read a written address. The buses are unbelievably crowded and confusing; there is no other mass transit. Arranging a private car and driver that would pick you up beside the ship was really the only viable solution. Even though it was quite inexpensive for what it was, most students felt it was outside their budget.

When you do finally get out into the city in an auto-rickshaw, you white-knuckle it through traffic that makes downtown Saigon look like a country lane. Indian drivers love their horns and hate to have anyone in front of them. The air pollution is atrocious; I wiped black soot off of my arms, legs and face after every trip out. You quickly learn to watch ahead for the approach of the bridge over the Cooum River so you can put something over your nose or hold it. Our biology professor told us the river was considered dead and it certainly smelled like it; it is a huge open sewer.

Now imagine yourself on this auto-rickshaw ride, stopped at a traffic light, and suddenly you get a whiff of the sweetest scent you’ve ever smelled. Inches away, a motorbike has pulled up beside you and on the back is a beautiful girl whose raven hair is draped in long garlands of creamy white jasmine flowers. That is India. As they say, for everything that is true about India, the exact opposite is true as well.

In sharp contrast to Chennai, beauty was all around us on our trip to Pondicherry: emerald green rice paddies, breathtaking temple decorations, cool forests (where we watched a movie being filmed) and the calm waves on the post-tsunami seashore. We stayed at a delightful and very inexpensive guest house in the middle of town, right on the water with only the seawall and the main street between. I think it was that wall that saved the city from too much tsunami damage. Early one morning I sat out on my balcony and watched people taking their morning “constitutional,” as my grandfather would call it. We visited the famous Aurobindo Ashram, the local market and a paper-making factory. We were fascinated by the low tech process that produced gorgeous paper in many colors and containing many natural materials. They explained that they did “one color, one day” and lucky for me the color of the hundreds of sheets hung up to dry that day was an exquisite peacock blue, a feast for my eyes. In contrast, we saw working conditions that would give an OSHA inspector apoplexy, like women sorting small pieces of cutup rags amid a cloud of cotton dust you could barely see through; only a couple of them had masks. The beauty and the horror that is India.

On the way down to Pondicherry, we passed several relief camps for tsunami victims near the highway so we stopped at one on the way back. I wanted to try to talk to the people there and see how they were doing. We asked for the village leader but were told, through our intrepid translator/driver, that he was away for the day. So we plunged in and started asking them questions and letting them tell us about their life. We were taken down through the part of the village that was not too badly damaged to the pile of rubble on the shore that used to be their homes and boats. Large, brightly painted new boats, enough for one for four families, had been donated by Rotary and sat unused on the beach. We asked if they were fishing again. They said that they had been promised compensation by the Indian government for their losses but that they had not yet been paid. They felt that if they went back to work they would not receive the payments. Such is often the dilemma of aid. As I walked through the camp with its crude lean-tos, thatch shacks and even North Face style tents donated by the Brits, my heart ached for these families who had so little and lost it all. I tried to find the words to tell them that the whole world cared about them. They are human so they talked of being jealous of other camps who they felt were getting more. Our driver said that actually he thought these camps were doing relatively well because they were so near Chennai but that camps south of Pondicherry were less visible and still needed help. We left them some cash with a strongly worded request that it be used for the benefit of the whole camp. The survivors told us about relief agencies that came and went but praised World Vision, a large international NGO, as the one that was still there, still helping. I told them I would tell you that.

There’s one more experience I want to share – a visit to a hospital dedicated to several Eastern medicines such as Ayurvedic, homeopathy, naturopathy and Unani which is practiced by Muslims. As most of you know, I’m a nurse and a dedicated defender of Western medicine. I’ve been able to intellectually understand that other systems of health care probably have valuable practices but, in truth, they scare me. I worry when people depend on naturopathic remedies when I think they desperately need antibiotics. I worry when high profile celebrities turn down chemotherapy and treat cancer with diet and massage. But I went on this FDP to try to open myself to what was being offered there. It was a stretch but I was amply rewarded – I finally got it. Indians, like Chinese and many other Asians, are quite selective in which philosophy of health care they choose for their various illnesses. Unlike some Americans not raised with these choices, they know the value – and limitations – of each. We talked extensively with the head of the Ayurvedic section. His facility could have been run almost entirely without electricity. There were massage tables, magnet belts, water baths and rooms where yoga and diet were taught. I thought my long held skepticism had been vindicated when I saw a poster that proclaimed in several languages, “Germs do not cause disease.” He later talked about why they had individual steam cabinets instead of steam rooms, that people in steam rooms could make each other sick. I was confused so I asked him about the germ sign. “Ah,” he explained, “we know that germs cause TB, which we don’t treat here anyway, and that patients can catch it from each other. What we believe is that it’s a person’s immune system being weak that is really the cause of the disease, the reason why one person contracts it and the other doesn’t. That’s what the sign means.” I thought of the germ soup that most Indians live in and the emphasis in Ayurvedic medicine on healthy living through exercise, diet and yoga to prevent disease and promote wellness. I got it. Western medicine emphasizes killing germs and combating disease and Eastern medicine promotes healthy living so you won’t succumb to the germs that are perhaps more of a given in their world. We learned that the patients in this facility were mostly stroke and arthritis patients who, I now understand, might benefit from the types of therapy offered. Patients with TB or needing an operation wouldn’t come there and they wouldn’t be treated if they did; the Ayurvedic doctor enthusiastically endorsed Western medicine for those problems. In another part of the hospital, the head of homeopathy explained that they use the products of disease, in very small quantities, to treat the disease. Where am I familiar with that principle? Sure, vaccinations and allergy shots. I asked her what illnesses she treated. She said that the large majority of her patients were there for allergies. Another light bulb moment. One of the medical staff members from the ship who was also on the trip offered the final illuminating idea to me at just the right time. When I was mumbling about “alternative medicine,” she said, “You know we really don’t call it that any more. Now we say ‘complementary medicine.’” Exactly.

