Marsea at Sea

Letter from Ghana

2010-09-25T15:02:00.001-07:00

This post is a gift to me from me. My essay writing has been quite difficult lately, just not flowing and feeling good, and that has had a frustrating, negative impact on my life on the ship. Best case scenario is that I would figure out how to feel better about writing and move to a happily productive place. Well, that's not happening. This upcoming stretch of days at sea, between when we leave Ghana tonight and when we arrive in Cape Town on October 3, is very precious to me because it will be my last ship days of the voyage. Many wonderful things are planned and I want to savor the time and enjoy it to the fullest. So today I'm going to just write to you all, off the top of my head, about my time in Ghana and call it good.

The news I'm bursting to tell you is that it FINALLY happened – I had a conversation with the Archbishop and Leah at breakfast this morning! It was not very long because they were already finished when I went to their table but they graciously stayed and talked a while before excusing themselves to go rest in their cabin. Their previous two days had been exciting but exhausting. When I sat down with them, they were recounting the adventures of being taken to Kumasi to meet the king! The Archbishop was receiving a lifetime African achievement award from an NGO here and there was a great celebration put on in his honor including fabulous drumming and dancing. Leah said she had never shaken so many hands and Arch was describing the jewelry –multiple amazing gold bracelets and huge rings – the king wore.

I missed most of the story but the Tutus did rave about the five students chosen to accompany them, how nice they looked and behaved, and how excited they were. I know the kids have been asked to tell the story from their perspective to all of us soon and I can't wait to hear that. I saw the stretch limo and police cars of the motorcade leaving the dock yesterday when they returned our esteemed friend to the ship. They had flown by charter to Kumasi then to Accra, the capitol, to meet with the Vice President – the President was reportedly in China. I wonder if they were talking about the recent discovery of oil off the coast near Takoradi where we are in port. Besides the students, David Geis, the academic dean, and Lucille Renwick, the Communications Coordinator who writes the official SAS blog for the voyage, also joined the entourage of officials and journalists on the trip. Both of them are friends so I'm looking forward to their tales as well.

Breakfast with the Tutus was really a special treat. After the stories of their adventure, I was able to talk a little and mention again my connections to St Tim's, where their granddaughter just graduated, and also with Arch's personal assistant, Lavinia, who was a shipmate on Spring 2009. Lavinia and I are set to have dinner in Cape Town one night I'm there and I'm looking forward to hearing about her recent work with the Archbishop's foundation's program on HIV/AIDS. I also got to know Pumla Gobodo, a commissioner on the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, when Swanee brought a group of us together at her ranch so I shared that with him. The most wonderful part of our conversation for me was when I told them that I was getting sad because I was leaving in Cape Town. I explained that I was here because I just could not resist being on at least part of the voyage with the two of them but that having just recently sailed the whole voyage and having obligations at home, I just had to leave. Arch said, with his wonderfully vibrant sincerity: "Oh, no! Isn't there a way we can talk you into staying?" From a man revered by the world and celebrated by kings, that simple question brought me honor I'll remember always.

Hard to follow that story but I want to also share just a little about my time here. Having never been to West Africa at all and this being the only port on the itinerary I'd not visited, I was very excited to come to Ghana. My overall impression is that, although there are obvious and extensive challenges economically and socially, the Ghanaians are doing fairly well, especially when compared to other African countries I've visited such as Zambia. Two indicators that stood out for me were the good shape the roads were in and the presence of a middle class. Even though there are many paved roads, reportedly the traffic is horrible in Accra. I was sorry to not get there at all but the difficulties with transportation were the reason SAS chose to port in Takoradi instead, which is quite a distance west. The port is completely industrial and I doubt a cruise ship has ever been here. They are definitely not ready for prime time tourism here but that was kind of nice because the city feels authentic. A number of vendors traveled from Cape Coast and Accra, both cities more accustomed to tourists, and set up their wares right on the wharf. They had local crafts we could not find anywhere in town so that was convenient. I shopped there this morning and bought some strips of Kente cloth, a wooden bowl and some lovely handmade glass beads. One of the Lifelong Learners is a jewelry maker and he brought tools, wire and clasps with him. He offered to help us make things if we bought the beads so that's one thing I'll be doing in the upcoming days at sea.

I took three SAS day trips in Ghana. The first was to a hospital in Cape Coast with the Childbirth and Fetal Development class. It was a hard choice between this trip and a simultaneous one to visit a group of Queen Mothers who had gathered from across a whole region to meet with students. From all reports, I probably would have learned more in the second but luckily my colleague from Beyond Our Borders, Karen Yuan from Colorado Springs, did that trip so I'm hoping for a detailed report. Often my health care interests compete with my gender equity interests but that's okay. The hospital was the third level of care, a regional hospital with district hospital and health centers below that. It was well staffed and not over-crowded. As is common here, there were very few disposable supplies and it had mostly low tech equipment. But they did have four operating theaters and seemed to offer a broad range of care. Ghana has national health insurance that sounded comprehensive and only costs $15 per year, quite affordable I thought, even for a developing country.

I also visited a village built on stilts on a lake. The two-hour roundtrip boat ride was the best part of the trip. Our canoe held five people plus our boatman, Pont. He poled the canoe with the help of the two of us who were guys. I tried to do my part by bailing as the vessel slowly filled with water. As we went along, I envied my fellow bailers I saw in other canoes because they had plastic scoops and coffee cans while I had a plastic lid much like a Frisbee, definitely not "the proper tool" as my father would say. Talk about bailing out the ocean by teaspoons! While this spoiled American woman grumbled to herself, Pont threw his back into his job, handicapped by the water weight I wasn't able to adequately bail, and entertained us all the while with delightful Ghanaian songs.

The village was a disappointment. We walked through to the end of it and were seated in an open air room, then welcomed and told a short history of the people by the chief. At the end, he asked for donations which we gave, generously I thought. Someone saw him start to count the money before we were even out of the room. Then we walked back to the canoes – a visit of maybe 45 minutes. The adult villagers were beyond jaded, actually rude to me, rarely even making eye contact. We asked the chief how many visitors they got a year, domestic and foreign because apparently Ghanaians visit frequently as well. He proudly said "Twelve thousand!" No wonder the people were totally over the tourists! A steady stream marched back and forth every day, many, I'm sure, trampling on the laundry laid out to dry on the walkways. With a lot of care I managed to avoid that faux pas, but I got a horrible feeling of walking through a popular zoo. I felt embarrassed by my complicity in such a dehumanizing experience, no matter how lucrative it was for the village. In fact, I questioned where all the money was going – the proceeds from their tourist endeavors were nowhere in evidence. The children, as usual, saved the day. They delighted in our stickers and crayons, and enjoyed the bubbles I blew for them. We were told they learn to swim and paddle a canoe by the age of three or four. Several of the other SAS village visits I heard about were much better, with wonderful welcoming celebrations including lots of drumming and dancing. I hope they take this one off the list.

The real focus of our stop in Ghana, for me, was going to what are called castles but are actually the dungeons and embarkation points for captives bound for the Middle Passage and slavery in the New World. I prepared myself for an experience similar to going to the Killing Fields in Cambodia or the Peace Museum in Hiroshima. I can't do my experience justice now, not yet. I need to process it and hopefully will be able to write about it later. I'll just share a little.

The coast of Ghana was the place where the large majority of slaves were sent from, having been funneled in there from many, many other places in Africa over the four hundred year tragedy that was the slave trade. This history was the subject of several of my classes and I had learned a lot. As some of you may know, Ghana has become the focus of what is called "diaspora tourism" or people of African ancestry, mostly African Americans, coming back here to be in touch with their roots and learn about their history. What a difficult and courageous journey! Being a white Southerner, I didn't know how it would feel to me but I tried to stay open and just take it in. I visited both the castles in Elmina and the one in Cape Coast that President Obama visited in 2009, guided by the same man we were fortunate enough to have leading our group. The stone dungeons themselves and the dark, narrow passageways through which the captives passed to board those unspeakably inhumane ships were – well, I don't know how to finish that sentence. "Unimaginably horrific" doesn't do them justice. But as powerful as the experience of being in those places was, for me it was much worse to be in the Dutch CHURCH built two levels up from the cells and the governor's quarters on the top floor. Sorry, I truly can't go on. There's more but it's not ready to be told yet.

We sail tonight for Cape Town and I'm really looking forward to this segment. First, there will be post-port meetings to share our stories of Ghana and there are many I can't wait to hear. Neptune Day is coming up. A fabulous woman from IBM, who has been traveling with us since Morocco and also leaving in Cape Town, has given riveting lectures on sustainability and will be speaking to my Sustainable Communities class. She has kindly invited me to a private dinner the night before we arrive in South Africa so that should be fun. We'll have our first talent show/cabaret night and also Neptune Day. Best of all, we get to focus on the Archbishop's home country and the students will be treated to learning its history from a very special source. In addition to lecturing in Global Studies, he is also scheduled to visit my Global Music class tomorrow – to teach us to dance!

So thanks for letting me ramble on in lieu of a more organized essay about Ghana. I've got to go shower off the tropical sweat I just earned doing some hard bargaining with the vendors down on the wharf. At on ship time tonight, I've organized a Lifelong Learner party to use up my supplies of vodka, wine and snacks. Can't be taking that home - I need the room for my new treasures.

Midnight at the Oasis

2010-09-20T15:05:00.000-07:00

The crescent moon had grown a little fatter during the two days since its appearance had signaled the end of Ramadan. I watched it dance a slow arc towards the desert horizon with its lovely partner, Venus, who was wearing what my granddaughter Lucy calls her “sparkly dress”. As the celestial couple dipped behind a palm tree classically silhouetted in the foreground, a forty-year old melody showed up in my head to furnish the dance music. Maria Muldaur’s lusty voice crooned: “Midnight at the oasis. Send the camels to bed. Shadows paintin’ our faces. Traces of romance in our heads.” Actual camels had already gone to bed, kneeling on the sand outside the enclosed square created by the brown canvas tents of our nomad camp near Zagora, Morocco. With low snorts and huffs, they settled in for the night. In the morning they would carry all ninety of us in our Semester at Sea group out into the desert for a ride.

Muldaur’s tune looped over and over in my head as the experience of a dream come true sent frissons of excitement in waves through my body. Even after the moon set, the magic continued into the night. A bonfire was lit in a pit in the center of the carpeted square of the enclosure, and its sparks shot up, competing with the countless stars in the black dome of night overhead. I marveled at the colorful rugs I had only seen in tastefully decorated American homes. Here they served their original purpose: an overlapping barrier to the sand, a lovely blue and red carpet for an outdoor living space. A stranger in a strange land, I felt comforted and welcomed by the gracious ambiance created by those rugs. Around the fire, white robed and turbaned dancers, singers and drummers performed their songs, dissonant and foreign to my ears. One woman’s powerful ululation filled the air and we all watched mesmerized as her tongue rapidly vibrated in her open mouth to produce the sound. The drumbeats called insistently for us to join in, and as we clapped and danced, what had been a performance turned into a communal event. In my Global Music class on the ship, Professor Daniel Ferguson had talked about the cultural differences that divide artistic from participatory music. On the edge of the Sahara Desert, I was witnessing then happily joining in the transformation from one to the other.

Initially a little shy, the SAS students and adults were urged to join the celebration by a buoyant, thirty-something Moroccan woman dressed in capri jeans and a white blouse with a turquoise scarf around her neck, an outfit identical to those I regularly wear. By her movements throughout the camp and her interactions with the guests and staff, I could tell she was in charge. At one point I saw her sitting off to the side on a low wooden stool. I squatted down beside her, introduced myself and tried to learn a little about her. Her name was Bouchra, which she told me meant “beautiful gift”. Her English was fairly good, and I was thankful because my French was much worse. I learned that she was the manager of not only this nomad camp but also a hotel and several 4x4 and camel excursion outfits, all owned by her father. The idea of a young Muslim woman in a position of authority scraped against the smooth surfaces of my stereotypes of this culture. Even though nepotism undoubtedly played a part in her rise to this position, I appreciated her skills and the opportunity she had to use them. In my work with gender equity issues over the years, I’ve become aware that men who have only daughters are some of the strongest feminists. I didn’t feel comfortable asking but would love to know if she had any brothers.

After our conversation, I went back to the group and sat watching the fire burn down. An uncomfortable feeling began to intrude into my bliss. Suddenly I began to think of Bouchra as the little man behind the great Wizard of Oz. The magical, romantic fantasy I was reveling in morphed a little when I looked at it through her eyes. For her, this was a business, a well crafted show to provide tourists with the experience of being in the Moroccan desert, in what was billed as a nomad camp. There are still nomadic peoples in this country, some Berber and some Arabic. Our guide told us they wear blue robes like the one I noticed was worn by the man who lit our fire. Was he culturally a nomad or just playing a role? The camp itself seemed built for its tourist purpose--no nomads had probably ever slept in these tents with their camels resting nearby. Our Muslim hosts had provided us with a full bar and access to toilets that flushed, most of the time anyway. Were we in a Saharan Disneyland? Should I expect Aladdin to pop out any minute? Looking back, I wonder that these questions about authenticity didn’t completely kill my buzz. As it turned out, my delight had staying power. I went to sleep on my little mattress in the tent with Muldaur’s song still in my head.

In the morning I got up early and climbed to the top of a dune to watch the eastern horizon turn from gray to pink to blazing gold.

I wasn’t that interested in the camel ride portion of our itinerary, having done one in Cairo that resembled a pony ride at a county fair. But for many of the students, the camel ride was the most anticipated part of the trip. They bargained for gauzy scarves at roadside stalls during our rest stops on the long bus ride down to the desert, experimented with various methods of wrapping them into turbans and mugged for each other’s cameras. Our ride the next day was actually quite fun, almost two hours long with six or seven camels tied together and led by their owner, walking past fields and farm families going through their morning routines. The process was very similar to trail rides at a dude ranch in the American west. Riding along, I wondered if Bouchra visited me in Colorado and I took her to one of those ranches, would she enjoy buying a cowboy hat, singing along with a guitar around a campfire, and watching the moon set over the Rockies? Would she care if she slept in a bunkhouse that might never have sheltered a real cowboy? One motivation for travel is dream fulfillment. That’s what a Bucket List is for, isn’t it? If the dream feels fulfilled, as mine so fortunately did, why should we question how?

