Checking Off My Bucket List

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cherry Blossom Heaven

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

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

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

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

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

Enjoy!

Zigzag Bridges

(For photo credits, see below)

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

Challenges in Viet Nam

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thai Tidbits

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

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

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

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

Filling in the Rainbow

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

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

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.”