On this my second visit to India, I felt as if I got to explore more parts of the elephant. In many ways, I’m still as much in the dark as the blind men. The vast complexities and contradictions of this country boggle my mind and challenge my attempts at understanding. The difficulties are mine. India stands wise and benevolent, and ignorant and corrupt. But like the elephant at the temple, she freely bestows upon me the blessings of rich experience.

Vietnam and Cambodia: The Power of Seeing the World

So many factors affect how you perceive a place. Returning to Vietnam after only three years, I had a ready comparison with how I responded before, whereas Cambodia was a new country for me. This time I had the added benefit of traveling with Scottie and learning about her reactions. But there are so many other things that shape your perception:
· which experiences you choose to focus on – Scottie and started in Ho Chi Minh City with a tour of the Reunification Palace complete with what can only be described as propaganda video that certainly influenced how I felt about the city, less warmly than on my first visit;
· how hot/cold/tired you are at the time – we were so hot in HCM City most of the time that our shirts were drenched and sticking to us and my whole head poured sweat down the full width of my face, not just rivulets from my temples, meaning that I literally couldn’t see. Scottie commented, “I remember Gran telling me that ladies don’t sweat, they glow. Well, I’d have to say now ‘Gran, I’m SWEATING!’”;
· how extensive your expectations are – Scottie and I had both read a poignant and very well-written autobiography of a girl who survived the Khmer Rouge genocide, First They Killed My Father, and had some idea of the horrors we’d learn about at the Killing Fields. The students who had chosen this particular trip had done so fully aware that they had the alternative of doing only the temples of Angkor on another trip. They chose with varying degrees of preparation and differing expectations but all of them wanted to see and learn and try to understand. I am in awe of their courage at such a young age. Watching them force themselves to take unspeakable, incomprehensible horrors into their consciousness and grapple with them both breaks my heart for a world that contains that hell and deeply inspires me;.
· who your guide is and how free s/he feels to speak – we were divided into two buses in Cambodia and the guide on the other bus was a woman who took as her mission the telling of her story, but only while she was safely inside the bus, out of earshot of officials in this still largely Communist country. While our guide was a baby when he lost his father during the genocide, she was a teenager and told the powerful story of her tragic life and losses. I’m told there was not a dry eye on the bus, including hers. When I remarked to someone who had heard her story that I was sorry I missed it, he said, “I’m not sure you should be sorry. I don’t know if I could have chosen to hear it.”
· And so many more. We all wear lenses shaped by so many things; we all see and yet sometimes don’t see. Such is the nature of experiencing the world.

Someone told me the other day that they think Semester at Sea is a cult – and I had to agree, at least in the lighthearted sense the comparison was offered. Sharing the time in Southeast Asia with Scottie and watching her reconnect with memories of her SAS voyage in spring 1984, I saw how the core of this voyage continues through the decades and how its values, benefits and challenges endure. I won’t presume to summarize her impressions and hope that many of you will hear about them directly from her. But for me, to connect with her through this experience was a treasure and a privilege. I’m acutely aware of what it takes to get a committed mom away for a whole week and the courage it took to risk this adventure away from them. I am truly indebted to Phil, Dorothy, John and all Scottie’s devoted friends who helped out while she was gone and especially to my precious granddaughters Erin, Rachel and Lauren for sharing their mommy with me. It was a gift we’ll both remember for a long time. As she wrote to me in an email after she got home, only slightly tongue in cheek I’m sure, “We’ll always have Cambodia.”

What we have in Cambodia is a bittersweet offering, a rough-edged gem, a painful challenge to our hearts’ best tendencies. I relished the timeless coming of a new day over the splendor of Angkor Wat while trying to block out the din of the chattering Japanese tourists who had risen in surprising numbers to also witness the sight. I felt privileged to hear a student process out loud, in a sort of stream of consciousness, her emotions as she saw real poverty for the first time in a small floating village across the river from the spectacular Royal Palace in Phnom Penh. I took picture after picture at the Genocide Museum, wanting to have a record to verify the reality of sights I knew my mind might try to gloss over in remembering. But soon I had to stop, unable to do anything but the work of bringing into my awareness an incomprehensible horror.

Between 1974 and 1979, Pol Pot tortured and killed a million of his own countrymen, women and children. The genocide museum we visited was a high school that had been converted into a prison where people were interrogated for weeks to months in unspeakably cruel ways. No matter their answers, the outcome was always the same. They were herded into trucks, taken out to the Killing Fields, made to dig their own shallow graves and then killed in brutal ways without the swiftness of a bullet. As they were being processed into the prison, mug shots were taken. The black and white 8x10 photos are displayed in row after row, hundreds of human beings, even mothers holding babies, looking out at me with unmistakable emotions in their eyes – confusion, fear, defiance, despair – each one destined for unimaginable terror and death. I’ve no doubt they will be with me always.

I confess to my own despair. Perhaps it’s because I was just at the Rwandan genocide museum last March which told the story of a million Tutsis and their supporters who were killed by Hutus just ten years ago. All the talk after the Holocaust of “never again” and here we have two more genocides. And now Darfur in the Sudan. When and how will it ever end? We all can do our part certainly – committed work and money and small acts of tolerance can and do help. We need great leaps forward in local and global nonviolent conflict resolution. We need powerful and charismatic leaders like Nelson Mandela and Gandhi, whose portrayal by Ben Kingsley in that wonderful Attenborough film I watched last night during our own passage to India. But who? When? How?