After we all returned to the ship and set sail for Ghana, I had dinner with my new friends Deena and Jim Behnke. They were brimming over with excitement about their SAS trip and enchanted me with stories of hiking through the Atlas Mountains, sleeping in Berber villages and immersing themselves in the rural Moroccan lifestyle. The places they slept were not tourist accommodations but the flat roofs of Berber houses. The toilets certainly didn’t flush. Jim exclaimed that one village had just gotten electricity the year before. They ate basic Berber food, and the students played soccer with the village children. They seemed to have lived what is widely considered to be the ultimate traveler experience and couldn’t have been more excited about it. Dinner ended before I could take my turn at storytelling which worked out well for me. Again, I was dealing with uncomfortable questions. Had I visited Frontierland while they hiked the Continental Divide?

I’ve written here before about the sort of buyers’ remorse that often comes when shipmates share stories of their travels in port. It’s almost impossible to listen and not compare. No matter how wonderful your own adventure was, someone else’s can sometimes sound even better, and you are left feeling a little envious. I have finally learned to listen to these stories, accepting any envy I may feel, but settling at last into gratitude. Semester at Sea affords me the opportunity to hear fresh, first-hand accounts of amazing experiences from many different perspectives. My voyage is enriched by vicariously enjoying the adventures of literally hundreds of travelers.

(photo by Maria Sakaria)

My felt experience in Morocco was extraordinary, shimmering still inside me. Despite the intrusions of my analytical mind, I am convinced the imprint of those sensations will stay with me always: the sweetness of the scalding mint tea; the welcoming feel of Berber carpets beneath my feet; the ululations, drumbeats and camel noises; the hearty smell of lamb tagine at dinner; the gracious warmth and hospitality of our hostess; and, most of all, the sight of the crescent moon and Venus setting slowly behind the silhouette of a desert palm. I have experienced “Midnight at the Oasis” – the magic of its beauty, the celebration of its music, the excitement of the fulfillment of a dream – and I am left with special memories and deep gratitude.

BEGINNING MISCELLANEY

2010-09-03T03:06:00.001-07:00

Mornings on the ship are sometimes a little challenging. We've had four, count them, four continuous nights of time changes as we journey across the North Atlantic heading for Cadiz, Spain, with 2 more singly before that. Even though it sounds like the changes are gradual, they are definitely cumulative. This morning I reluctantly left my cozy cot and slogged through my workout, spurred on by the reward of my Starbuck's coffee at the end. The ship coffee is truly nasty and everyone I advised to bring their own French press has thanked me profusely. So I'm hunkered down in the dining room, worshipping the brew, and suddenly one sound completely changes my mood. From a table behind me, what can only be called a giggle, at once deep-throated and high pitched, fills the room: "Hee hee hee hee hee". Arch has joined us for breakfast.

Archbishop Tutu's presence among us is a gift that is difficult to describe. He not only honors us with his decision to make this voyage and share his wisdom with us in meetings and classes, he also models in his everyday life the characteristics of humility, an infectious playfulness born of living in the moment and respect for and belief in the essential goodness of people that he speaks about so passionately in public. He and his wife Leah have managed to be among as role models for all to see and emulate but also as real people. They are welcoming and gracious as they meet over 750 students, faculty, staff members and lifelong learners, each of us shy and insecure at first but quickly put at ease by their genuine friendliness. It has a lot to do with that laugh.

I've only had one brief conversation with them and that was our first day, back in Halifax. Les McCabe has just escorted them onto the ship and I was standing near enough to join the group and welcome them. I reminded Arch that I had spoken with him at the St. Timothy School commencement where on of their granddaughters was in the graduating class and I was attending as an alum. His face lit up and he quickly introduced me to Leah; they both beamed as we connected as grandparents and I complemented their beautiful, smart and accomplished granddaughter. Now I long for a real conversation. They join the LLLs in the lounge for our Happy Hour meetings so hopefully that will happen soon.

In other news, my courses are stimulating and diverse. Because I am only going on a third of the voyage, I decided to sit in on a number and not commit to a few as I usually do by doing all the readings and having more of a focus. So far I've been to classes in sustainable communities, global music, travel writing, global societies, family/community/utopia, fetal development and childbirth, the rhetoric of film and the core course everyone takes, global studies. Fascinating! I think I've learned most in the sustainable communities class. The professor states his main thesis as "Enough, for everyone, forever" or economy, equity and ecology. After living around the environmental movement for decades but never really connecting with or committing personally to its goals, beyond simple things like recycling and buying responsible light bulbs, I have finally gotten excited about the social equity piece of it, the "enough for everyone". We've also talked about the locavore or locally grown food movement which I've been interested in for awhile. Rocky Rohwedder, the brilliant and charismatic professor from Sonoma State University, told us about "guerilla gardeners" who were new to me. They dress up in Ninja outfits and, under the cover of night, plant gardens somewhere they do not have permission to use, often a public green space in a low income area. They leave a sign that invites the local residents to take responsibility for the garden and share the harvest among themselves.

Regular readers of this blog might remember that on my last voyage I tried to look at quoz, The Other, and my encounters with it. For this voyage, I want to look at what happens in the relationships, the exchanges that I experience with people from another culture. I read Pico Iyer's masterful article "Why We Travel" http://www.salon.com/travel/feature/2000/03/18/why and was struck by his discussion of what American travelers bring to these meetings. I've always been so focused either on what I wanted to learn or on not being disrespectful or culturally insensitive that I have forgotten to honor the give and take of meeting a new person from the point of view of what they might be seeing in me. I'm still a little uncomfortable with the notion because it seems more self-centered than I want to be, and I know I'll always want to focus on openness and respect. But it might be a step towards normalizing these encounters with local people to be aware of or learn about how they see me, what they're curious about, what they might need in that exchange. Iyer suggests that we can bring "a fresh and renewed sense of how special are the warmth and beauty of their country". You can "teach them what they have to celebrate as much as you celebrate what they have to teach you". I remember when my mother visited Denver from Shreveport and we would be driving somewhere, me in my mundane, getting- from-here- to-there groove. I would turn west and she would throw up her hands and gasp at the beauty of the mountains, a vista I ignored on a regular basis. Or she would turn on the tap and say "Oooooh, I just love how cold the water is here." Visitors can bring locals gifts of wonder and fresh senses, not just a casual "Your country is so beautiful" but a specific and appreciative act of seeing, listening, tasting and feeling that I hope to share.

My first chance to practice this will be in Spain. We arrive tomorrow in Cadiz and that evening I will go with my fabulous global music professor to an authentic Andalusian flamenco club. Dan Ferguson has taught music at Columbia as well as several universities in California, is a touring professional guitarist and speaks both Mandarin and Cantonese fluently! I've already learned lots about this passionate musical form and am really looking forward to the performance tomorrow night. When I was in Spain before, I never got the chance to go to Grenada and visit the Alhambra, reportedly the most popular site in the country. I struck out finding someone to go with so I'll be traveling solo, either on the bus or train, not sure yet, and staying for two nights in a restored Moorish home that has been converted to a hotel in the old Arabian quarter. I haven't explored on my own in quite a while so this should be great fun.

Finally, being on the ship this time has been a little different. If you scroll down to the posts just before this one, you'll see that I shared tips on getting ready for an SAS voyage, just hints I've collected over the years and thought it more efficient to write down somewhere. I posted links on the SAS Fall 2010 Facebook page and apparently lots of future voyagers checked them out. Many students have come up to me to thank me for doing that and to say very nice things about how helpful my advice was. More than a few have said something like "My mom really loved your blogs too and she made me promise to find you and thank you." In the Lifelong Learner group particularly, I've become the Go To person for questions of every kind. Fortunately, there are many resources now that we're on the ship, including our marvelous LLL coordinator, Betty Waldrin, who has sailed 19 times and two other LLL couples who have sailed 10 times each! The early days of a voyage can be overwhelming so we've all been busy helping everyone get settled and oriented. Those exchanges, coupled with the fact that I'm only going to be on the ship for a short time, have made me feel a little like a staff member instead of a voyager myself. It's been great fun but I also want to shift my focus now to my experiences, my relationships, my writing, etc. It's already going by way to fast and I want to savor it all!

The Thrill of Transition

2010-08-22T12:03:00.000-07:00

One of my very favorite parts of a travel adventure is right on top of us. It's that moment, maybe in the airport after you've said your last goodbye, maybe when you get that first glimpse of the ship, when you realize that it's finally here! After all the months of planning, hard work and excitement, it's really happening, right this minute. But the best part of that feeling is that none of it is over yet, it's all stretched out in front of you! The moment of transition from dream to reality, from anticipation to experience - that feeling, that's what I love!

Health and Wellness on SAS

2010-07-01T11:08:00.000-07:00

On to health: the deal here is Be Prepared! No one wants their trip of a lifetime marred by illness but it happens, so the idea is to be ready so that any episodes are as short and mild as possible. There is a full clinic and fabulous staff of doctors, nurses and PAs on board who will help you through any sickness. Use them wisely of course, like during clinic hours whenever possible, as opposed to waking them up in the middle of the night because your stuffy nose is preventing you from sleeping. There are three main types of illnesses that typically strike voyagers and you should plan for each one.

Nearly everyone worries about seasickness before the voyage and it's my impression that most people deal with it, to one degree or another, sometime during the voyage. There are a lucky few who never feel the least bit queasy but also a very few who just never get it under control. Everyone else deals with it for one to several days but soon gets their sea legs and it's no longer an issue. First, if you've had experience with any kind of motion sickness before, bring whatever worked for you then. I'm a particular fan of Bonine, which is the name brand of meclizine, the generic that is offered for free, along with condoms, in bins outside the clinic. It doesn't make you sleepy and works best if you take it just before the ship sails. BTW, one of the little known symptoms of seasickness is drowsiness so don't always blame it on your medication and be prepared to feel kind of wiped out in the first days of the voyage. If you've had significant trouble with motion sickness before, you might consider getting prescription Scopolamine patches from your doctor. You wear them behind your ear and they are very effective for some people. A word of caution (have I mentioned I'm a retired nurse?): the full dose, a whole circle, is often too much for people, depending on your body weight and drug metabolism. The side effects can be pretty awful so if in doubt or if you're having problems, cut the patches in half or even thirds if you're small. The point is to find the most effective dose without bothersome side effects and it isn't necessarily the standard dose. I'd also discontinue using them sooner rather than later and see how you're doing. But that's just my two cents worth - as always, your doctor can best advise you, or even better, a travel clinic since they specialize in these issues. Wrist bands that use acupressure points are effective for some people so you might start there, if you're into that sort of thing, and move on to drugs if that doesn't do the trick. Ginger in the form of tea, candy or even gingerale is a trusted remedy for mild symptoms. So bring a couple of options to see what works for you and remember that the clinic is there to help. Please do not stay in your cabin for days, not able to keep anything at all down, without asking for help. The medical staff can give you an injection in severe cases so use them if you can't get the seasickness under control yourself.

Few people manage to avoid some sort of respiratory illness during the voyage - it's just one of the side effects of close living in a large community. You can go a LONG way towards avoiding colds by washing your hands often, way more often than you would at home, and using the hand sanitizer dispensers located all throughout the ship. Make it a habit to squirt some sanitizer on before meals in the dining rooms - the machine is right there, just use it! Although you will be amazed at the fabulous and constant job the crew does of keeping the ship clean, you can be smart about where your hands go in the public areas of the ship. For instance, unless the ship is really rocking, I try not to use the handrails on the stairways - that knocks out 10 to 15 opportunities a day to pick up a cold. Again, you will see the crew cleaning those rails every day but I'm just sayin', be aware of keeping your hands as clean as possible. In case you do get a cold, bring from home whatever you've found works best for you - I always bring Tylenol and plain sudaphed, but that's just me.

The dreaded travelers' diarrhea is the last common illness SASers experience. Prevention is key here. The medical staff will advise you over and over in preport meetings before every stop about the food and water safety in that country. Pay attention, folks, and do what they say. It's my opinion that following those precautions will prevent 80 to 85% of stomach problems. As a general rule, I never take ice in my drinks or eat anything that is raw or I haven't peeled myself, including anything that is billed as a salad. I know, after you've soldiered through the limited salad offerings on the ship, those raw veggies and cut-up fruit salads look pretty great. I make exceptions only in really nice hotels and restaurants that cater to international travelers, but it's safest not to. Think about the toilet and hygiene facilities available to the food handlers and bypass that mango the street vendor has just peeled for you with his machete. There are many glorious food options in every country where you can sample and enjoy local cuisine that is thoroughly cooked so be sure to do that, just be smart about it.

Some people take a Pepto tablet before every meal in port, just as a preventative. But be sure to bring some type of over-the-counter diarrhea medicine with you if sickness strikes. Take it at the first sign of a problem. I like Lomotil; it's available in several forms. You might also ask your doctor or travel clinic about bringing a few Cipro tablets with you. This is an antibiotic that you don't have to take for days. If I get the first episode of TD, I take one Lomotil and one Cipro and I've yet to have it go any further, but that's just what works for me. Cipro is a very broad spectrum antibiotic and not to be used lightly or frequently - you may need it later in your life when you have a difficult to treat infection and you don't want to be resistant to it then. But it is my doctor's opinion that you're on a trip of a lifetime and you don't want it spoiled by days of diarrhea so it's appropriate to take the Cipro if necessary. Opinions vary widely about this so you and/or your doctor may disagree with me. Please do whatever makes sense to you and follow the advice you are given by professionals who know you.

