Plugs and Sockets

One of my favorite events on the ship is Post-Port Reflections. After every port, the two ship psychologists facilitate an open mike meeting where members of the shipboard community speak about their travels in that country. We are encouraged not to give just a play-by-play account of what we did, but to share how we felt and what our experiences meant to us. There is something of the nature of a Quaker Meeting about it, as long pauses stretch out while students get up their nerve to stand before the group. When they do, I always learn something about the power of this voyage and get an insight into the individuality of travel.

The metaphor of the male-female connection has been rumbling around in my head lately to describe our experiences in these countries. I don’t quite mean it in the sexual sense, although, God knows, that’s a fascinating topic on a ship full of young people. Think of it electrically, like a plug and a socket. Each traveler arrives in a port with an infinite number of projections, points wanting to connect with the people, place and culture. We extend ourselves outward with curiosity, enthusiasm, openness and often considerable courage. Each of our own plugs is a different shape, characteristic of our interests, our personality and our past experiences. Multiply each individual set by the 800 travelers on this voyage and you get an onslaught of urges to connect as the shipboard community pours down the gangway. Ok, maybe the sexual context works well too.

Every country we visit has a virtually infinite number of places to connect, sockets to plug into. Each person searches for their own favorite locations, encounters or experiences. Some put on their backpacks and head out, often alone, to see whatever is out there, whatever presents itself to them. They have what I think of as a complete set of adaptors that connect them to almost any type of socket. Others know exactly what they want to do or see, many having dreamed of these adventures since they were children, of going on safari, for instance.

Seeing the cherry blossoms in Kyoto at their peak has been on my Bucket List since just missing them on the SAS Spring 02 voyage. This spring I took my aesthetic plug to Kyoto and made a high voltage connection to the magnificence of those trees, grove after grove of them, river banks crowded with them, city parks canopied by them. In Post-Port Reflections, a student told of randomly poking his finger down on the map of Japan and heading off to the small island where it landed, just to see what was there. As I was leaving the Hong Kong History Museum, I bumped into a student heading in, breathless from both hurrying and excitement. She had already been to the Art Museum and also wanted to see the Science and Technology Museum next door. She expressed frustration that she only had a day in Hong Kong before leaving for Beijing and there were so many museums she just had to see. One of the boys in my shipboard family is an avid geo-cacher. He downloads GPS coordinates in every port from a website and goes in search of actual buried treasures, often no more than small film canisters with a log inside to register the finders. Sometimes he takes a small talisman and leaves behind a token he’s been carrying. The caches are hidden by local people in places they want a visitor to be sure to see. Many people have a goal of having at least one meaningful conversation with a native of the country, sharing information and insights beyond what’s the best local beer. Their accounts are exceptionally powerful and poignant. Thirteen countries, over 800 people, story after story after story.

That’s the power of Semester at Sea. The goal is to facilitate as many of those stories as possible and to have them become learning and growing experiences, not only for each individual but for the ship full of listeners as well. The process usually starts after the first port when we come back to the ship and hear stories from people who did fabulous things we never even thought of. It’s hard not to have a little buyers’ remorse, thinking of all the things you could have done, places you could have gone. Slowly it dawns on each one of us that in five days, one person can only plug into so many different experiences. After hearing a shipmate’s story, we may promise ourselves we’ll do something similar in the next port. We may also realize it’s just not our thing, while appreciating the importance of the experience for that traveler.

Now, we have traveled all the way around the world. Powerful connections have been made. We have learned to savor the memories and lessons of the choices we made and to be grateful for the stories that have been shared.

Cherry Blossom Heaven

My written blog for Japan didn't happen so I'm offering some images instead. I just couldn't find words to do it justice. We were very extremely fortunate to hit the very peak of the cherry blossom season, a feat for most travelers because it can vary widely. Lucky for us it was late this year.

I spent almost an hour in the kimono section of the Takashimaya department store in Kyoto, a place I remembered from the last time I was there.