Bereft of answers, I am also compelled to hope, inspired by these young people with whom I am traveling. Time and again I have heard them doing the heartbreaking work of processing what they have seen, bringing the horrors of poverty and man’s inhumanity to man into their consciousness. Whatever expectations they came with, whatever lenses they wear, their vision is clear. But they are bewildered and angry and overwhelmed. Their paradigms are imploding and they feel the loss of their familiar constructs of the world. I’ve done what I can to listen, to reassure them that they don’t have to have it all figured out, to comfort them as they grieve for this world we’re leaving them.

I’m convinced that what we can do is what Semester at Sea does and that’s why I am so committed to this program. I’m persuaded that providing the opportunity for these fresh, earnest, smart and caring young people to see the pain and joy of this world we all share is an answer with boundless power. I am reminded of stories of SAS alums I’ve known or heard of who are working for peace and justice in every way and venue imaginable from nutrition programs in Cape Town shanty towns to political campaigns in ordinary American towns. I love this program because it changes these powerful young people. Then they go out and change the world.

Hong Kong Contrasts

My time in Hong Kong was filled with contrasts. Remnants of British culture mix with the new Hong Kong that has given rise to the Chinese slogan “One China, two systems.” It is obvious that the economic and cultural power of this city will not be quickly subsumed into the communism and socialism of mainland China. I also experienced comparisons with my previous voyage here, a natural response I know, but one I try to guard against if I can, hoping to stay focused on the magic of this new voyage.

2002, when I was here before, was only five years after the handover and now it’s eight. Maybe it’s a bias created by the observer but I was struck by how few Westerners I saw either downtown or at tourist venues. The business people on the street were much more predominantly Chinese. I wondered if transitional personnel had finally gone home and left the Chinese in charge. Japanese tourists were even more in the majority than in most places, joined, I think, by Chinese who are being encouraged to travel within their country. I saw virtually no Americans.

The one place I did see Westerners was, of course, the venerable and delightful Peninsula Hotel. I wandered around its halls, evoking memories of a childhood visit there. The marvelous new performing arts and museum complex down on the waterfront unfortunately obscures the grand old dame’s previously spectacular view of the harbor. Nothing, however, can sully her classic ambiance and grandeur. I couldn’t resist afternoon high tea in the lobby, complete with a three-tiered silver tray of a wide assortment of goodies going way beyond the traditional cucumber finger sandwiches and scones with butter and jam. A corner of the mezzanine balcony held a quartet of piano, bass, violin and flute who wafted the Moonlight Sonata and Pacabel’s Canon down into the gilded lobby below. I thought about how nothing had changed in decades inside this room but that everything had changed outside. I’m usually uncomfortable in bastions of colonial power, with an old liberal’s fear of “come the revolution” being caught on the wrong side of town. But here a peaceful evolution has taken place and the Chinese are firmly in charge. This small remnant of Hong Kong’s British history will hopefully be allowed to coexist with her exciting future.

I felt disappointment that our ship was not here, not docked at the Ocean Terminal with the Star Ferry right outside. The kids who went up to Victoria Peak couldn’t feel the excitement of seeing her in the harbor far below. All 750 of us were at one huge convention hotel out in the New Territories, think suburbs without the grass. This arrangement, although sadly substituting for the ringside seat of the ship, was better than being scattered at as many as seven hotels in the other two ports we had to fly to. An enormously important aspect to the Semester at Sea experience is being a part of this diverse community, bonded by a love of learning and travel and, in our case, by the challenges of our experience in the North Pacific. I missed the ship terribly but more than that I missed our community being together.

I particularly enjoyed spending time with my new friends Linda and Tom Hunter. We had great fun striking out on the Metro or bus to explore various parts of the city. One day we went on a self-guided walking tour that included several specialized markets. We marveled at the variety and brilliance of the flowers in the Flower Market, everything imaginable from orchids in astounding abundance to bountiful pots of some small white flower I still can’t identify. We delighted in the dark bamboo, intricately carved cages in the Bird Market, complete with traditional blue and white porcelain water dishes. I once again marveled at the variety: small finch-like birds with green bodies and orange and yellow heads, black and white ones with brilliant hot pink beaks; dozens of small birds all crammed into one tiny cage or a single specimen of toucan regally watching us from his perch. Because the weather was quite nasty (what could we have done to offend the weather gods so egregiously?), only one man was out “walking” his cockatoo, as is the tradition here, drawing a crowd of admirers like a cute puppy in the park.


Tom, Linda and I had what I have to say was the very best of my lifetime of extraordinary dining experiences at a stunning restaurant called Hutong. Only two rows of tables lined a broad expanse of windows overlooking the harbor. My new best friend, the concierge at the Peninsula, had fixed us up with a fabulous table (note to self: if you want a truly memorable dinner, go to the nicest hotel in the city, even if you’re not staying there, ask the concierge for his recommendations and tip well). The food was unique with gourmet Asian flavors and presentations I’d never seen before: shrimp marinated in a special spice and smothered in fresh garlic; eggplant in thumb-sized pieces delicately steamed, seasoned and molded into a mound – it melted in your mouth; and so many more. Each dish was presented in a container that had never seen the inside of a commercial dishwasher: a red, wooden, narrow, rectangular platter with a 6” square carved box at one end, a sage green ceramic bowl shaped like a partially closed leaf, a large basket complete with handle and painted with orange figures, a hefty block of old, dark wood slightly scooped out to contain the sauce; and on and on. The service was just right, that unobtrusive presenting and sweeping away of dishes at just the right moment, not before or after you were ready. But with all this, the very best was the décor. You got the feeling of entering into an old Chinese farmhouse decorated for an architectural digest shoot. Dark wood and old rattan were everywhere, illuminated by candlelight and punctuated by blood red diaphanous muslin hangings swaying in doorways. Old farm tools contrasted with exquisitely simple porcelain candleholders on surfaces and even worked into one stone wall with chicken wire. Our eyes simply could not take it all in and it’s beyond my powers of description. Some very, very talented decorator had obviously gotten carte blanche and had created a masterpiece of a restaurant. But the crowning touch was the restroom. Tom had been to the men’s room and came back and said we HAD to see them. The door to the ladies room was an antique looking, ornately carved and arched gate. Inside, the sink stole the show: a long piece of white marble about the size of a small picnic table with a slight lip around the edges that had exquisite river stones and fresh flowers around the periphery and a very large, old wooden bucket suspended above it. To get water, you pulled on a small stick and water splashed out of a 4” bamboo spout in the side of the bucket. Luckily we were alone in the bathroom and we could ogle and giggle and take pictures like the awestruck tourists we were. All this for about a quarter of the price of such a dining experience in New York. Hutong in Hong Kong – write it down!