A reminder about prescription drugs: For Fall and Spring voyages, you will need a few days more than the maximum three months worth of drugs most insurance plans allow you to buy at once. Check with your pharmacy and make plans for dealing with that well in advance of leaving. Please pack those drugs in your backpack when you come to the ship, better yet, in your money belt. The last voyage I volunteered to help send off, a student packed a very unusual and essential medication, one that couldn't be quickly replaced in port, in a small bag that he accidentally left in the taxi when he arrived at the ship the day it was leaving - huge problem. So, the things to be super careful with when you're coming to the ship, and always really: your passport and your prescriptions. Pretty much everything else you can get along without, borrow or buy in port.

Some words about general wellness issues. Sleep will likely be a challenge and you need to be as smart about it as possible. "I can sleep when I get home!" is a frequently heard mantra and I totally support the spirit of that. You are on a very special and once in a lifetime experience and you'll want to be there for every moment you can. That said, the voyage is more of a marathon than a sprint and you're going to need to actively manage your time and energy in order to get the most out of it. It's hard to understand before you leave how jampacked the days of this voyage will be. Classes, homework, planning for the next port, shipboard activities and responsibilities, journaling, editing your photographs, meals, just plain hanging out with your friends and so much more will more than fill every moment on the ship. And then there are the time changes. Every voyage planned for the immediate future will be sailing east. For Spring and Fall semesters, that means that you will lose 24 hours, usually one hour a night nearly every other day, during the approximately 50 days at sea and then get it all back by doing one day twice as you cross the International Dateline in the Pacific. For those of you on a summer voyage, the good news is that process works going across the Atlantic then reverses coming home so you get extra hours just when you're studying for finals and finishing everything up. One hour every other night doesn't sound like much but they add up and, along with everything else going on, can cause you to be very, very tired. My advice is to monitor yourself and go to bed early when you can, rather than watch those full seasons of Desperate Housewives DVDs you bought in Vietnam - that you can definitely do when you get home. Also grab naps when you can and pat yourself on the back for getting that economical inside cabin that is darker than dark, day or night.

Exercise can be a challenge but also lots of fun. Like for many other things on SAS, flexibility is key. You will want to stay in good shape to walk, hike, bike and just be up for all the amazing experiences in these countries. There is a workout room with ellipticals, treadmills and bikes but it's very popular and you have to sign up in advance. Please follow the rules for that process so everyone who wants to can get a shot at the machines. There is workout equipment like weights and benches on the seventh deck and that's always a popular option. There's also a netted multipurpose court on the starboard side of the Deck 7 where you can play volleyball, basketball, etc. Teachers of all kinds of exercise like yoga, kick boxing, dance, etc. always turn up on board and will be organizing classes, so you can keep up with your practice or try something new you've been curious about. Running is a challenge either on the treadmills or on the horseshoe shaped "course" on Deck 7, especially in rocky seas or wet weather, but it can be done. Sometimes runners organize runs in port but that comes with its own safety concerns so do that wisely and in groups. Like with many other aspects of SAS, you can keep up with what works for you and challenge yourself to try something different as well - that's what it's all about.

Finally, I want to talk a little about mental health. Whether you realize it or not, your normal views of yourself and of the world and your place in it are about to be majorly challenged. That's the whole point, right? That process is exciting but can also be quite confusing and possibly overwhelming. There are difficult challenges in this SAS experience for everybody, whether it's finding someplace to sleep or eat in a country where you don't know the language or being face-to-face with heartwrenching poverty for the first time. You will be out of your comfort zone and away from your usual support people like parents and boy/girlfriends. Semester at Sea is very aware of your need for support on this voyage and there are many ways to get it. First, you'll rely on your new BFFs, those amazing people you're traveling with and sharing this life altering experience. Then there are the professionals on board who can offer lots of wisdom and guidance: your LLC, known on land as resident advisor, and the professional mental health counselors on the ship, two people who are licensed psychologists or social workers. These people are pros with many years experience with college students - please use them. They are there to listen and help you process all that you are seeing and learning about yourself and the world. If you have dealt before with depression or anxiety, be smart about monitoring yourself for these recurring feelings and get help if you need it. I have seen several cases of students who had to leave the voyage because of these mental health issues. If these have been issues for you, it doesn't mean you shouldn't go but it does mean that you need to inform the staff and get help earlier rather than later. I'm a huge fan of Semester at Sea precisely because it does shake people up and ask them to look at the world and themselves in different ways - a very good thing.

It's a journey, as they say, and it's enormously rewarding and exciting. Just be prepared, stay healthy and be sure you get help along the way if you need it.

Happy and Healthy Eating on SAS

2010-07-01T09:10:00.000-07:00

The featured speaker at one of our daily get-togethers for Lifelong Learners on Spring 2009 was the Hotel Manager, one of the officers of the ship's crew. One of his areas of responsibility is food service and he was gamely fielding questions from our group, a few of them somewhat negative in tone. He said, "Imagine your very favorite restaurant at home. Now imagine eating breakfast, lunch and dinner there for over 100 days. Don't you think you would get tired of even that food?" Point taken. The food on the MV Explorer doesn't even start as your favorite food so, yes, you can expect to get tired of it.

That said, I think they do a pretty good job of catering to all the preferences and restrictions for 800 people of all ages and backgrounds, especially when you factor in the availability and cost of fresh food in the ports we visit. Many of those passengers are young men who I'm convinced have hollow legs and are virtually impossible to fill up, hence a lot of pasta and potatoes, and the perennial favorite, peanut butter and jelly. The vegetarian and gluten-free options have gotten better and better and are clearly designated with signs on the buffet. Often on the night before a port, a menu of dishes from the upcoming country is offered. Barbecues on the seventh deck are a special treat and loved by all, as is the famous Taco Day. It boggles my mind to think of provisioning for 800 people (make that around 1000 people with the crew) for 100 days, on a budget that is nowhere near that of a cruise ship. Don't get me started on the ISE budget and what an amazing job they do stretching the dollar to run this program - did you know that one third of your fee goes to fuel alone? It's a nonprofit organization and, trust me, there is nothing leftover to buy more expensive food, especially given the availability and quality issues for fresh food in port.

My recommendation about food is two-fold: 1)make sure you vary your diet using all the options available and 2)bring from home or buy in port (including the city you leave from) some things that will make your tummy happy half way around the world. Many people are on the ship for weeks before they discover, for instance, the soup on a different table from the main buffet - it's often quite tasty and sometimes wonderfully unusual, like a cold fruit soup. The two salad dressings offered that day may not be your favorite but there is always oil and vinegar at the end of the line. Students soon discover how good the smoothies, pizza and burgers are in the snack bar on the pool deck but faculty, staff and LLLs should check those out early in the voyage. The galley crew is really quite talented and can put on an amazing dining experience so consider the option of fine dining, that often includes menu items like shrimp cocktail, steak and fancy desserts. Just as with the snack bar, it costs extra, about $25 charged to your shipboard account, but definitely worth it for special occasions like a birthday. There's also a late night snack, usually small sandwiches and desserts, put out around 10:30PM, or 2230 ship time, that takes a while for people to discover.

You will find that any food or snacks you bring on board will be very welcome treats, especially on long stretches of sea days like the two ocean crossings. You can shop in the port you're leaving from after you get there, hopefully a day early to prevent any issues of lost baggage. Halifax, for instance, has a great super market to the left of the Westin hotel that is directly across the street from the ship's terminal, although you have to walk around to the right of or through the hotel in order to get to it because of the train station on the left. Depending on where you are in the alphabet, you might be able to get on the ship and then get off again to shop the day the ship leaves but I wouldn't count on it. You can, of course, pack snacks from home and figure that the space used will be replaced with treasures you've bought when you pack to go home. In addition to your favorite granola or meal replacement bar, you might consider nuts, dried fruit and packets of flavoring to add to a water bottle, whatever doesn't spoil and takes up as little space as possible.

If you're shopping in the embarkation port, think about a favorite bottled salad dressing or salsa. There's a small refrigerator in your cabin. The small boxes of granola cereal appear rarely and go fast so you might bring your favorite. If you care about coffee at all, I've got some bad news: the ship's coffee ranges from not very good to really awful, depending on how picky you are. I'm proud to say that thanks to my daughter-in-law and her team at the corporate office in Seattle, you can now bring Via, instant Starbucks, with you and I highly recommend it - try it, you'll like it and it's perfect for this situation. A number of people bring a small French press and some ground coffee (hot water is always available) to get them started then buy wonderful international coffees in our ports. I also discovered that they didn't have Splenda any more on the ship when I was there in June so consider bringing that if you prefer it - they had only generic pink and blue stuff.

In my earlier post about travel, I recommended that you do your traveling into the country in the early days of our stay and save the last day for exploring the port city. In addition to hitting the Internet cafe for uploading pictures and Skyping and the post office for stamps for all those marvelous postcards you wrote, you'll want to save some time to restock your food supplies. Remember that you can only bring food back onto the ship if it is still sealed so no snacking! And I wouldn't wait until close to on ship time to come through the security line with lots of bags of groceries - try to do it earlier in the day. It's fun to browse the local stores for intriguing brands of cookies, crackers, chips or other snacks - you might find a particular brand of Japanese cracker to be your new favorite and will get so addicted that you really miss it when you get home!

So, make sure you use all the options available on the ship, especially if you find yourself getting kind of tired of the food. And bring from home or buy in port anything that will spark up your daily fare and keep your tummy happy as you sail around the world.

Trip Tips for SAS

2010-06-19T11:40:00.000-07:00

If the word for money tips is redundancy (see previous post), the word for trips is variety. It usually happens naturally but I strongly recommend that you plan to travel in a variety of ways on this glorious journey of a lifetime.

About two months before your voyage sails, the final version of the Field Program and the Pre-Sale process will be available online. In this pre-sale you will be signing up for overnight trips, usually for the first two-thirds of the voyage. These trips require SAS to book flight and hotel reservations and so are called "manifest" trips, or trips that need your name for a booking. Therefore, once you've signed up you cannot, with only very rare exceptions, change your mind and cancel these trips or sell them to someone else - think restrictions on plane tickets you buy here. You actually can cancel but you'll lose your money :(. These trips are the big ticket, multi-day ones like safaris, the Great Wall, the Taj, etc. Day trips for the first few ports will also be included in this sale.

Included in the Field Program of trips organized and sold by SAS are two other kinds of trips besides the manifest trips. These are two types of shorter trips, to regular points of interest and for Faculty Directed Practica, FDPs. The trips are to places near the port city and can vary from a few hours to an extremely long day to an overnight. Some of these trips are fairly standard sightseeing ventures, like orientation tours the first day in a port, and others are service visits or special experiences that SAS has been doing for a long time, like the jazz safari in Cape Town - more about these below.

In this category is a very beloved type of SAS trip, the homestay. You will sign up to go with a family to be part of their life for a day or two. On every voyage, these experiences rank at or near the top for every student who does them. On these and other popular trips, there might be an oversubscription. In that case, the Field Office will hold a lottery with everyone on an equal footing, so faculty, staff and LLLs have just as much chance as students (although for homestays, it's my experience that families generally expect to get a student). It doesn't matter when you got your registration in as long as it is before the deadline. On the Pre-Sale signup form, you will be asked for second choices if you should not get the trip after a lottery. Just be sure those second choices don't conflict with any other trips on other days you're signing up for. An aside on homestays: if you're signed up for one, please don't be a no-show. These families are very excited to meet you and have often gone to tons of trouble with special meals, taking off time from work, etc. Also, for that reason, and just because it's a nice thing to do, please bring a small gift for the family, definitely wrapped if you're in Japan. Many students bring something typical of their home or region like maple sugar candy if you're from New England - it shouldn't be expensive, rather a "just the thought that counts" type of hostess gift.

The second type of day trip is the FDP. Each course you take on the ship will have a field component, a required experience in several (typically three) countries that will be integrated into your coursework. After you go on these trips, you'll usually be required to write them up somehow for your professor, showing thoughtfulness about and responses to what you did and possibly even synthesis of all three at the end. When you get your syllabi, you will see which FDPs count for your courses and make your plans accordingly. Because these are day trips in or close to the port city, you will be able to sign up for them after you get on the ship and your courses are finalized (there's a drop/add process in the first day or two of classes). Some professors will let you design your own FDP to substitute for one or more of the required ones, so get creative and run it by them, well in advance.

So that's SAS trips in a nutshell. Obviously there's much more to say about them and you'll be getting lots of info from the field office - use them, those folks are great. I'll say more below about choosing among your options but let's get on to independent travel or "doing it indy" as SASers like to say. The sky's the limit here and your choices and plans will be entirely driven by what your preferences are and what you are comfortable with and/or challenged by, a feeling that will definitely change as the voyage progresses - that's one big reason you're doing this, right? These adventures usually fall into three categories. The first has grown up largely as a result of the use of Facebook before the voyage and so have come to be called "Facebook trips". Some enterprising student who has either known a previous SASer or read lots of blogs will propose a trip that often closely follows a trip offered by SAS. The primary idea is usually to try to do the trip at a lower cost and that's generally possible. Tour operators in countries we always go to like China and India are now onto this market so the student organizer may get pitched by them. Again, I'll offer my views on that below but just know it will be an option if you follow Facebook before your voyage. Secondly, you can put a small trip together with a few of your friends after you get on the ship. These trips can be anything from you and your besties putting together an overnight itinerary to someplace you all think sounds cool and letting the details just happen to a more organized adventure that you've researched either in Lonely Planet or online. Just so you remember, your internet access will be metered and very limited for this type of planning, although Wikitravel is a free site on the ship. Using books to do most of your plannin is wise. The Field Office and Library have large collections of travel guides for every port we go to. A hint: although Lonely Planet is geared for student travel and is certainly tried and true, choosing a recommendation from another guidebook will often yield less crowds and prevent the bar you've picked from being packed with SASers instead of the locals you were hoping to mingle with. The third type of indy trip is the solo (or duo) backpacking/just-striking-out adventure. This is obviously not for everyone but definitely the strongly preferred option for a certain sort of traveler. After we leave each port, there usually is a Post Port Reflections get together in the Union where people can share their adventures. I'm constantly amazed and awed by what happens when students travel this way. I'm sure it's my grandmotherliness coming through, but safety is often not in the top five priorities for these folks and that makes me nervous - but I love hearing their stories.