I walked around the old section of Kyoto and found women posing, some geisha, some ordinary Japanese dressing up to have their pictures taken and some delighted travelers!

And, then, of course, I ate my weight in sushi!

I hope to post more to my Facebook page but this island is calling and I may not get it done today.

Enjoy!

Zigzag Bridges

(For photo credits, see below)

Chinese gardens are made up of four components: water, rock, plants and structures. The first three are also central to my Western concept of beautiful landscapes but I rarely consider the role of man-made elements in designing outdoor spaces. Perhaps that’s because I’m only a sometime garden putterer and not an educated landscape designer. My time in China not only provided many opportunities to enjoy all the elements of beautiful gardens but also deepened my understanding of Eastern aesthetics and reminded me of an old but vital truth.
I discovered that Eastern landscape design, and even more broadly, Eastern aesthetic experience, is much more nuanced than I had ever realized before. First on the campus of the university in Suzhou outside of Shanghai and later in several gardens in the city, my touring companions and I came upon what we saw as whimsical zigzag bridges. We Westerners think of bridges in a utilitarian context. They’re about getting from this side to that side, from here to there, that’s it. Sure, you can make them look attractive with materials and decoration but they’re mostly about getting across a body of water, large or small.
When we encountered the first of these delightful little bridges, our guide told us that one of the reasons for their design was that Chinese people believed that evil spirits can’t easily turn corners. Zigzag bridges serve as protective barriers. Evil spirits and what we Westerners would call superstition are a huge part of everyday Chinese culture, as those of you who have read books like Amy Tan’s Joy Luck Club will remember.
Later, we toured three private gardens that are now open to the public. Built during the Ming and Qing dynasties, these gorgeous outdoor spaces were the designers’ attempts to bring the beauty of the rural countryside into the crowded metropolis. Their owners were wealthy retired officials who retreated to their oases and rarely left their magnificent compounds. Our group was given free time to wander in each one. As I let myself be guided randomly by the paths, I received gifts that included awesome beauty, cultural insight and a well-timed reminder of an ageless truth.
Zigzag bridges are designed to present the beauty of a new view with each turn as you cross. It’s not about getting to the other side; it’s about how lovely it is along the way. As I hurried to beat the on-bus time and get to just one more pagoda in the Humble Administrators expansive garden, the bridge made me slow down. Look this way, then that way, then this way again, only further along. See the redbud with its fuchsia flowers sprouting from the trunk. Look how many different shades of green there are in that bank of trees, from brand new spring green to eternal evergreen. Notice, as our guide suggested, the water flowing over the rock, how the rock makes the water more dynamic and the water’s glistening makes the rock more elegant.
Chinese landscape designers have more than bridge design in their aesthetic bag of tricks when they are using what I think is called “hardscape”. For instance, a pagoda called the Rain Pavilion was designed to showcase the different sounds made by the rain on the various roof materials, the paths leading to it and the adjacent pond. Standing in that beautiful place, I was flooded with sweet memories my dad as I remembered how he designed his dream house with a small section of tin roof just over his bed. He loved to fall asleep for a nap to the sound of an afternoon rainstorm.
Ancient Chinese garden owners not only enjoyed solitary peace and beauty, but they also entertained guests in their outdoor pagodas. These large living rooms, of course, had windows to bring in breezes and the beauty of the garden. Each window was placed either to frame a lovely scene or to showcase a particularly nice tree or bush planted just outside it. Framing, in fact, was a frequently employed technique in each part of every garden we visited. Look at the gateway in the picture above and see how many ways your eye is drawn onward to the beauty on the other side of the wall. (My dear and talented friend, Faye Serio, took both the zigzag bridge picture and this one of the gate. I’m grateful to her for letting me use them to illustrate my blog.)
In Chinese gardens, bridges, windows, gates and other man-made structures serve to manipulate, if you will, the guest’s appreciation of the beauty to be found there. Perhaps this is not a different cultural phenomenon at all. Perhaps if I knew more about Western landscape design, it wouldn’t seem unique. It doesn’t matter. What I experienced here was a cross-cultural example of a couple of well-worn but important clichés. “It’s about the journey” and “Stop and smell the roses” took on new vibrancy for me in Suzhou. I was filled with gratitude for these magnificent gardens and for this incredible voyage around the world. Traditional Chinese landscape designers used their craft to make sure I slowed my walking and appreciated the awe-inspiring beauty around me. Semester at Sea and the zigzag bridges have taken me on journeys full of wonder and appreciation. A few nimble, evil spirits of stress and everyday concerns managed to get past the barrier, but luckily they were little ones.