The last day I was there I went to see “The Big Buddha” and Po Lin Monastery on Lantau Island. After a very time-consuming mistake of going the wrong way on the subway line and then a long bus ride after the subway, I finally made it and was amazed by the size and majesty of the 35 meter bronze figure. This important Hong Kong landmark was not built until the early 1990’s when the handover was a certainty. I was interested to read that it faces mainland Communist China. I wonder if that slogan of “One China, two systems” will be stretched to encompass religion as well. Hopefully the economic success of the second system in Hong Kong will have a positive ripple effect on other aspects of Chinese culture and politics.

A Strand of Shanghai Pearls

Here are a few gems from my time in Shanghai:

· Winding my way through the small passageways of Old Town Shanghai, passing colorful shops and restaurants advertising such delicacies as “dumpling stuffed with the ovary and digestive glands of crad (sic)” (thanks, I’ll pass, maybe another time), I came upon a huge tree filling a public courtyard. Large gold leaves were wired to its branches and a crowd of excited Shanghai citizens was gathered around to participate in a Chinese New Year’s ritual. They were buying bright red ribbons displaying gold Chinese characters and attached to metal coins. One by one they threw the ribbons up into the tree. Mostly they fell through to the ground but every once in a while, one would balance over a branch. The thrower would immediately scream with glee and jump up and down, old and young alike. It was not hard to figure out that the ribbons had been chosen for a particular wish for the new year and when they catching in the tree meant their wish would be coming true.
· Cyclists forced to commute in the rain have bright sapphire blue or emerald ponchos to protect not only them but their bike and its cargo. Each plastic covering has an opening for the face complete with a bill to keep the rain from your eyes. Then the poncho extends all the way down over the front of the bike, protecting the rider’s arms as well as the contents of the basket. A similar extension goes almost to the ground over the back fender. Motorbikes have a clear plastic square inserted in the front to let the headlight shine through. The gear reminded me of a custom-tailored expensive car cover.
· The PR person for the residential community we visited wryly responded to a question about the homeless we had seen on the street: “Oh course, technically in China there are no homeless people. Everyone is registered as a resident of his hometown. They have a home, they just aren’t in it.” He said that there were homeless support centers where, among other things, they called the person’s family back in the village and told them to come get him. Because this is a face-losing process for the person, the homeless people tended not to come to the centers. It wasn’t so much that they had left home in the first place but that the authorities were involved and called the family. Everything in China is based on where you are registered to live and work. I can only imagine what harsh rural conditions would force someone to place themself outside that system and come to the city. Shanghai has 17 million people!!! 14 million are Shanghaiese and 3 million are displaced people. Our guide readily admited that they are useful because they do jobs Shanghaiese don’t want to do “but we don’t need 3 million of them!” Sounds very similar to our immigrant labor force.
· Our time in Shanghai was extraordinarily wet and cold. Our vision of the city was hemmed in by the edges of our umbrellas and rain hoods. Bus windows were consistently fogged and each cityscape shrouded in mist and showers. Standing near the base of the Pearl Tower on Pudong, you could see only fog completely obscuring the top. Nevertheless, these intrepid travelers, our unstoppable SAS kids, plunged in and had myriad adventures. They explored, ate, shopped, clubbed, walked, rode every mode of transportation available and had a ball. One particularly miserable day, a group I was with did take warm refuge in the fragrant, bustling welcome of a Starbuck’s .Their stories are delightful and completely unmarred by the weather.
· A faculty member, Pat Curtin, and I spent a delightful morning at the Shanghai Art and Crafts Museum. Not only did they display exquisite examples of a wide array of crafts such as paper cutting, silk lantern making, embroidery and carving in every medium imaginable (some of the carving and drawing on ivory and bone was so small and intricate the curators had provided magnifying glasses to view it) but they also had a few artists demonstrating their skill. It was fun to admire their work in progress and see the real people behind the beauty. One woman was doing the kind of two-sided embroidery my family knows from the kitten screen in my parents’ house; her needle was at least half the diameter of a human hair. I am completely baffled by how they make the backside come out a different view – where are the knots?!?!
· A field trip about China’s one child policy was very enlightening. I had a lot of misconceptions that were cleared up. Many of the horror stories about this policy that we have heard about such as forced sterilization may have happened in the past and most certainly were worse in rural areas but the sanctions now are strictly financial if hefty. A family is penalized three times their annual income as a fine. However, the father does not get demoted, lose his job or get drummed out of the Communist party anymore. Formerly second children did not receive the free health care that first children did but that has been changed; they decided it wasn’t fair to penalize the child when it was the parents’ choice. They reported that the abortion rate was decreasing dramatically as people were embracing the policy. Of course, all this was from “official” spokespersons but I did get the sense that the Chinese approved the policy and were getting used to its effects, seeming to prefer those over the horrors of unchecked population growth. People reportedly even prefer girls because they are now more likely to take care of both their own parents and those of their husband.
· My favorite Shanghai experience was a feast prepared for us by a family in one of the modest residential blocks of which there are literally millions in the city. We were taken to the home of a retired chemical engineer and his wife. They were also babysitting an adorable six-year-old granddaughter because school was out for New Year or Spring Festival as they called it. The home was very small, much less than 1000 square feet but a large table with lazy susan had been set up in their living room. About 15 dishes were laid out on the table when we arrived: bright orange winter melon, sausages, sliced tomatoes, peanuts in a sauce with little bits of pork, roast duck, tiny boiled quail eggs and many more. Then from a minuscule kitchen paraded dish after dish of special delicacies such as stuffed mushrooms topped with a bright orange shriveled bean that we were told was Chinese medicine good for the heart, fabulously seasoned shrimp in a light batter, egg rolls, barbecued pork, small slices of baby eggplant with pork stuffing them lightly fried (my favorite), and so many more. We ate and ate and ate and just when we thought we would burst another tantalizing steaming dish would arrive. Our host and hostess did not sit with us but busied themselves attending to the serving and fussing over us. Our guide did sit down and told us fascinating stories. I asked if it was OK to talk about the Cultural Revolution and he said yes but that it was very complicated. He shared with us his views although he said it did not affect his family that much because they were rural uneducated people. He certainly advanced to a good career after it was over. I wish I could have questioned our host since he was of the professional class that was targeted. I saw him watching one of the girls and before we left he got up his courage to point to her blonde hair and ask “Is it real? Not dyed?” She said “Yes, it’s real” then under her breath, “Well a few streaks.”