OK, that's the summary of the range of options, so here's my two cents on how to choose: PLEASE travel in a variety of ways as you journey around the world. Each type of trip has its own benefits and drawbacks, which you'll never understand unless you try them.

SAS has been doing this for OVER ONE HUNDRED VOYAGES and the value added on their trips cannot be overstated. They have worked with many of these tour companies for decades and know that they can be relied upon to provide guides with excellent English, many of whom have been loved by students for years, and buses that rarely (as opposed to often, for many other tour groups) break down. Their hotels and restaurants are wonderful and you definitely do pay for that. The field office takes care of absolutely every detail, all you do is sign up and pay, then relax and enjoy the journey. Few people realize in advance that traveling on SAS trips is also a fabulous way to meet people outside your usual, tight group of friends. You will probably get to know some faculty and staff, their families, some Lifelong Learners and some students who will become your new favorite friends, especially after you've had the bonding experience of climbing the Great Wall together (with emphasis on the word climb!). One other point is that should your trip run very late getting back to the port, and s**t definitely and regularly happens when you're traveling abroad, the ship will be held for SAS trips and NOT for Facebook or other indy trips. If you are on an independent trip and are late for on-ship time, you will get dock time. If you do not make it back on the ship before the time it is scheduled to sail because of some travel delay (or for any reason actually with the possible exception of a true medical emergency), unless you are on an SAS trip you WILL be left, I promise. So, fair warning: schedule your independent travel to arrive back in the port city the day before the ship sails and do your exploring around the port that last day. All the port cities have fascinating things to do and, besides, you'll probably want to find an Internet cafe to Skype or upload photos, neither of which you'll be able to do from the ship, or buy stamps for your postcards and snacks to re-provision your stash on the ship. Planning to arrive back before noon of the last day may be tolerable, but only in countries with quite reliable and redundant transportation systems, like Spain but absolutely not India, for instance. Cutting it closer than that is a huge risk - did I mention they will leave you? You will arrive back at the dock with a big space where the ship used to be, the port agent with a small bag of your stuff that your roommate packed for you and the feeling in your gut that you are truly on your own now. In recent years, the deans have been considering all the class days that you will miss if you miss the ship and termination from the program is a real possibility.

For me, the biggest advantage to many SAS trips is that they provide opportunities that are impossible or unlikely to replicate on your own. You might be lucky enough to meet a jazz musician in Cape Town and get invited home to jam with him, but the SAS trip guarantees it. How would you like to meet a deaf child at an orphanage in Viet Nam and take her to the zoo? SAS can arrange for you to do that. In addition to the regular day trips, be sure to check out FDPs for courses you're not taking because there is often space in them after students in that course have signed up. Sit in the living room of a professor from a university in Chennai and chat with women, from poets to journalists, to learn about writing and the life of women in India. Visit a cosmetics factory in Casablanca and have a fascinating conversation over lunch with its Berber owners and managers. Any time during your life that you travel you can throw on your backpack and head out to meet interesting people and have great adventures - that's always available to you. So seize the unique opportunities of this special journey and let SAS offer you a gateway to experiences you just cannot have on your own. End of commercial.

Independent travel options will probably look more and more appealing as the voyage goes on. You've probably had enough of larger groups on buses and a packed schedule. BTW, while on an SAS trip, you can always opt out of the schedule and just go off on your own. You'll lose what you paid for lunch, for instance, but you may just need a break from the group and some time by yourself. Please feel free to do that, just make absolutely sure you tell your trip leader and be back in time to re-join the trip when you say you will. By the time you get to Japan, for instance, you'll find it very easy to head out on your own or with a small group of friends, probably on a train, and have a fantastic time. Everyone will go at his or her own pace but your independence will blossom - count on that. It's one of the almost universal ways that SAS changes students. So, as you think in advance about what you want to do in each port, you might plan to do more structured trips in the earlier part of the voyage and rely more on seat of the pants travel later on.

A word about budgeting. When you see that huge list from the Field Office, you will likely be pretty much overwhelmed and feel some sticker shock. Take lots of time to read it and see what's on offer. Think about your biggest dreams and schedule them in first, either as an SAS trip or independently. If you absolutely can't imagine going all the way around the world and not seeing the Great Wall, then figure that out first. BTW, another value added for SAS China trips is that many include partnerships with Chinese universities so you get to meet and hang out with students and let them show you their lifestyle. After you've budgeted your "must dos", look at the things you can only do on SAS and plan time for them. You'll want to put together a rough idea for each country of what you want to do but these plans are just an approximation and will change a lot. Don't forget you'll be doing a number of FDPs and you'll need to have spaces in your plans to do these. Only your manifest trips are set in stone. Other trips can be traded or sold to a friend or through the Buy/Sell notebook on the counter in the Field Office. As a last resort, people who find that they cannot go on a trip they've signed up for can put their tickets in a box on that counter and anyone can claim them for a free trip - a wonderful bonus on a day you find yourself with plans that have just never geled. That experience you might never have signed up for may turn out to be your favorite of the whole voyage.

The most common regret from voyagers as they look back on their travel decisions is that they signed up for too much in advance, particularly in the pre-sale. So, if you really having trouble deciding on your list, go for a smaller number and see what develops with your friends when you get on the ship.

So, plan for lots of variety and remember to be patient with yourself. Just as you will get your sea legs, you will also get your traveling pants. Don't get overwhelmed, get excited! It's a big, wide, wonderful world out there and you're about to begin the journey of a lifetime.

How to handle money on SAS

2010-06-18T09:38:00.000-07:00

My basic strategy for money on SAS is redundancy. I have seen so many mishaps and calamities around money over the years that I have become a firm believer in several backup types of funds. I enjoy my trip that much more if I'm not stressing about money. Feel free to think I'm being overly cautious but, in that case, I hope you are extremely resourceful - and have lots of friends who'll bail you out!

I bring two credit cards, my ATM card, two of the currency packets that will be offered by a vendor through SAS, $200 in the cleanest, crispest one dollar bills my bank can find and a significant amount of cash that goes straight from my money belt to the safe in my cabin.

Credit Cards: You will need one credit card for your shipboard account. You actually can pay that bill in cash about once a month during the voyage but obviously that's a hassle. For students, please ensure that your parents or someone at home has legal access to that account so snafus can be worked out by someone with constant access to a land line, i.e. not you. You can set it up to pay the bill online or automatically from a checking account that has PLENTY of funds when you leave. This account is the one that will be charged for all your SAS trips as well as the bills on board such as the laundry, snack bar, spa, etc. It does add up! Also let your credit card issuer know exactly which countries you will be visiting when - otherwise, in the interest of safety, they are quick to cancel your account after the first use somewhere unusual. I keep one credit card with me when I go off ship, carrying it always in my money belt along with my passport and the majority of my cash for that port - I only ever have small amounts of cash in my pocket or purse because pickpocketing is very common. I never use a card except for in very nice places like good hotels, restaurants and shops, never in street markets or stalls. I carry it mostly for emergencies like if I should get stuck somewhere. When I do use it, I never let it out of my sight when they are doing the charge - don't ever let someone take your credit card to a back office or anywhere else out of sight because it is just too easy to copy. Some places still use a carbon or other paper system so make sure you destroy the copies since they will have your number on them. It's impossible to be too careful with your credit card. Every voyage a number of people have theirs scammed or stolen with very inconvenient to disastrous results. So given that s**t happens, I keep a backup credit card in my safe in my cabin so I know I'm covered for the rest of the voyage if something bad happens.

ATM Card: ATM cards are the cheapest way to get foreign currency so I strongly recommend bringing one. I don't have a debit card and don't know exactly how they work but if it's the same as an ATM then go for it. I still would have 2 other credit cards but one may be enough if one is your debit card. Be VERY careful about using ATM machines. Not only are you very vulnerable as you leave the machine (people WILL be watching), but the machines themselves have many types of scams in them like false fronts that steal your card or more sophisticated electronic ways to steal your number and PIN. Be extremely cautious about which machine you pick, the ones in banks are the very best. It's worth walking out of your way to find a bank. Always use your other hand to cover the keyboard as you punch in your PIN, remembering those people who will be watching. Don't ever use a machine anywhere at all sketchy or dark. Always go in pairs at least, with one person standing as lookout while you have your back turned at the machine. Don't ever use a machine that looks at all weird - check it out and if there is anything about it that looks like it might have a fake front, for instance, walk away quickly! Put your money away quickly and don't walk away from the ATM still fumbling with it. You probably think all this is overly cautious but I personally know of people who have been ripped off by all these situations. Someone can clean out your account in a heartbeat and then you are SOL for sure. Unless, of course, you've followed my advice about redundancy ;).

Foreign Currency: SAS will send a flier offering currency packets from an outside vendor before the voyage, but you can also order them from your local bank, a source that can take about 2 weeks so do it ahead. They will offer you about $25 in currency from each country on the itinerary. The exchange rate and fees are a little bit expensive but I think they are totally worth it. When the ship docks in each port, getting local currency is foremost on everyone's agenda - you can't buy a bottle of water, get a cab, etc. without local money. Often, however, you're tearing off on an SAS or independent trip, it's taken a while longer than anticipated to clear immigration so you're late, and finding an ATM can be a challenge and a nuisance. If you have some money already you're way ahead of the game. Also lines at ATMs close to the port can be very long when we first dock as 700 or so passengers head off the ship. I usually buy two packets so I have like $50 of each currency - and that may even be all I spend in that country but it at least gets me started. After that is gone, I exchange my American currency only at banks and my hotel - banks have better rates but the hotel is often quite convenient.

American Cash: I bring lots of one dollar bills because they are great to use in markets in many countries, especially Viet Nam. Locals strongly prefer newish ones because their exchange people won't take beat up currency. Vendors might give you a better deal if you have small American bills. Our currency is just so much more reliable than most local currencies so people are happy to have it some places. In other places, they can look at you like You're in my country now what makes you think you can use your money? You'll learn what is appropriate where. I also bring lots of $20 and $100 bills and put them in my safe. This is my ultimate back up plan if I get robbed, as I did the last time I was in Viet Nam. No matter what, I have enough cash for most uses back on the ship so I can stress about all this money stuff a lot less. Honestly, I usually come home with most of it - and then just don't need to go to the ATM at home for months! Other then using it to exchange for local currency when ATM's aren't handy, I also use it on the ship to pay people for various things like arrangements they may have made for a trip we went on together and they just put it all on their credit card - I can pay them back. Same with a restaurant meal when it's a hassle to ask for separate checks.
Then there's tipping. This deserves a post of it's own but basically you will have an amount (I think it's about $300) charged with your tuition that is for tips for the crew. A lot of people wish to tip special people something extra. I usually tip my cabin steward a couple of times along the way, and once again at the end. Not huge amounts but just something to let them know I appreciate what they do for me everyday. I keep up with which ports they're going to be able to get off the ship, it rotates, and sometimes give them a little spending money before we dock. It's also a good reason to have currency ahead of time. Last voyage, for instance, I knew my Jamaican cabin stewardess was looking forward to getting her hair done in Cape Town so I gave her some rand for that. Just to finish the tipping subject, it's entirely optional, but at the end of the voyage, many people give cash to their cabin steward and any of the dining room staff they've gotten attached to, and it is always much appreciated. These folks work very hard, 24/7, for months at a time without a day off and most send money home to large extended families where they are the primary, if not only, wage earner.

Budgeting: Especially for students, a budget is very helpful. If you are going eastward, your last country may be Japan and, as it turns out, it's the most expensive. You won't want to arrive there completely out of money. Some students set an amount they want to spend in each port and put that money in envelopes in their safe. The shopping opportunities, heck, many opportunities, in each port are amazing and your spending can quickly get out of hand if you're not careful. Take a look at what you're thinking of doing in each country and make a guesstimate for what you might spend, then add a little extra. Be realistic about the gifts and souvenirs you want to buy, as well as what kinds of accommodations and restaurants you prefer. Hostels, street food, local buses and small trinkets are great fun, but less so if you're going that route because you're down to your last $20.

Again, take all this with a grain of salt and your own habits and preferences in mind. This plan works for me and I've never gotten into a hassle about money on the voyage. Take from it what's workable for you but do make enough plans for handling money so that you can be as stress-free as your budget will allow on this trip of a lifetime.

Packing for Semester at Sea

2010-05-30T10:01:00.001-07:00

In addition to what's suggested in the Voyagers Handbook, there are several good packing lists available on the web, with links on every voyage's Facebook page or searchable on Google. My intention here is to make some additions most people don't think of, many of which are strictly personal preference. As with ALL of my SAS tips, please only use those that are appropriate for you.

1. Laundry supplies: Plan on doing at least some hand washing. Laundry days can be very far apart for students although more frequent for LLL's. Although you should absolutely not bring anything that is dry clean only, except for a man's sport coat for the Alumni Ball, you will probably have things you want to wash yourself. The laundry is way better than it used to be so I wouldn't worry too much about somewhat dated reports by previous voyagers of mysterious stains that weren't there before or hellacious shrinkage. That said, you shouldn't send anything to the laundry that won't stand up to fairly hot water. I pack a small spray bottle or stick of prespot solution and hit every stain before I send it to the laundry, with very good results. For your hand wash, you might want to bring a small plastic bottle you've filled with Woolite or Ivory liquid and a couple of plastic hangers and/or a few clothespins for drying. There is a clothesline in the bathroom but the hangers in the closet are those like in hotels that have no hook on them and only work in the closet. A mesh (lightweight) laundry bag is also handy to have for dirty clothes.