Challenges in Viet Nam

The MV Explorer gingerly navigated her way up the broad, brown Saigon River, passing acre after acre of rice paddies, a dazzling patchwork of bright green. The deep tone of the ship’s horn bellowed through the early morning calm, warning small sampans and fishing boats of our approach. I leaned against the rail and let all the memories and remembered emotions of Viet Nam wash over me. I listened to the excited chatter of students who had crawled out of bed before dawn to watch our passage up the river to Ho Chi Minh City. They had no idea what lay ahead but they were up for it.

In the days before and since our time in Viet Nam, the students expressed frustration at how little they knew about both the country and the war. One boy said his high school teacher had marched them through the decades of American history, but when she got to the Viet Nam War, her voice trailed off into silence. They said no one told them, not their professors, not their parents. Larning about the war is hard enough. How could they be expected to get past it to see the country, the culture and the people?

During the two jam-packed days between Thailand and Viet Nam, the faculty, staff and Lifelong Learners who were old enough to have lived through “The War” talked in small groups about our own feelings and experiences. Soon the conversations turned to what the young people did or didn’t know and what they were about to be confronted with. Some of us had been to the War Remnants Museum in Saigon which vividly portrays the atrocities of Agent Orange, past and present. I also knew what awaited the students who were traveling to Cambodia: the baffled or defiant faces staring out from mug shots of new inmates at the Phnom Penh prison just before they were brutally tortured or the gut-wrenching crunch of human bones underfoot at the Killing Fields. The large majority of these students had never heard of Pol Pot, the Khmer Rouge or the Cambodian genocide.

We wanted to prepare them but we knew there is really no way to be ready to confront unspeakable horrors. We wanted to protect them but we knew that their age of innocence had passed. We wanted to support them but we were barely able to cope with our own emotions and memories. Ready or not, the ship’s community poured down the gangway and into the scorching heat of Ho Chi Minh City.

My plans for this port were quite tame, having dealt with all that sad history in my last two visits. I had been commissioned by a friend to buy a particular kind of hair clip at the enormous and sweltering Ben Tranh market and that mission took up a lot of my first day in port. I got my pho fix at a local restaurant made famous by Bill Clinton’s visit there. For dinner, I went with some friends to a French restaurant recommended by the tour agent on the ship that had just okay, expensive food. The evening was jovial and enjoyable because of the company.

The next day I left for a three day, two night tour of the Mekong Delta, a beautiful area I had heard a lot about but not yet visited. Of all my SAS trips thus far, I have to say this one was the least memorable. I traveled with a group of people that included no one I knew very well and with whom I never really clicked. We spent lots of hours on the bus and visited many places, like a coconut candy factory and a brickworks, which were somewhat interesting but not wonderful. I’m not a huge fan of coconut and standing beside blisteringly hot kilns on a 100 degree day is not my idea of a good time. We were, however, on the water a lot, visiting the fascinating floating markets and watching the everyday life along the river banks. We saw many examples of how industrious the Vietnamese people are, but also how warm and gracious is their hospitality and their family life.