My necklace of Chinese experience is much longer but I’ll stop here. Stay tuned for reports from Hong Kong, Viet Nam and Cambodia!

Kicking Back in Kauai

OK, Everyone. I want you all to go get a pen. I’ll wait…

Got it? Now take out your worry/prayer list. If my name’s on it, I want you to cross it out with a big, bold stroke. I’m FINE. A little soggy from a lot of rain but hey, I’m on the Garden Isle of Kauai. How bad can that be?

I flew here from Honolulu on Wednesday. I wanted to stay for the big luau Tuesday night. Never have I had so much fun at such a cheesy event. I’m normally allergic to touristy deals like this but it was exactly what we all needed – a party! The show was actually quite good and everyone seemed to get into the spirit of celebrating, being together and being in this beautiful state.

Kauai is my favorite Hawaiian island because of the variety of the geography, the lush abundance of flowers, and the ambiance, especially on the North Shore. You may have heard of the Na Pali coast, a strenuous but stunning hike that Buie, Scottie, Malcolm and I did about 30 years ago – yeah, they were little things then but what troopers they were. I also came here to rest after the 1996 election and came to really love it. Yes, the wonderful old Ching Young country store with the wide wooden porch has been replaced by a small shopping mall, but the people are still very laid back and the glitz of, say, Maui is at a minimum. I decided to stay at Princeville, a real treat of a luxury resort, and that turned out to be a great decision. The weather has been very rainy so I’ve been glad of the huge, gorgeous room overlooking the beach and all the amenities – a yummy, soft bed, cable TV, unlimited wireless Internet, room service on silver trays with an orchid and a huge green marble bathroom. Did I mention you could stop being worried about me now? I was planning on hiking, snorkeling, and maybe some golf but the trails are much too muddy to hike, the water too stirred up by all this weather, and the greens extremely soggy. Oh well, I’ll just have to suffer through.

Several people whom I do not know have written very complimentary emails in response to this blog and I very much appreciate their comments. It got posted on the message board even though I did not really mean for it to be public. I hope it has been helpful to family and friends of S05 voyagers. One person had a question about how we were all coping.

When I was a labor and delivery nurse, I got to see the large variety of ways that people cope when stressed. That wide spectrum has been evident in people’s reactions to this experience. I know I am not the only one that has learned something about herself, a somewhat more surprising revelation at 57 than at 20 I suppose. My reaction was a sort of freezing up for a while, just getting through it step by step. I can admit now that when everyone was told to go to the deck where the lifeboats were, I thought quickly about what I should take. My first and only thought of the possibility of death was that I should zip some ID into my coat pocket so my family wouldn’t have to go through what the tsunami victims did to identify bodies. That thought quickly gave way to the assumption that we would spend some time in the lifeboats, then be rescued by a ship, then land who knew where. I took a credit card and cash so I could function in whatever port we docked in. I took my asthma inhaler, popped a seasickness pill thinking those little boats were bound to get tossed around a lot, grabbed my water bottle and some almonds and left my room. I briefly considered taking my special family pictures taped to the mirror but by that time I was into assuming that this would last a while and then we’d be back in our rooms and I didn’t want the pictures to get messed up – and anyway I had tucked my love for you all safely away in my heart.

So that’s how I moved through it, very practically, step by step. I only cried once, the next day after I got off the satellite phone from finally reaching a member of my family, Dave, my loyal bon voyager in Vancouver. But that was very brief. What helped me cope was working in the clinic and focusing on my shipboard family, being of some use. I’ve posted their picture so you can see what a great group I have. We were having a little cookie party in my room. It wasn’t until I got to Kauai that I could check in with me and see what I needed. I’m happy to report that all this pampering and down time has done the trick. My memories have loosened up and I’m able to access how I’m feeling much better. It has really helped to have online chats with my kids and get all your wonderful emails. Please forgive me if I haven’t sent you a personal reply yet but I appreciate all your kind words of support. If it keeps raining I should get to them all by the end of the day.