2. Dress clothes: The Alumni Ball (previously Ambassadors Ball) is sort of like prom and comes towards the end of the voyage. Everyone wears the fanciest thing they brought or bought/had made along the way, which ends up varying quite a lot - and adds to the entertainment value of the evening. Two guys on one of my voyages had suits made in Viet Nam, one lime green and one neon orange, just for the ball - hilarious! Fashion demerits are never a problem on SAS but you'll probably want to feel like you clean up well. Many girls plan to have dresses made in Viet Nam or buy saris in India. The fit with the former is often a little hit or miss, depending on the tailor you choose (bring a picture from a magazine for best results), and the fittings must be scheduled around your travel outside of Ho Chi Minh City. So if you really care about looking your absolute best, I'd bring something reliably wonderful from home, ideally something that fits you at whatever is your usual range of weight - SAS is famous both for people losing and gaining weight.
Besides this outfit, I'd bring one that can be called "business". Many students find themselves volunteering to welcome visiting dignitaries on board the ship or needing to wear something better than shorts and a tank for FDPs that visit businesses in port. For girls, this could be a dress or skirt with shoes other than flip flops and for guys this might be a collared shirt and khakis or the slacks you are going to wear to the ball and shoes nicer than sneakers.
If you are planning to go out to clubs in port, think about what you're bringing for that. In many places it is not appropriate to dress how girls dress to go out here, so I'd bring at least a couple of tops that are more covered up. You won't enjoy walking on a ship that is rocking or needing to walk long distances at night in port in mega-high heels, so I'd leave them at home, but that's a piece of advice I'm sure many will ignore ;).
LLL's: In addition to an outfit for the ball, I bring nice pants/skirt and 2 or 3 nice tops for a couple of dressier occasions on the ship, primarily the Captain's Dinner. The Captain usually has a series of small dinners to which the faculty and LLL's are invited, a few at a time. There is also the option for everyone of fine dining in a private room in the dining room - it costs extra (like $25) but is yummy and a great way to celebrate a friend's birthday or some other special occasion. Men can get another wear out of that sport coat - ties are pretty optional.

3. Luggage/storage: I bring two huge rolling duffles although do make sure the total dimensions aren't larger than the airlines allow. In fact, the airlines will be the limiting factor, not what SAS will actually allow. They put in the Voyagers Handbook the recommended luggage but I've never seen it enforced at all - they are just trying to discourage students from overpacking, with good reason. It's amazing how much stuff you acquire along the way and it's all got to get home somehow. It's better to start off with less rather than everything-you-could-possibly-imagine-needing-for-100+-days-on-a-ship-and-in-all-those-different-climates-YIKES! The airlines WILL charge you for overweight and extra bags so plan accordingly. Also bring a backpack as your carry-on - this will be what everyone packs for trips away from port. SAS trips never allow you to check luggage on their trips so bring a backpack that will fit in the overhead compartments of smallish, local planes. My backpack is rolling and also has straps for carrying which I rarely use. For LLL's, a rollaboard bag works fine. Mine also has a zip off day pack so when I get on a bus in the morning leaving a hotel, I can put the main part of the bag underneath and just have the day pack with me for water, snacks, a very thin rain jacket, camera, etc. BTW, never, ever, ever leave the ship or hotel/hostel without water and a snack - s**t happens, meals are majorly delayed and you just never know. I've learned this the hard way, an embarrassing number of times.
Your big duffles serve as storage under your bed in your cabin, for warm clothes, stuff you've bought, etc. I've measured the space in several types of cabins and it has always been twelve inches of clearance. You'll also probably have your life jacket under there but there should be lots of space. Because I always have too much stuff, I also usually bring, flattened and still in their original packages (I take the metal frame out if there is one), a couple of clear soft plastic, zippered underbed storage containers, like you store sweaters in. Not at all necessary but you won't be sorry. If you're going west, you can buy them at the Wal-Mart in Honolulu as well.
Another very handy storage item is a vertical, hanging, usually nylon or canvas shoe bag. That single vertical row of little pockets is fabulous for extending the usuable storage space in your closet. It is lightweight and comes flat to bring with you.

That's it for now. Check back for tips about food, money/tips, trips and lots more. Don't get overwhelmed - get excited!!

ADDENDUM:
A few things I forgot to mention, mostly for LLLs. Students usually carry some type of messenger bag or small backpack around the ship. LLLs may want to consider a lightweight tote bag. You won't want a purse but you'll need something for your class notebook, sunglasses (in case you have to race out on deck to see the dolphins!), camera (because those Kodak moments happen so randomly you won't want to be caught without it), sweater for the Union, water, etc. Some other things I find useful but most not essential: a plastic accordion file to keep track of info for indie trips, extra passport photos and copies of first 2 passport pages, important papers from SAS, lists of what I bought in each port so I won't be scrambling when it's time to fill out the customs form and other assorted papers; a thumb/flash drive to gather photos/data from the public files on the ship's computers or transfer documents among friends or classmates; a small, stick-on magnifying mirror; travel sizes of toiletries or small plastic bottles to transfer products from their large containers on the ship - for use on overnight trips and actually pretty essential since you can't check baggage on SAS trips; very small portable speaker/iPod dock for music in my cabin; a small Ziploc bag of office supply things like paper clips, small scissors, tape, etc.; birthday cards; a plan for exercising in my cabin and lightweight equipment like exercise bands - I'm crazy enough to deflate my big ball and bring that; a small bar of my favorite soap (the ship soap is pretty basic) and one flattened roll of high quality TP that I take portions off for my day pack and is also welcome if I ever get sick, again the ship's supply is, uh, serviceable. Now you can see what constitutes my overpacking!!

Semester at Sea Tips

2010-05-30T09:49:00.001-07:00

Now that I am a three-voyage alum of SAS and looking forward to a fourth (partial) voyage on Fall 2010, I regularly receive a lot of questions about all things SAS. Preparing for a voyage can be a little overwhelming and I'm happy to share what I've learned. Several people have suggested that I write this all up somewhere and this seems like the logical place. Most of my suggestions apply to all voyagers but some will be geared only to Lifelong Learners. If any of my visitors would like to read my blog postings from my second (S05) and third (S09) voyages, they can just scroll down or check the index on the right. If you're new to SAS, I'd recommend "Plugs and Sockets" for a taste of what this experience is all about.

I'm hoping to get everything up in the next few weeks but please be patient as I move through the topics and check back to see what's new as I'm sure I won't remember everything I want to post on the first attempts.
(MV Explorer photo courtesy Semester at Sea)

Checking Off My Bucket List

2009-05-05T11:40:00.000-07:00

Guatemala is gorgeous! Once again, I realized that I had been carrying around a completely unfounded stereotype of a place and am left wondering why on earth I persist in doing that. I’ve always thought of most of Central America as hot, dusty and not very interesting – where did I get that? Guatemala is anything but uninteresting.

I traveled again, and for what I hope won’t be the last time, with my good friends Hugh and Linda Straley, along with Ann McKee and Dale Hoff who are friends from Spring 02 and fellow LLL’s Lisa and Hog Hogan. We drove to Lake Atitlan and were bowled over by the beauty of the lake surrounded by three huge volcanoes. Our hotel was set in a garden so crammed full of tropical abundance and so beautifully maintained that they actually sell tickets to walk through its winding stone paths. Scarlet hibiscus the size of dinner plates, bougainvillea cascading over walls, agapanthus, alliums, hydrangeas, jasmine and on and on. I’ve never been among such a profusion of flowers I had not only never seen before but also had never seen any plant remotely similar. Scarlet macaws, parrots, ring-necked doves called out from bamboo cages while a peacock strutted regally around the grounds. Knowing a good thing when they find it, hummingbirds were everywhere.

We visited several villages around the lake including Panajachel, Santiago Atitlan and Santa Katarina (or Catalina, there was some disagreement in the signage and in our memories. OK, we’re old.). Each was inhabited by a different tribe of Mayas with fascinating and vibrant dress. Only the women and girls, together with a few men, wore the native costume. I’ve noticed that pattern in other cultures as well and we asked our guide about it. He said that the boys don’t wear the expensive indigenous outfits because they’re too hard on their clothes but that girls will listen to their fathers when they are told to take care of them. Having raised a houseful of boys and being a Daddy’s girl myself, I completely understand.

Adrenalin sports are huge with SAS students. Bungee jumping, hang gliding and sky diving are high on the list of many kids as they head down the gangway in almost every port. A boy will describe his plans for Cape Town as climbing Table Mountain, shark diving, kloofing and hang gliding. Although I try not to sound all serious and old, I’m sure I do as I ask if he has thought of going to Robben Island or to one of the townships. In the days leading up to Guatemala, the tables were turned: all I could talk about was zip lining!

Zip lining has been on my Bucket List for years. I had passed on the opportunity when I was in Argentina at Iguaçu Falls and I vowed not to miss another chance. Coincidentally, the LLL’s had had a meeting where we shared our list with each other so my traveling friends insisted on finding a place “for Marjorie to check off her Bucket List”. Turns out, there was a private reserve with an eight section zip line not five minutes walk from the beautiful gardens of our hotel.

The harness and helmet process went smoothly but the practice run foretold of problems ahead. They give you huge padded gloves to wear, the right one being considerably heavier than the left, and show you how to brake with your right hand pulling down on the cable. My bum right shoulder and biceps tendon have made that arm noticeably weaker so I had trouble with that part from the beginning. Undeterred, I headed up the side of the mountain, tromping along the jungle path .Turns out they make you climb up every foot of elevation you have so much fun zipping down. My considerable excitement was counterbalanced by the twin anxieties of the prospect of braking failures and snakes – swell!

For those of you who have never done it, let me just say that, aside from braking issues, the hardest part is the first step off into the abyss. You have to sit down in the harness with your hands parked on the trolley above you that is attached to the cable – very firmly attached with stout carabineers. I know, I watched very closely every time. I let everyone else go first to watch how it was done. Finally it was just the guide and me standing on a rock overlooking a very deep ravine. I felt a bubble of panic rise in my chest and was fighting it down when the guide motioned he would get on behind me. Hugh had been translating for us but he was already across. I really think I could have gotten it together if I could have made him understand I just needed a couple more minutes. He seemed to be insisting on the tandem ride so off we went. It was glorious! I was instantly hooked. I easily rode by myself for the other 7 lines, thrilled by the views and the speed and, yes, the adrenalin rush. The braking remained a problem but I did okay and, anyway, others in the group took their turns at coming in hot to the landing platform. Thank goodness Dale had a camcorder so the event is preserved for posterity in video. But that’s just to show you all (which will have to wait until I'm home with more bandwidth). The whole experience is indelibly burned in my memory. Put a check by that one on my Bucket List.

Plugs and Sockets

2009-04-26T11:16:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-20T14:11:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-11T19:05:00.000-07:00

(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

2009-04-05T00:38:00.000-07:00

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.

Thai Tidbits

2009-03-21T21:34:00.000-07:00

The Semester at Sea run through Asia is a whirlwind: five days in each of four countries with only two days on the ship in between. If I have any chance of staying caught up with the itinerary on my blog, I’m going to have to make these posts sort of quick and dirty, instead of more polished pieces. So here are the bullets on Thailand:
• This country is much healthier economically than I expected. Maybe it was coming from India where poverty and overcrowding are overwhelming, but Thailand seems to be doing okay. There appears to be a thriving middle class. I saw no beggars and only a couple of homeless people in either Bangkok or Chiang Mai. Tourists were everywhere and new cars and trucks were lined up at the dock, ready to be shipped out. Speaking of vehicles, several of us noticed that all the cars and trucks looked three years old or less, still shiny and dent-free. Our guide said that a new Japanese car made in Thailand was much cheaper than a used foreign car. In any case, this is not one of the countries I’m going to go away worrying about, financially at least. The main sour note in Bangkok was the traffic congestion and maddening traffic jams despite a skyrail and subway system, even one of those loaner bicycle programs. The air in Chiang Mai was pretty awful but we were told that was because it is the season of burning the rice fields.
• The Thais LOVE their king! His picture is everywhere, as is a special flag designed for the celebration a few years ago of his 50 years as king. The dress code to go into one of his palaces is much stricter than that for any temple and requires that even your ankles be covered. Fortunately they have loaner sarongs for ladies and baggy pants for men. He and the queen are seen as devoted to the common people and have spearheaded many reforms for their benefit.
• I had one night on my own in Bangkok and took the New York Times’ recommendation for a wonderful inn in the old part of the city, appropriately named the Old Bangkok Inn. Delightful décor, gracious innkeepers, wonderful amenities (including a flat screen TV/monitor and computer to go with the free WiFi), excellent value. You should put that name in your travel dreams file.
• I ended up alone and after dark on a deserted street on the old section of Bangkok, searching for a restaurant that turned out to be closed. Two gracious, middle-aged Thai women came to my rescue. I long ago learned to ask directions from women and luckily found one at the lone lighted store front. She called her son to draw me a map of where the restaurant was supposed to be, one street over. When I discovered it was closed, I decided to just eat at the closest place at hand since I had heard Thai street food is wonderful. As I stood on the sidewalk near a bustling street restaurant, another woman motioned me to sit at her table. In very limited English, she found out my preferences and proceeded to order my dinner for me. Four friends soon joined her and the six of us had a great meal, me eating happily and them chatting away, occasionally nodding and smiling at me. I got the distinct impression that this was a regular weekly dinner for them and I very much appreciated them making me feel like just one of the girls.
• On our SAS tour of Chiang Mai, we traveled, first by bus then in the local favorite transport of covered pick-up truck with two side benches, up a windy mountain road to a Hmong village. Even though it was quite chilly and drizzly, the faces and laughter of the children in the preschool warmed us through and through. The SAS students were uncharacteristically shy so I organized games of London Bridge Is Falling Down and Hokey Pokey which were a big hit.
• I continued to cook my way around the world with another fabulous cooking class in Chiang Mai. Our teacher was a young chef who had learned to cook during his stint in a monastery as a teenager. He was funny, talented and quite the entrepreneur. His classes are held in a large open-air room he had added to his home, with well appointed, individual work stations and spotless equipment. Two neighborhood ladies assisted us and reminded me a lot of the two Fatimas in Fez. We made a fabulous feast of hot and sour soup, paneang curry with chicken and shrimp, chicken with cashew nuts, phad thai inside of an omelet sort of wrapper, and sweet sticky rice with mango. I adore Thai food and I ate a lot of it in my five days in Thailand, but, if I do say so myself, the very best was the food I made for myself!