We spent one night in a dormitory-style, unair-conditioned guest house, on a small Mekong River tributary, somewhat out in the countryside. The best part about it was the food, including another cooking opportunity, this time learning to make spring rolls. I pride myself on being able to rough it with the best of them, but the night was miserable and the early morning disappointing. When we arrived, I chose an army cot in a small room with the male guide to try to protect my companions from my legendary snoring. Although I don’t think the air temperature could have possibly dropped below 90 all night, the guide told me the next morning that he had gotten chilled during the night and turned off our only fan. So that’s why I kept wondering, as I tossed and turned, why the night wasn’t feeling cooler as it dragged on and on. I can’t say I was abruptly awakened by the roosters because they crowed relentlessly all night and also because you have to be asleep to be waked up. Anyway, I finally went out on the porch to watch the sun come up and look for birds. The birds never showed up since, as the guide explained, almost all are shot and eaten. The sun arrived about the same time as a motorboat with a deafening engine that had never even been in the same zip code as a muffler. He made four (I counted) revved-engine passes at the dock of the neighboring family before finally tying up and unloading some building supplies, including a pile of those bricks I saw being made.

Some of you know what happened later that day. We arrived at the hotel for our second night’s stay and – hooray – it had not only air conditioning but FREE INTERNET! Knowing that everyone on our trip was just as Internet-starved as I was, I decided to grab one of the computers in the lobby before going up to my room. The “Business Center” was a bank of four computers lined up near the reception desk. I leaned my rolling backpack up against the wall behind a chair, put my purse down beside it and sat down. I was delighted to find Dave on Facebook and we had a wonderful chat. When I got up to go to my room, my purse was gone. The bad news is that I lost my iPod, my cell phone, about $75 worth of dong (Vietnamese currency), my ship ID, my ATM card and, worst of all, my field notebook. The good news is that my camera was in my backpack. In my money belt were my passport, Visa card and plenty of extra dollars. My friend Hugh Straley had an extra iPod Nano he lent me and I’m thoroughly enjoying a new playlist of music. Some of you know I was due for a new cell phone, (okay, way overdue) so I’m going to buy an iPhone when we get to Honolulu. The money was not a huge amount and not all I had anyway. They replaced my ship ID when I got back aboard. I had a problem with my ATM PIN so I wasn’t even relying on that; shouldn’t have even been in my purse. I brought enough cash from home so that’s not an issue I got an email from my banker the next day that someone had tried unsuccessfully to use it up in Hanoi – must have been fenced quickly. The field notebook is another story. I still have my journal which I never take off the ship for just this reason, but my notebook was full of ideas and facts I hate to lose. Its loss, I’m afraid, means the end of my project on markets for my multi-writing class because it contained many ports-worth of notes and observations. I could probably manage to recreate some of it if I had to, but I don’t, and that’s the beauty of being a Life Long Learner. Also, I could really use the time to focus on my other writing projects.

My Mekong trip wasn’t a disaster, it just wasn’t that great. But that has turned out to be a good thing. Viet Nam was such a challenging port for the students that they have needed lots of listening and support as they cope with and try to make sense of all they saw and felt. Because I had a less than stellar time myself, it’s been easier for me to be focused on my young friends and shipboard “children”. I’m a much better listener when I can manage to get my own stuff out of the way.

I am always hesitant to write about anything negative on this voyage. To do so seems colossally petty and whiny. I’m on a voyage around the world with a magnificent group of people, participating in a program I love! Because most people in my generation either lived or heard about unspeakably horrific experiences in Viet Nam, for me to recount my trivial difficulties in this country particularly seems patently absurd. However, as is often said, Viet Nam is a country not a war. I have had the privilege to explore this beautiful country three times now and to experience it in peace.

I have to say I was only bummed out by the challenges of my experiences in Viet Nam for a very short time before my default attitude took over. Through lots of years of living and learning, I’ve created a place I return to more and more easily, more and more quickly after each difficulty. Inside that space, I am filled with an awareness of the abundance of rich experiences and love that fill my life. In that place, the only possible response is gratitude.