For all you parents, family and friends of student voyagers who may be reading this, all I can say is to try to accept where your kids may be. Some moved quickly on, but may need to come back and process later. Others are heavy into the effects and will move through at their own pace. I’ve seen anger, blowing it off as nothing, jumpiness, persistent sadness, and anxiety, sometimes all in the same person. It’s such an individual experience. I know you will support them wherever they are in it. I know you’re offering your love and the time and space they need to heal themselves – and they will. Never have I seen such a resilient group.

We head back to the ship tomorrow and should know something soon. Whatever happens, this has already been the experience of a lifetime. Thanks again for all your love and support and for trying to be honest and positive at the same time. That’s all we really need.

My Shipboard Family

(l to r) Jordan, Danielle, Jennifer, Holly, Katie, Alyssa, Tiffany, and Bo

About "The Night"

I’ve put a huge pressure on myself about writing this piece. I’ve procrastinated in all the ways writers do: I’ve eaten chocolate, checked and rechecked to see that the batteries to my cameras are charged, and even resorted to doing my hand washing, taking a page out of my mentor Pam Houston’s book. I have written everything BUT this piece, laboring diligently over my laundry list, the wording for a note inviting my shipboard family for cookies in my cabin, my shopping list for Honolulu and a haiku I’ll share later. I’ve stared for hours at the now calm sapphire water and watched how the sun plays on its surface, a light I’ve missed as acutely for the past 10 days as any new resident of Seattle.

But tomorrow we dock in Honolulu and time is up. You who have offered me such support and love deserve swift word of how I am after our ordeal. The Internet has been down for reasons that will become clear but will be back up when we’re docked. I’m still waiting for balanced and profound insights, shining metaphors and a framework for an essay that includes all the carefully crafted elements of pace and tension I know should be there. Maybe it will come. For now I’m going to quote bits from my journal about “the night.” (I find it strange that the shipboard community hasn’t come up with a word or phrase to refer to the event we’ve heard has been all over the news from the ticker on CNN to a satellite phone interview with a student on the Today show. Maybe the answer is we have just been assuming for the past couple of days that it is the subject of most conversations so there’s no need yet to name it. I asked a waiter in the dining room what they called it and he said “The night.” Works for me.)

From my journal written two days later:
“No one was asleep from 1:00 am on as conditions worsened. How could it be worse? I thought my cabin had been well secured. All surfaces clean – possessions all in cabinets, nothing loose anywhere. I never thought of the furniture – tables, chairs, bed, TV, all mobile, all projectiles agitating around the space, bouncing off walls – huge heavy pieces leaving gouges in woodwork and walls. At some point before the first announcement, the electrical circuit serving the electronic latch to my balcony door went out and I had the sounds of the wind and sea loudly with me through the crack in the door, like a car on the highway with the window left a little open. I’d moved to the couch with padded arms I could use to wedge myself between. It’s a full-sized sleeper sofa that any burly and helpful friend of a new 3rd floor walk-up tenant regularly curses. With all that heft and me on top, it was still sliding across the carpet but not as much as the lighter bed which was then completely away from the wall by a few feet and catty-cornered in the room. The metal trashcan was the least dangerous but noisiest and I was glad when it finally stuck itself somewhere because it wasn’t safe to get up to try to secure it.

Wedged in the orange couch, my balcony door ajar, I heard the ship’s horn begin an unrelenting moan. We’d heard it in fog mode a few nights earlier – intermittent, on a 90 second cycle (you count these things in the middle of the night when the lurching motion of the ship prevents sleep.) But this was unmistakably different. Facing the 50 foot waves much higher than my window on the 5th deck, I knew for certain it was a distress call and we were in trouble. I tried to pull my mind up to the level of “Uh, that can’t be good” but it slipped my grasp plunging back to the surety that this was real trouble. And then the confirmation: “All passengers put on your life vests immediately and stay in your rooms.”

Like gears clicking into perfect synchrony, my soul put the truth of my instinct together with the sound of the phrase “put on your life vests.” The result was a certainly, a reality I’ve rarely felt. It wasn’t about death but it was about……what word to use that’s even close? Trouble, emergency, being at risk, vulnerability, a conviction of danger so pure it mocked all the times I’ve speculated about how I would feel if…

One young woman later said she took a picture of her parents and her little sister with her as she left for the lifeboats. She’d played slumber party games about what would you save if you had to quickly save one thing. Now she knew. The choice was so clear. The clarity gave her comfort. It wasn’t a game; she wasn’t confused about her values. And she seemed to feel both relief and pride in that. She had faced that decision feared by so many and she knew clearly what her choice would be. I say, lucky 20 year old to be able to live the rest of her life with a certainly that 80-somethings might not enjoy.”

Here my journal goes to a description of the water and light outside my balcony where I was writing this later I wrote right up to the core of it and then moved off to someone else’s story and then to the joy of what was in front of me. Two days was not enough distance to be able to write all the way through that feeling, and it still isn’t.

What had happened was a very large wave, probably about 50 feet, had hit the bridge, knocked out the big center window and flooded the room, frying all the equipment. Salt water is a very good conductor of electricity and it produced shorts in every instrument up there. (The Internet signal comes through an antenna tied to the gyroscope on the bridge to point it to the satellite; that’s why we won’t have Internet now.) Because they were no longer getting a signal from the bridge the engines shut down. I’ve since learned that we were in grave danger of a knock down, not being able to control the ship and head her into the waves. Ships with holes in the hull sink slowly giving adequate time to get off; we’ve all seen Titanic. This was different.