Faye's Images of India

2009-03-13T07:38:00.000-07:00

I was lucky enough to be joined on the trip to Kerala by talented photographer, my friend Faye Serio. Her photographs are truly marvelous and I want to share a couple here. I hope you recognize, from my descriptions below, the kathakali dancer, a houseboat similar to ours and a typical scene along the waterway.

India's Dancing Eyes

2009-03-13T00:39:00.000-07:00

Instead of Chennai’s cacophony of horns and roaring motorcycles, the sounds of laundry being slapped against smooth, flat rocks fill the air of Kerala’s backwaters. The oppressive heat of the city is replaced by soft breezes and the cool shade of the thatch and wood awning on our houseboat. Chennai’s main river is an open sewer that almost gags me as I cross its bridges in an open-air auto rickshaw. The lake, rivers and canals of the backwaters of Kerala aren’t exactly pristine but I didn’t cringe when I saw people swimming and bathing in them. Yes, I made the right decision when I chose to escape the port city and spend most of my time in India on the southwest coast.
The state of Kerala is noted for the political dominance of the Communist Party since the 1960’s; red flags featuring the unmistakable hammer and sickle are commonly displayed, especially now with national elections coming up in April. Its culture is matriarchal and its people are highly literate, the rate reaching 100% in some areas. A region full of strong women who are leftist and well-read – now that’s my kind of place!
Before this SAS voyage even started, late last summer, I volunteered to organize an independent trip to Kerala for my Spring 05 faculty friends, John and Faye Serio, and myself. We were joined by another Life Long Learner, Joan Walters, who proved to be a wise and gentle traveler and delightful companion. I originally got interested in visiting this part of India after listening to my sister Susan, who is a frequent visitor, tell stories of how beautiful it was. Arundhati Roy sealed the deal when I read her lush and intriguing tale, The God of Small Things, which is set here. Despite some ordinary difficulties in making arrangements through a foreign travel agent, the trip itself went off flawlessly and was a great success. We have been quite the envy of many of those to whom we have been telling our stories since returning to the ship – they all vow to go to Kerala on their next trip to India.
Kerala is most widely known for its extensive network of lakes, streams and canals that stretches from the Indian Ocean easterly across a broad alluvial plain. Many Indian tourists, as well as foreign visitors, explore the region by traditional kettuvalum, one to three bedroom, teak and mahogany houseboats. Ours was staffed by a gracious and capable crew of three: captain, engineer and chef/guide. They provided us with a tour filled with marvelous sights and fed us well with traditional Keralan dishes of curries and masalas. For dinner, we had huge prawns, the size of small lobsters, we bought from a fisherman along the way. We spent an afternoon, overnight and morning gliding gracefully through green water filled with water lilies and a rich variety of birds such as egrets, ibis, fish eagles and cormorants. The fishermen, rice farmers and their families sometimes waved but usually paid little attention to the passing parade of boats and looky-loo passengers. Women washed cooking pots and laundry, as well as their bodies, still modestly clad in their colorful saris. The children went for frolicking swims, as children do all across the globe when they are lucky enough to live on the water. We read, took photographs and napped but mostly rode quietly along, soaking up the serenity and beauty of the place.
Our boat trip ended in the morning at a lovely resort in Kumarakum, on the shores of Lake Vembanad. I was pleased to discover that the other hotel guests were all Indian, leaving me feeling we had chosen a vacation destination popular with locals, not just catering to tourists. Lush, manicured gardens and buildings of local stone and native wood gave the setting a beauty and tranquility unmatched anywhere else I have traveled in India. We visited the nearby bird sanctuary, opting for a small boat tour that took us back out on the water for close-up views of the myriad water birds. Outside the resort grounds, small village lanes beckoned to be explored, where we were met with eager smiles from the local residents. While I took advantage of the hotel’s Internet, John and Faye toured a rubber plantation that John remembered from the Roy novel. Joan experienced an Ayurvedic massage, which turned out to be quite the adventure - she spent most of it in a tiny g-string perched on a low stool!
I must admit to some guilt over the fact that much of my time in India was spent in rest and relaxation. This voyage is not a vacation, but the occasional “pause that refreshes” is very welcome. However, our time in Kerala included one experience that steeped us in local tradition and proved to be both educational and enjoyable. We attended a kathakali dance performance at the Cultural Center in Kochi. The audience was invited to arrive early to see the actors put on their make-up. We sat entranced for an hour as three actors applied dramatic colors, including an almost neon green for the male lead. All the paints were made from natural substances and were contained in traditional stone or wooden pots – no plastic tubes in sight. After finishing his green face, the hero character laid down with his head in the lap of a man who turned out to be the musical accompanist. Two white paper flanges were applied to his cheeks with layer after layer of paste, glue and small torn strips of white cotton fabric – fascinating!
After all the make-up was finished, we were ushered into the thankfully air-conditioned theater where the executive director of the center told us the story and symbolism of the performance we were about to see. One of the actors came out to demonstrate the nine emotions that would be portrayed. His dancing and gestures were accompanied by astounding and dramatic eye and facial muscle movements. The audience oohed and ahhed as he went through his repertoire, including unbelievably rapid movements of just one cheek! By the time the two dancers appeared for the performance, they had donned elaborate costumes and headdresses, transforming them from our new friends playing with colored paints to magical characters in a story from an ancient epic, the Ramayana. Unlike every other cultural play or dance I have attended in my travels, this presentation had been made so understandable and accessible that I felt I could follow the story and appreciate quite well the ancient art form.
Some of you may remember my post about India from my previous voyage,”The Elephant that is India.” (See the blog index to the right.) In it, I used the old metaphor of blind men exploring an elephant, each grabbing a different part and coming to very different conclusions about the creature. The stench and filth in Chennai will forever remind me of being behind the elephant, stepping in fresh dung. We actually had to navigate around some of that material as we strolled through the villages around our resort, but that’s not the part that will hereafter remind me of Kerala. On this my third trip to this incredibly diverse and fascinating county, I finally felt as if I were seeing its true essence. I stared into the elephant’s beautiful, dancing eyes and fell in love with India.

Cape Town Pictures

2009-03-04T05:56:00.000-08:00

Sorry, I couldn't get these to add onto the written piece.

Filling in the Rainbow

2009-03-04T05:47:00.000-08:00

South Africa calls itself the Rainbow Nation. Lavinia Crawford-Browne, who recently retired as Archbishop Desmond Tutu’s personal assistant, spoke to us about her native country as a microcosm of the world, with all its hopes and challenges. On my previous trips here, the extremes of this society presented themselves to me: I have tried to understand the lives and culture of black South Africans living in poverty in the Cape Town townships and was also a guest in the barricaded and beautiful home of an extremely wealthy family in Johannesburg. This time, I had opportunities to glimpse the lives of middle class South Africans and also the Cape Malay people, who are still referred to as “colored.”
Our Semester at Sea ship, the MV Explorer, was docked at the Victoria and Alfred Waterfront, offering every Western convenience imaginable just steps from the gangway. On our second day in port, I ventured off the ship early, searching for a cup of coffee and a newspaper. At 7:45 am, the mall was deserted except for an attractive, thirty-something, black couple on a similar quest. They led me to a delightful café and invited me to join them.
Leanne and Zain live in Durban and were on holiday, the first of their four years of marriage, and the first time either had left home. Zain works for an import company while Leanne works for FNB bank. They explained that they had gotten these jobs out of high school, drawn not by an interest in the work but because the companies offered tuition for higher education as a benefit. Leanne wants to be a lawyer, but first, both of them want to go to university. They were bright, gracious, articulate and clearly in love. We had a delightful time chatting and then exchanged emails. I judged them to be reasonably affluent, up and coming young people and half expected them to offer to buy my breakfast. When that didn’t happen, I offered to buy theirs. The look on their faces was enormous relief, delight and gratitude. Even in that very upscale mall, our three coffees, my bran muffin and the breakfast platter they shared came to about $8.00. The rand is not doing too well against the dollar these days. They may not have college degrees now or much disposable income, but Leanne and Zain have bright futures ahead of them. I heard lots of talk of the brain drain out of South Africa but I think these young people are committed to staying. They gave me hope for this country I care about a lot.
The Cape Malay people are primarily Muslims, the descendents of slaves and other laborers brought to South Africa in colonial times from India, Indonesia and Malaysia. They and all people of mixed race origins are still called “colored”, apparently without the pejorative connotation Americans are used to. They were given slightly preferential treatment over blacks in the days of apartheid. These people live in Bo-Kaap, a prime piece of real estate near the center of Cape Town. Although they used to be mostly low income, many of them have done quite well with small businesses. I continued my culinary mini-tour of the globe with an SAS-organized trip focusing on the food of this community.
We began with a walking tour of the Bo-Kaap neighborhood, passing by the mosques and the brightly colored houses that are its signature structures. We visited a spice shop with an overwhelming number of curry mixtures and basic spices. While the local cooks might buy a particular curry combination like leaf curry or garam masala, they always have a special ingredient they add that makes their dish unique.
Our cooking class teacher/hostess was a gracious, cheerful and patient Muslim woman with whom I immediately identified. She was about my age and body type and had three teenaged boys. We could hear them and their friends upstairs watching a rugby match, occasionally bursting into loud cheers. Even with such a distraction, when the call to prayer rang out, they filed downstairs, paused to nod politely as their mother introduced them and then went off to the mosque. When we arrived, we saw that their home was lovely but somewhat in disarray. Our hostess explained, with more good nature than I could have managed, that she had arrived home to find the mess the day before. Her husband, who has an apparantly successful construction company, had chosen that day to begin her long-awaited kitchen remodel – the day before she had 12 guests arriving for a cooking class! Undaunted, she had a propane burner set up for the curry and plywood tables on sawhorses elegantly draped with cloths for our work stations. Floor space was tight as we maneuvered around displaced cabinets and new high-end, stainless steel appliances, still covered in plastic. We had so much fun that no one seemed to mind a bit.
We learned to make the Cape Malay version of samosas, harkening back to the ones I had made in Fez. These had a meat filling and a slightly different folding technique. I tried to memorize the motions as our teacher’s beautiful brown hands created a pocket with the first two folds to securely contain the filling. I found out that folding in the opposite direction produced a nice hole in one corner of the triangle from which my mixture quickly leaked. We watched as she made the chicken curry and were assured that we’d be receiving the recipe as we left. The most fun was making the roti, a type of bread that is one of my favorites in Indian restaurants. I discovered why it tastes so good: it’s slathered in a huge amount of butter in the preparation of the dough. After the final step, the disk of dough, looking a lot like a tortilla, was ready to cook. She put it in a dry skillet because there was so much butter already in it. After a few deft turns to brown it, she put it on a plate and scrunched it up with her fingertips, like the tissue paper topping for a gift bag. Instead of noodles or rice, this roti was to be the base for the curry. We then received the genuine gift of a delicious meal and fascinating conversation at her long, makeshift table. I think I could make a habit of these international cooking classes; I’ve got another scheduled at the Chinese Cuisine Training Institute in Hong Kong.
Two SAS trips to the townships, one with Operation Hunger and one to enjoy music, got my return business. I didn’t get to see Vicky in Khayelitsha, who, some of you may remember, runs a B&B and enriches the lives of many of the children in her neighborhood. She is a special friend of Dave and Katie’s and those kids are the recipients of their generous support. With the help of friends who did go there, I sent pictures of them with Savannah and Asher, and she was reportedly thrilled.
The music workshop was as wonderful as I had remembered. This time I actually got a little lesson in marimba which I loved, as well as drumming and dancing. The charismatic leader of that program must have been separated at birth from his twin brother, Ron Hardy, who runs an identical program for the young black men in Ledbetter Heights in Shreveport. Both are passionate teachers, devoted to the music and the kids, and the love between them. They both believe that each culture’s traditional music must be preserved, but also that learning can be a vehicle for character-building and possibly future employment. I predict that the success of both men and their students will continue for a long time to come. Ledbetter Heights and Khayelitsha are lucky to have them.
The rest of my time in Cape Town was mostly spent on guilty pleasures and one day of stomach troubles that kept me from venturing very far. I had several fabulous meals with friends, complete with delicious South African wine, and a welcome feast at the sushi-on-a-conveyor belt restaurant in the V&A mall. No, I don’t think that caused the aforementioned problem – it was the freshest fish I have ever tasted. I enjoyed shopping and getting errands done. I even took in a movie, Doubt, which happened to be starting as I was walking by. Best of all, I was able to Skype with four of my kids and their kids, luckily catching a few at home and on their computers on a Saturday morning. The highlight was seeing that adorable Asher asleep on his father’s lap. Then Dave called me back a few minutes after our lengthy chat was over because the baby had waked up and I could get a better look at him. I purely hate not being able to be in Seattle right now but, with the help of technology, I felt like I had a very special visit with my baker’s dozen grandbaby and his proud papa.

WELCOME

2009-02-22T03:47:00.000-08:00

Dave, Katie and Savannah Seawell have just welcomed a new member of their family. Baby Asher Galloway Seawell arrived in three hours on February 14th and weighed in at 10 lbs, one ounce. He was 23 inches long and healthy in every way. We all couldn't be happier and the new family seems to be thriving. Mom and Dad report Savannah is very excited about her little brother and the baby is sleeping and eating well. Congratulations Dave, Katie and Savannah! Welcome to the world, Asher! Marsea loves you all very much.

NAMIBIA

2009-02-22T03:23:00.000-08:00

Visiting Otutati

The patina of their skin mesmerized me: velvety, softly shiny, the color of the red clay African earth I had first fallen in love with in Rwanda. The body paint Himba women use for sun protection and decoration is the salient feature of their culture, rich with tradition and, for me, a beautiful embodiment of quoz. Every morning, including the day of our visit to the village of Otutati in northwestern Namibia, the women milk the cows then spend two hours shaking a calabash container until the milk becomes butter. They grind red rocks into a fine powder and mix it into the butter. The mixture is applied twice a day all over their skin, rubbed in like lotion. The women wash it off only two times in their life. One is when they get married – they wash, go to the village of their new husband and apply the paint made by that village. The other time is if they are hospitalized in nearby Opuwo; the nurses require them to wash before they can get into the ward’s clean white sheets. When I heard that, I felt a little apologetic for my nursing sisters, but then I don’t have to wash the linen.