The next announcement was for everyone to move onto the fifth deck, the one where the life boats are. I was able to stay in my small hall on that deck with a few other adult passengers and faculty. But I’ve heard from others out in the big public areas that the crew had the men separate themselves from the women as they came onto the deck – “women and children first.” My friends Ann and Tom say the very worst part of it all for them was having to go through it separated. We sat in our heaviest coats and life jackets and sweated. One engine restarted. Doc Mike used a room on our hall to store emergency medical packs and I went back down to the clinic on deck 2 with him to fill a pillowcase with drugs to take into the boats with us. I stayed down there for awhile trying to secure the most important equipment – the contents of all the drawers and cabinets were on the floor, including some previously disposed of used “sharps” from a spilled bucket. It felt good to be useful. The other engine finally restarted. The crew sent around plastic bins of fruit and rolls. I passed nuts around my hall and my mother’s ever reliable emergency staple of peanut butter crackers. We talked a little, tried to sleep, coped in whatever way we could. I found I did best back in my cabin wedged into my couch even though the cold and noise from my partially open door was uncomfortable. I briefly thought of the possibility of one of those gigantic waves roaring across my small balcony and forcing my door open more, flooding my cabin. Somehow I was able to put that thought on a little cloud and let it float away – thank you, meditation practice!

I’ve always scored half way between introvert and extrovert on psych tests but I guess this experience decided it. I found it hard to be tolerant of other people’s coping methods. I had my hands full coping myself and did that better alone. About two in the afternoon when we could take our life jackets off and go back inside our cabins, the first thing I did was take off all the layers of my clothes, roll them in a ball and put them far back in a cabinet. I would have burned them if I could. Yes, I had been hot but there was something else. The sweat of fear has a different odor – and I don’t want to smell it ever again.

A couple of days later the sun came out and the seas calmed. We survived, learned about ourselves, bonded as a community, and so much more. I’ll leave you with my celebratory haiku:

Sunset flashing gold
Over Neptune’s placid face.
All is forgiven.

GETTING IN TOUCH WITH MY INNER FETUS

Clutching the lurching podium, Professor Robert Fessler, our Global Studies (aka Core) instructor, urged us to get in touch with our inner fetus. The rampant scourge of seasickness ravaging the shipboard community, he explained, was caused not just by the nasty weather outside but also by our body’s confusion at trying to function on an unsteady earth. Its violent nausea was an “Emergency! Emergency!” message from us to us. What was needed was some time for our body to remember its long ago suspension in our mother’s womb when it knew how to navigate in an unstable environment. When we were able to get in touch with our inner fetus, he assured us, all would be well. I must report that my lines of communication with that erstwhile self are improving but still somewhat staticky.

We’ve had a rough start. The seas have been huge, the weather stormy and the time of our resting in Busan, Korea still a daunting 10 days away. Last night was the worst – we all slept very badly, being constantly awakened by the extreme rolling and pitching jolting our bodies (I woke up at least two of the many times grabbing for handfuls of mattress and bedding as my body was headed for the floor – now I know why sailors traditionally sleep in hammocks!), crashes to the floor of what we thought were well stowed possessions (including a bolted down TV onto someone’s laptop), the banging of drawer and cabinet doors, and assorted LOUD noises. My cabin is directly under the Union. I discovered this morning that the enormous crash I heard in the night was probably the new Yamaha grand piano careening across the floor, losing one leg and ending up upside down surrounded by shards of wood and ivory. I saw a very talented boy all by himself in the Union yesterday expertly playing scales to begin a relationship with this instrument he expected to enjoy throughout the voyage – such a shame. The bookstore and campus store, newly opened yesterday, are closed again as all their merchandise is on the floor, broken racks everywhere. It was a bad night. Still, there were all these bright faces this morning at breakfast, students soldiering on and taking it all in stride, albeit a drunken sailor’s stride. One member of the dining room crew admitted he had never been in worse seas. The captain has taken a southerly detour today for the second time and the sun has just now peeked through the clouds with the seas decidedly calmer. We’ll have to make it up later but luckily this is a “go fast ship” the captain says and we’ll hope for a break in the storm fronts later on so we can run back north.

Everyone’s high hopes for this voyage have taken something of a beating but remain intact, most of the time anyway. I’ve decided that seasickness medications do, in fact, make me sleepy in spite of my previous experience; I took 3 naps the first day. But worse, they make me grumpy. I have been very disappointed in the situation with taking courses. This new ship has very much smaller classrooms and they are strictly enforcing how many people can be in the rooms; in fact, most of them just cannot have one more chair crammed in. The result of this is that 6 of the 8 courses I was excited about are closed. I approached 3 of the professors to see if I could talk my way in with no luck at all. I then decided I would wait until the class had met a few times and then try to slip into the seat of a student too hung-over or disinterested to come. Unfortunately the assistant dean overheard my plan and told me they would be having the profs report absentees and those students would be called by the dean – for the first absence! I get the feeling they’re really cracking down, in more ways than the alcohol policy. I actually think my absentee’s seat strategy will work – I don’t think they can really make kids come to class that consistently. Too many of them get no credit for these courses or have already essentially graduated and are doing this for the experience alone. We’ll see.

My others whinings shall go unreported here. But you all know how excited I have been and so can imagine that it would take a lot to dampen my spirits this much. However, overall I remain very excited about this voyage and am truly happy to be back. Whenever I get discouraged by the prospect of this long, rough crossing or some other concern, I remember why it really is I love this experience. I need to make myself one of those signs like James Carville had in the War Room in 1992, only mine will say “It’s the people, Stupid!” The extraordinary, wondrous asset of any SAS voyage is truly its people. Fascinating, curious, eager, earnest, smart, caring and energetic people fill every cabin on this ship and I meet dozens of them every day. I just had lunch with the mental health counselor who helped me figure out how to find a place to learn more about meditation when I’m in Japan. One of the other senior passengers is the woman who started microlending in Haiti and now has a program in Tanzania. My cute friend Bo, the student from Texas whom I met on the bus going river rafting in Vail this summer, always has a smile or a hug. I ate dinner with a young woman from the Oswald Foundation, a family foundation I had heard of at Council on Foundation meetings that has really gotten its young people involved, and she told me many stories of doing site visits in Africa – we have lots to share. And on and on. What a rich, complex and inspiring group of people I’ll be learning from and traveling with around this amazing world of ours!