I never fully understood where all the men were but it was clear the women and children were doing the majority of the work in the village that morning. The chief sat in the center of it all, drinking the fresh, warm milk brought by one of his four wives and issuing orders to the children who were separating the kids from the goats. Young mothers and older women sat working in front of each hut – grinding maize on a large stone, sewing hides into clothes, stirring a pot of porridge. The cluster of mud brick and stick huts housed an extended family and several of these groups made up the village. A large pile of wood designated the center of the village. It was in front of the chief’s large hut and we were cautioned not to walk between that structure and the holy fire. One woman who I noticed did not have painted skin had just returned from the hospital. The fire was laid for a celebration that evening of her return to good health, after which she would re-apply the paint.

We didn’t get to stay for the ritual but we were treated to impromptu dancing and singing by the women. They seemed shy at first, laughing behind their hands and taking only brief, self-conscious turns at dance solos out in front of the group. Gradually, probably encouraged by the bills we were placing in their gourd bowl, the recital really got going and they threw themselves into it, delighting us with their performance. With the help of our guide, we pulled the children aside, not too far away from their moms, because I had been asked by Mark Shadle to try to get a recording of children singing songs their mothers had sung to them when they were little. Four girls about eight or nine years old sang adorably, without hesitation. Several of us had brought small gifts such a stickers, balloons, barrettes, and small balls so that was our chance to pass them out. Unlike some of the other times I’ve done this with children, they did not grab or squabble over the gifts. Tthe older children seemed to be making sure their younger siblings got something.

The loving kindness of the Himba people was demonstrated over and over. The teamwork and cooperation was everywhere evident, with all the adults looking out for all the children and sharing all the work. Women worked on each other’s hair, rubbing in the red butter and arranging intricate plaits. What struck me most was how the moms interacted with the babies. Two or three young women, probably wives of the same man, sat in front of each hut, tending to their chores. They were surrounded by babies. These moms had ingenious ways of keeping the crawlers and toddlers nearby and out of trouble, all without cribs, bouncy seats, playpens or any of the other paraphernalia we American moms and grandmothers seem not to be able to live without. Using only a piece of cloth as both sling and ground cover, these beautiful women managed to feed and care for their babies, all the while continuing with their work. One little one, who had obviously only recently learned to sit up, was corralled in the bend of his mom legs as she sat sewing. Whenever one started to fuss even a little, the mom would put the child to her breast, often quite briefly, and all would be right with the world. Even the toddlers seemed calm and content, sitting and playing with some basic toy such as a small scrap of leather.

As I wandered around the village, I was filled with questions and frustrated by being a visitor who did not know their language. Our guide interpreted for us but couldn’t be with everyone as we scattered out, drawn by the various activities of their morning routine. I wanted to be respectful and not interfere with their work that had to be done, but I wanted so badly just to sit down and chat with the women – about how beautiful they and their children were, about how wonderful my grandchildren were, about all the things that mothers care about the world over. I watched them nursing their babies and I wanted to talk about all the new moms and babies I had been privileged to work with during my years as a labor and delivery nurse. I felt the presence of my own mother and how much she would have loved to be with me and those babies, moms and grandmothers.

Quoz was all around me. This ancient tribe has been living in this remote part of Namibia for centuries, close to the earth, using utterly primitive tools, farming and herding, giving birth and dying. Without any of the trappings of modern civilization to distract me, what I saw was their humanity and their community. What I felt was thankfulness for the sisterhood of all women in our global village.

COOKING AND FEASTING IN FEZ

2009-02-13T04:20:00.001-08:00

Crispy phyllo triangles encasing snowy goat cheese with black olives and paprika, sprinkled with coriander seeds. Fresh artichoke hearts, sliced oranges, garlic and red onions sautéed in butter and olive oil then simmered in a bath of fresh-squeezed orange juice and garnished with preserved lemon. Plump eggplants, tomatoes, jalapeno and Anaheim chilies stewed with onions and garlic, spiced with paprika, cumin, black pepper and coriander, then garnished with cilantro, purple olives and yellow peppers. Tagine of lamb with peppers, onions, garlic and stewed quince. Date balls with walnuts, rolled in coconut. Apple pastille flavored with saffron, topped with toasted almonds and orange blossom cream. Our feast of Moroccan delights was ready to be served.

The four students in our cooking class at the Riad Tafilalet in Fez reluctantly took off our chef’s jackets. We walked from the small, magical kitchen of noted Moroccan chef Lahcen Beqqi into the tiled courtyard dining room as we morphed into lunch patrons and enjoyed our creations. Between bites, we exclaimed about the delicious food we had helped create and relived the day.

Lahcen begins every day the same way all good chefs do: he goes to the market to see what’s fresh. Trailing his students like ducklings, he strode up and down, past countless stalls in the souk, his experienced eye scanning the offerings of vegetables, meat, grains, nuts, and spices. Several times some of us got left behind as we foreigners stopped to ogle the exotic food laid out before us. The market was in high gear, teeming with shoppers and the occasional donkey-drawn wooden cart, one of which, crammed full of live snails, almost ran me over.

When we finally reached the end of the grocery stalls, the chef gathered us in a huddle to discuss the day’s menu. Suggestions for dish after dish came tumbling out of his mouth. How could we possibly choose? Somehow decisions were made and we turned around to retrace our steps and begin the shopping in earnest. Lahcen knew exactly who to buy from and what the correct price should be, no indecision or bargaining whatsoever. The only hiccup came when he realized that he had underpaid for some items and quickly went back to the vendor to correct the mistake. He taught us how to choose from the abundant piles: only the most perfectly round onions for they are the sweetest, only the tightly closed artichokes because they are the freshest. Glistening dates still on their stems went into brown paper packets, soft white goat cheese was wrapped in butcher paper and fresh vegetables were tucked into a straw basket. He examined and discussed with the butcher several lamb shoulders, then chose the best for our tagine, a traditional stew. Laden with our treasures, we returned to the riad to get down to business, the delightful business of learning to cook Moroccan cuisine.

My classmates and I were unable to conceal our childish delight at playing dress-up as we donned our chef’s jackets, embroidered with the name of the riad. We were a group of four: myself, my new friends from Seattle, Hugh and Linda Straley, and a thirty year-old American woman named Lacey who had been traveling for five years. Five years! When I asked her where she had traveled, she answered “Everywhere!” and I believed her. She entertained us with interesting stories including an account of her time learning acupuncture at a remote clinic in China without benefit of knowing any Mandarin or her teachers speaking any English. She had most recently paused her travels to earn some money at a bed and breakfast in France where she polished her culinary skills. She was by far the most talented student among us. I hope she carries through with her plans to open an inn and restaurant featuring locally grown food, either in Montana or New Mexico.

Besides chef and students, there were two more members of our cooking team. Lahcen introduced them to us as Fatima Couscous and Fatima Tagine.( Moroccans probably think most Americans are named John or Mary and my impression is that most Moroccans are named either Mohammed or Fatima). Their round, smiling faces were framed in white head scarves and they tolerated the Western novices with patience, kindness and good-natured giggles. My chest swelled with pride when one of them praised the way I folded the triangle pastries or samosas. They anticipated the chef’s every move, gathering the cutting board and proper knife before he could even reach for it. They kept constant but unobtrusive watch on the pots we were supposed to be tending, pantomiming to encourage another stir or gently placing a hand covering ours when we should just leave it be.

The actual cooking process is, I must admit, something of a blur in my memory. I do remember that we laughed a lot. Many tasks got started very quickly in the beginning with each of us starting on different prep tasks, making it difficult to get a sense of where it was all going.. Throughout the day, I struggled to find an opportunity to stop, quickly wipe off my hands and take notes or photographs, both of which I badly wanted to help me remember the experience. I finally just focused on the cooking and enjoyed being in the moment: the small room steamy from the pressure cooker filled with the lamb tagine, the heady smells of oranges and garlic, the colors and textures of Chef Beqqi’s proprietary spice mixtures, the courage and determination of my fellow students as we fumbled and persevered in an exotic environment; the practiced and graceful dance of the three Moroccans on their tiny, culinary stage.

Although I expected a lot more of myself, I did come away with two new skills. I learned how to grate a fresh tomato, hopefully without adding any of my own protein to the dish. You halve a tomato horizontally and grate it against the largest holes on a box grater. Miraculously, the flesh pulls away and the skin remains intact, sheltering your fingertips and knuckles. The resulting pulp makes a fine start for a fresh tomato sauce. The second skill I hope to use the next time I need to bring the hors d’oeuvres to a potluck. Starting with phyllo dough made by Pepperidge Farm instead of by Fatima, I think I can produce a reasonable likeness of the goat cheese samosas. The secret is in the spices of course and I’d have to guess at those. Chef Lahcen was a little evasive when we questioned him about the contents of his spice mixtures. He was forthcoming with “paprika, cumin, black pepper, ground coriander” but when we asked him the proportions, he would vaguely reply “lots of paprika, less cumin, a pinch of black pepper, some coriander”. Who can tell whether it was the vagueness of an experienced chef who cooks by instinct and feel, much like our grandmothers did, or understandable protectiveness of his intellectual property. He promised us recipes by email but they haven’t shown up yet; however, he has put a few on his website at www.fescooking.com.

Much of my Moroccan cooking adventure was steeped in the exotic. I’ve never prepared and cooked a quince or skinned an almond. Who knew saffron adds a subtle but wonderful flavor and color to apples in a dessert? We were told how to make the fabulous orange blossom water but I can’t imagine ever pulling that off. Maybe they sell it at Whole Foods but I’ve never seen it. As he deftly extracted the hearts from the artichokes, Lahcen told us that Moroccans use all parts of the plant. The long stems they are sold with, as well as the leaves, go into the stock pot. Even the tiny fibers of the choke are dried and turned into an emulsion to flavor yogurt. Some things were just different or low tech like grinding walnuts with a mortar and pestle instead of in the Cuisinart.

A couple of times when I stepped back to take a picture, the reality of where I was and what I was doing hit me. Quoz was definitely all around but with Lahcen and the two Fatimas forming a bridge, I easily walked into the world of this exotic cuisine. We found much in common and I enjoyed much that was familiar: the delicious aroma of garlic sautéing in olive oil, the classic French combination of eggplant and tomato, the necessity of a perfectly sharpened knife. I had dreamed of this adventure ever since I had read a New York Times travel article about Fez, an exotic place with extraordinary cuisine, and it did not disappoint. Neither did our sumptuous Moroccan feast.

2009-02-09T07:41:00.001-08:00

FINDING BRIDGES TO QUOZ IN MOROCCO
Part One

In the old city or Medina in Fez, you can find a camel’s head advertising the butcher’s wares; huge, white satin, bejeweled thrones for rent for wedding ceremonies; and enormous, gleaming copper pots, also available on loan, to cook the camel for the marriage feast. For everyday meals, there are couscous in different shades and grinds; glistening, sticky dates; sweet, red onions; plump, brown almonds; dusky, purple eggplants; beef carcasses with one testicle still attached to attest to its preferred gender; golden honey flavored with thyme or oranges for drizzling over pastilles; and pastel-colored blocks of ambrosial nougat imbedded with almonds. Moroccans use their favorite foods in enticing combinations of savory and sweet: lamb with quince, couscous with raisins, saffron and apples.

Juxtapositions challenged me at every turn in the Medina. By far the most striking one was myself with this place, this Other, this quoz. For a long time, in my personal dictionary, the definition of exotic has been Morocco. I have fantasized about hearing the call to prayer drifting through a market crowded with donkey carts and shoppers in caftains and jellabas. I envisioned dark narrow alleys, colorful, tiled doorways and soup pots bubbling in street cafes, redolent with the fragrance of exotic spices. And then I was there, inside that dream, trying to take it all in, trying to stay in the moment – smelling, listening, and looking around in all directions. Armed with my new resolve for this voyage, I wanted to live the question of what happens when I am face-to-face with The Other? Do I simply observe or do I want to connect? What relationship, if any, is possible? Are there any ways into the not-me and how will it feel being there?

Fez evoked all my habitual responses: soaking it all in, making photographs and notes to anchor my memories, being curious and asking questions. Although it wasn’t exactly clear to me as it happened, I also found a way in, discovered a bridge to take me from myself to the other. Actually there were two bridges, two people who guided me from myself out into a relationship with this exotic, foreign place and culture. One was the chef for the cooking class I had arranged, but that story will come in Part Two. First, I want to tell you about Thame..

It seems absurdly simple now. Why did I even ask that esoteric question of how to relate to quoz? For eons, when encountering new places or new experiences, people have gotten a guide. I’ve had dozens and dozens of guides over the years, some quite memorable and some woefully inadequate. But Thame (pronounced Tommy) came to me one afternoon in Fez to fulfill that old saying about when you need a teacher, one will come. I felt completely outside of Moroccan culture, as baffled by its ways and mores as tourists are completely confused by the warren of tiny streets in the Medina. I wanted very badly to find a way in.

Dressed in a brown wool jellaba, the traditional hooded robe of the Berbers, and white, crocheted skull cap, Thame guided me and my marvelous, new travel companions, Hugh and Linda Straley, to mosques and Koranic schools, vegetable stalls and fabric shops, elaborately tiled courtyards and bustling squares. We saw very few tourists, possibly due to the cold and rainy weather, but there were many residents out shopping and visiting, coming home from school or work. Around 150,000 people live in the Medina, many of whom work in the new city or European Sector as Thame called it. The hint of disdain in his voice as he said that didn’t seem to be racially based but more like “How could anyone chose to live there instead of here?” How indeed. His love for this place was as crystal clear as the ambiance was dark and dense. And that love was everywhere returned to him.

Thame’s stature in the community was constantly demonstrated. He could hardly move along past a few stalls before someone would call to him. He’d make eye contact and flash a radiant smile of recognition, white teeth in brown face. He’d nod, wave his umbrella or exchange a few words. Older people would fall in step with him and pick up a conversation that seemed to be only recently interrupted. Shopkeepers would call to him, seeming to say “Ah, you’ve got Americans today – very nice, very wealthy. Bring them here to look in my shop.” Thame would greet them but, thankfully, usually keep us moving. We had heard many stories of tourists being relentlessly hassled by touts and “fake guides” here but being with Thame, an officially licensed guide, prevented any of that nuisance. It was like being a visiting relative, shown around town by a well-loved uncle who had lived in that community all his life. Even beggars would greet him with a hopeful smile and he’d respond, inconspicuously handing them a few small coins. One of the five pillars of Islam is alms-giving and Thame was nothing if not a devout Muslim.

Islam occupies a central place in Thame’s life. He lives his religion and its values so vibrantly that I think I began to understand it a little. He made it visible and real to me. His values about money, his family and his community were illustrated in his many stories. His warmth and wisdom were genuine and captivating .Twice during our afternoon tour and once again the next morning when we went out with him, the call to prayer rang out through the old city. Before long we would find ourselves in a carpet workshop or ceramics factory where Thame turned us over to the salesman for a spirited tour ending up in a showroom crammed with products for sale. You’ve all probably been there, standard procedure everywhere, with a commission on the purchases for the guide. Sadly, the Straleys and I are not big shoppers but Thame seemed more surprised by that than disappointed. During these shopping breaks, he would excuse himself, find a spigot to do his ablutions and duck into a quiet, hidden corner to pray. During decades of guiding, he had devised a way to be devout and productive at the same time.

Islam has long been mysterious to me. I know no Muslims well, only a few are acquaintances. In Thame, our guide, I found a bridge not only to this place but also to this religion. I certainly can’t claim anything like true understanding of either. Thame and Lahcen, our cooking class chef (about whom I’ll write soon – check back) made the connections between me and what I had always thought of as not-me. Crossing over those bridges, I found a place, a culture, and a religion that felt more knowable, more comfortable than I could ever imagine. I am truly in their debt. I am also left with the questions: Where is quoz now? And what will happen when I meet it again?

ESPANA'S ESPECIAL TREASURES

2009-02-02T01:59:00.000-08:00

High above the rooftops of Cadiz on the Atlantic coast of Spain, a tall, square tower holds a simple but magical box, the Camera Obscura. From inside a small, dark room at the top of the Torre Tavira, you can get a 360 degree view of the picturesque city below complete with people strolling and cars passing by. It’s just like being inside a huge camera. The light comes through an opening a story above, bounces off a mirror, then through a lens and finally onto a large white disk about six feet across. The guide can raise or lower the disc to bring objects into focus either in the foreground or the background. Everyone in our group waited eagerly as the guide rotated the mechanism which acted like a periscope peering out at the city. Finally, there she was, the MV Explorer, our home-away-from-home, snugly docked in the harbor.

Cadiz offered a number of charming sights and activities but my fellow Lifelong Learners, Hugh and Linda Straley, and I were eager to go exploring in southern Spain. My new friends from Seattle were not only quite companionable folks to travel with but they also both speak beautiful, fluent Spanish thanks to living for a few years in Panama. As wonderful as our travels were, by far the best part was forging a friendship with these two intelligent, compassionate and easy-going people. I really lucked out – good travel companions are a rare treasure.

Our itinerary took us via rented car to Arcos de la Frontera, Ronda, Cordoba and Seville. Because of this region’s proximity to northern Africa and the Arabic rule from 711 AD to 1492, the Islamic influence is everywhere present and altogether fascinating. An intriguing example is the enormous Mezquita (mosque) in Cordoba, built in the 8th through the 10th century. Its deep rose and white arches spanning hundreds of columns contain a space that draws you in to explore and question. What you find at the heart of this amazing mosque is a gigantic, ornate, full-blown Catholic cathedral! Enormous gilded altar, rococo carved wooden choir, Gothic arches, side chapels and soaring domed roof – all of it plunked down in the middle of the magnificent Islamic house of worship. The juxtaposition was, to these eyes, more than jarring. It just felt wrong.

My new resolve, as I told you previously, is to get more comfortable with living with questions and the Mezquita presented me with my first opportunity. Why? As I overheard a guide say, “Why would you tear the center out of this unique, magnificent mosque and replace it with something we can see so many other places in the world?” What made the Catholic rulers in the 16th century need to put their building just there? It makes me think of the Temple in Jerusalem and the Dome of the Rock, and also the children’s way of choosing who’s It by stacking fists one on top of another. I found myself asking an age-old question: Is it human nature to be dominant instead of additive and collaborative? Will that compulsion ever change?

Ok, I promised a lighter, fun-filled post this time so I’ll move on to the food. What could be more fun than tapas, delightful tortillas, numerous kinds of fresh fish and excellent Spanish wine? Of all the delicious dishes we indulged in, fellow foodie Hugh and I gave the highest marks to the cold almond soup at the parador in Ronda.

All over Spain, fortresses, convents, palaces and castles have been transformed by the government into hotels or paradors, from quite reasonable to decidedly lavish. The one in Ronda overlooks a spectacular river gorge and is connected by an ancient stone, impossibly tall bridge to the old town on the other side. We chose this spot for lunch on recommendation of our interport lecturer, David Geis, a UVA professor who is actually SIR David since we was knighted by King Juan Carlos for his passionate promotion of all things Spanish. He had delighted us all with hilarious and informative lectures, tips and anecdotes as we sailed to Spain. We were not disappointed. The set five course meal at the parador presented some spectacular food but the best selection by far was the first one, a cold almond soup rich with garlic, cream and butter - nectar of the gods!

The remaining Moorish influence visible in Spain was just a teaser for our next port: Morocco. I’m beyond thrilled finally to be going to this intriguing country about which I have long fantasized. With the Straley’s as my travel buddies again, I will be taking the train to Fez and spending three days there exploring around. The highlight promises to be the cooking class I’ve booked on the recommendation of a New York Times travel writer at a riad or sort of B&B in the heart of the medina, the old city. The chef has trained and worked at some of the best restaurants in Morocco and will lead us out to the souks or markets to buy the food first. We’ll cook together and then enjoy our meal. I’ll try to come away with recipes to share with you all. Some of my kids will remember Abiba, a talented Moroccan cook we had once in France. Hopefully I’ll leave Fez able to make some dishes that will evoke memories of her marvelous couscous.

Late update: Before I could get the above entry posted, it was announced that we’ve hit a glitch. Even thought the fuel barge was along side of the Explorer, we could not in fact bunker (take on fuel) in Gibraltar yesterday due to the bad weather and rough seas. We were supposed to be in Casablanca already this morning. As it is they have finally finished the process in thankfully calm water and we’re weighing anchor and heading south as I write. We’ve lost most of a day in Morocco which is a terrible shame but the “f” word on Semester at Sea is “flexibility” and this delay is just one more reason why. I’m going to try to make lemonade of the day by enjoying rare down time, playing with my photographs (and maybe even learning how to post them here) and meeting with my newly formed shipboard family. Please visit here again and read of my adventures in Morocco and more about shipboard life. As always, I adore your comments so please post your feedback, questions, or just a quick note to let me know you’re out there.

2009-01-27T13:08:00.000-08:00

The class that is challenging me the most on this voyage is Nomadology, a course in multi-writing, war and peace, multiple multiples, either/and, my-story/stery and so much more. It is rattling all my cages - and that's a good thing. An assignment for the class asked us to respond to a very simple question: Why do I travel? The piece below is my current answer. I welcome your comments.

EITHER HOME AND QUOZ

Varanasi is either home and Quoz, either myself and The Other. During one spectacular sunrise in 2002, that ancient Indian city on the Ganges revealed to me its everyday life, brimful of mystery and contradiction: cleansing in filthy water; life-affirming rituals performed with bloated corpses floating by; dawn and darkness; bells and Sanskrit chanting; water and fire; saffron marigolds and tattered grey shrouds; magnetism and revulsion.

Varanasi is why I travel – to come face to face with quoz, The Other. In Road to Quoz: An American Mosey, his greatest work since Blue Highways, William Least Heat Moon resuscitates this moribund word as he explores the universally recognized phenomenon of encountering that which is completely foreign, exotic, unknown. Beginning from his home in Missouri, he goes in search of what is totally outside his familiar and quickly finds it, often quite nearby.

My own travels have been guided by a similar search, by my hunger for the not-me. My Life List of Destinations was once headed by Tibet and then it became Morocco, which a fortuitous itinerary change for this voyage has delivered to me. Now the tiny South Pacific island of Yap is number one. Having lived these encounters with exotic places in faraway lands a number of times, I’m beginning to look more closely at how I react, what happens in the intersection.

My habitual response when I come face-to-face with quoz has been to observe only. I make mental and digital notes then later wrap the experience in spoken and written words. I want to change that, to discover ways to respond differently, perhaps to interact. I want to acknowledge the questions I have, the gaps in my understanding. If I act on the very human urge to seek out common ground, what does that do to the otherness? What does it feel like to inhabit that question, that tension? What propels me toward quoz, what am I really seeking? Can I embrace the challenging concept of either/and?

I know there will be many more questions. I confess I’ve lived a life too often characterized by hubris, by thinking I know many answers. Beginning on this voyage, I want to learn to celebrate the questions.

Shake Down Cruise to Turks and Caicos

2009-01-11T19:27:00.000-08:00

There was a whole lotta shakin’ goin’ on at the Bollywood dance class yesterday. Three young Indian-American women led a handful of brave volunteers through a dance number they had choreographed themselves in preparation for the talent show later in the evening. Their gleaming black hair swayed and their dark eyes smiled coyly as their bodies jumped, strutted and shimmied. My fellow corps members were a diverse bunch – young, not-so-young, slim, curvy, black, white, confident, awkward. We threw ourselves into the dance, trying to mimic the beautiful movements of our mentors, their hands, hips, shoulders, and heads all sensuously synchronized with lithe legs and supple feet. The song told the story of two lovers, of course, and the corresponding dance steps illustrated the phases of the universal boy-meets-girl ritual. The results of our strivings were, well, let’s just say mixed. But we all had fun, laughing, tangling our feet and begging for just one more run through from the top. I had chosen the class as my workout for the day with no intention, despite friendly urging, of performing in the show. I was their most enthusiastic fan that evening, cheering on my fellow dancers. When my classmates finished the routine and drifted away, the three young women continued alone to delight us with a gorgeous demonstration of how it’s really done.

Bollywood dance is just one of the offerings on the Reunion Voyage of Semester at Sea to Turks and Caicos. The program has been full of all the beloved elements of SAS with plenty of time to socialize with shipmates, colleagues and new friends.

We listened to Les McCabe, the President of SAS and Executive Dean on my upcoming Spring 09 voyage, summarize an extremely successful past year and excite us with all the plans and challenges ahead. The goals include “greening” the ship, partnering with international universities in China and Germany, maintaining enrollment at its current peak levels during these challenging financial times and an ambitious capital campaign to support the present and future quality of the program.

Semester at Sea’s mission is “to educate individuals for leadership, service and success in shaping our interdependent world.” Go see the film The Soloist when it is released near the end of April and you’ll see that mission fulfilled. We were treated to the world premier of this true story about a brilliant musician, played poignantly by Jamie Foxx, who has schizophrenia and lives on the streets of Los Angeles. Steve Lopez, (Robert Downey, Jr.) is an LA Times reporter who struggles both with how to help him and what it means to be his friend. Producer Gary Foster, of Tin Cup and Sleepless in Seattle, is an SAS alumnus who applied to the homeless population of LA what he learned on his voyage about respect for people of a different culture. He insisted on shooting in Skid Row where the story actually took place and, over the strenuous objections of studio lawyers, he hired members of that community to play themselves in the film as well as be interns in the production process.

A dynamic literature professor from UVA, Dr. Jahan Ramazani, introduced us to the culture of Turks and Caicos by way of the poetry of some remarkable Caribbean poets. He brought recordings of the melodic voices of Derek Walcott (a special favorite of Barack Obama), Louise Bennett and others reading their work. The captivating voices of these Caribbean poets brought to life a cross-racial, hybridized cultural identity revealed in the creolized language. I thought of what Dr, Ramazani said about language being an important vehicle of historical memory as I listened to the cadence and musicality of our guide today who showed us around the island of Grand Turk.

I’ve shaken my booty to a Bollywood beat. My previous concept of the Caribbean as mostly a place to enjoy the sun and the water has been shaken up a little and broadened. I’ve unpacked, shaken the wrinkles from my clothes and am snuggly settled in cabin 5019, starboard side of the MV Explorer. I hope you’ll stay with me as I journey once again around the world.

I’ll leave you with my favorite passage from the poetry Dr, Ranazani shared with us. Derek Walcott wrote a long poem in the voice of Shabeen, “a cross-racial, cross-cultural West Indian Odysseus.” His words are fitting as we all prepare to celebrate the Inauguration of President Obama and as I prepare to go to sea:
“I’m just a red nigger who love the sea,
I had a sound colonial education.
I have Dutch, nigger and English in me,
and either I’m nobody, or I’m a nation.”

Of Falls and Forests

2005-04-17T13:11:00.000-07:00

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

2005-04-07T01:25:00.000-07:00

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

2005-03-25T11:41:00.000-08:00

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

2005-03-17T20:56:00.000-08:00

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

2005-03-12T23:32:00.000-08:00

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

2005-03-03T02:23:00.000-08:00

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

2005-02-28T18:11:00.000-08:00

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

2005-02-21T19:50:00.000-08:00

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

2005-02-04T15:44:00.000-08:00

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

2005-02-04T14:28:00.000-08:00

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

About "The Night"

2005-02-01T11:17:00.000-08:00

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

2005-01-21T17:01:00.000-08:00

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

2005-01-17T23:49:00.000-08:00

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

2005-01-09T20:40:00.000-08:00

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

2005-01-09T19:36:00.000-08:00

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!!