Seattle Stories

Dave, Katie and I have had a fun time in Vancouver despite the snow, freezing rain and frog-strangling downpours. It’s not been like the start of your typical tropical vacation cruise. But then this is neither a cruise nor a vacation. Although from what Dave tells me after his reconnaissance reception onboard this evening, the ship is nice enough for one.

We sail tomorrow and I wanted to do a quick catch-up before I get onboard. From what I understand, it may take several days for the internet to get up and running with our Wi-Fi cards, passwords, etc .so don’t expect more news soon.

Although the bed and breakfast in Seattle didn’t have a dungeon, it was comfortable, the other guests and innkeeper really nice and the breakfasts yummy – three courses with dishes like home-smoked (and caught!) salmon, banana pancakes, Mexican eggs, and watermelon slices in the ice water – gourmet all the way. You may know I’m somewhat B&B averse (chatting in the morning with chipper strangers is not my idea of what to do before I’ve even had my coffee) but this experience may convert me.

Dave and Katie live in the wonderful neighborhood of Fremont. I learned that Seattle has very strong neighborhood identities and Fremont’s is true to form. It has no less then 4 notable structures within a few blocks of their house: a huge metal rocket against the corner of a building, statues of a group of people waiting for a train that the residents deck out in clothes appropriate to the season, a huge troll under the main bridge (which bears the sign “Entering Fremont, Center of the Universe”), and a life-sized statue of Lenin purloined from some Soviet site. So fun and edgy but also dear and homey – I love where they live. In driving around Seattle for 2 days, I saw exactly 2 chain anything – an Outback Steakhouse and a small Blockbuster – aside from all the Starbuck’s that is. Everywhere else is a locally owned restaurant, shop, pharmacy, market – amazing. We ate lunch at Pho Cyclo, their favorite Vietnamese restaurant across from Starbuck’s. The murals on the walls took my breath away because they were so true to what Vietnam really looks like. Katie’s office was also surprising to me. I don’t frequent corporate headquarters and admit to being naïve about such but I was blown away by the color, the energy, the creative use of metal and stone and murals in the interior and the layouts and types of space all designed to keep creativity and energy flowing. I’m so impressed with her choice of company and the work she is doing there.

I’d hope to get caught up to date with the Vancouver stories but it’s late and I’ve got a ship to board in the morning! I’m sure as we sail through 12 days at sea heading for Korea there’ll be time for that. So check back again soon. After I get settled in, we’ll chat again.

I’m taking all your love and good wishes and holding them close in my heart as I head out across a big ocean into a wondrous world. I will miss you all lots and lots. And, BTW, all you mommies and daddies of my special grandchildren, I’d appreciate it if you could put books on their heads and cut back on their rations so they don’t grow too much while I’m gone. Take care of each other.

Marjorie

The B&B that makes beds superfluous

Maybe it's the spirit of the generation that spawned this weblog business but I feel compelled to offer a post with some entertainment value as a sort of tease to keep you coming back. So I'll share a story about my upcoming visit to Seattle.

Dave and Katie noticed a Victorian house about three blocks away from them that had a B&B sign. Great, they say. 800 square feet of newly rented house is working out fine. But a visit from Mom/mother-in-law-to-be laden with various backpacks, totes and two huge rolling duffel bags suitable for transporting the results of a wise guy's latest hit would not be happily accommodated. So Dave goes online to check it out and OMIGOD! As he very delicately put it "It's not for you, Mom." Somehow he thought the dungeon in the basement was not exactly what I was looking for. Check it out yourself at www.gypsyarms.com.

I'm sure my bed at the Chelsea Station B&B, only a few extra blocks away, will be fine, boring maybe, but fine.

Getting Started

Nowhere else to start but to thank you, my dear friends and family, for finding your way here, for being interested in my glorious adventure, and for all you have done to make it possible. You have listened to hours of dreaming about, encouraged, supported, enabled and celebrated this my second voyage around the world. I hope to reward you here with tales worthy of the telling, vicarious adventures to excite your imagination, some darn near instant photos, and maybe a thoughtful insight or two.

My familiarity with this medium is minutes old as I write. I'm sure I'll get better at it but it's way fun so far. In the beginning I'll send an email when I update so you'll know when to check back here. A neat feature of this is that you can read as much or as little as you have time and interest for with no downloading, saving or searching for my last missive.

I'd appreciate it if you'd forward the link on to anyone who may be interested whom I might have left off the original list. I made it short to avoid presuming interest but please welcome here anyone you'd like. I did not give Blogger permission to publish this blog publicly so it's sort of by invitation only.

With the help of my good friend Elizabeth, I've plotted out and timed a To Do list that gets everything done by Thursday when I leave for Seattle. I'll get a DaveandKatie's eye view of their exciting new city then we all leave for Vancouver for a weekend explore. Dave will hang around until Tuesday when the ship sails. It will be so exciting to have him actually see the ship and my cabin, meet the new friends I've already made on the message board, and bestow on me one of his world class hugs as we say goodbye on the dock. It's hard to explain what that will mean to me and I'm so grateful. He's cutting more than one Washington bar review class, a significant sacrifice I appreciate a lot. But then we all know Dave - not too worried are we?

So check back often and don't forget to leave your comments. This is going to be way fun!!