semester at sea

Hawaii

2009-12-09T19:44:00.000-08:00

Surf competition on the North Shore. We got a free day in Honolulu because the storm in the Pacific was too bad. What a way to study for exams... the day before, spend it on a beach. Not too good for the GPA, but what would you do?

Just chillin. Me and MCA soakin up the rays in Honolulu.

Does anybody know who this is? Some famous surfer guy. I don't know... everybody was taking a picture of him, so Mary Chandler ran after him and stuck her camera all in his face. It was hilarious. Oh and p.s.... it's KELLY SLATER.

The girls on the ship the night of our fancy dinner. Man I'm gonna miss this bunch a lot.

Hawaii
Dec 4-7

What a perfect port to end on. Warm sun, white beaches, turquoise water. We hung out on the beaches of Honolulu for 2 days and sailed to Hilo on the big island. Hilo, a tiny town, was overcast and not that interesting, but we went back to Honolulu for a day to avoid the big swells and bad weather that we would have run into on our trip to San Diego. So study day was back on a beach instead of cooped up in the hull of the ship!!! Couldn’t have been more excited. Cut my foot on some coral so I’m hobbling around, but I’m just going to hobble to the beach. Too bad I’m being so active. We went to the Quicksilver surf competition on the North Shore for the day and saw Kelly Slater and some other really impressive dudes rippin’ it out there. Huge competition… just like Blue Crush. They said the waves were the biggest that day than they had been in 10 years.

It’s really weird to be back in America. Some of the clichés jumped out at us… like the monstrous portions and abundance of everything. Magazines, food, pop culture, tabloids, shopping, planned communities. Also the touristy American uniform of middle age men… tall white socks, Adias flip flops, polo shirts, khaki shorts, baseball hat. I can’t tell you how many of those we saw. It was strange to begin filtering our conversations in public spaces again; everyone can understand us now! Directions were easy to come by, and sarcasm from bartenders and waiters came back into our lives. Jokes don’t translate that well abroad, so it was nice to banter again. Cell phones sprung up again everywhere and welded themselves to the faces of SAS kids and my friends, much to my dismay. I didn’t miss mine one bit. It’s actually still in Cleveland, MS; I refused to take it. I loved not having it. You meet your group at the coffee shop down the road at a certain time and if you’re not there, you’re not going. You just hop on with another group and end up having a completely different but usually just as great experience. You live in the moment with the people you’re with and relish what’s going on around you. You don’t love your friends less because you are out of contact; interesting trinkets, certain conversations, or even a laugh can bring them along with you better than a cell phone. So much of this trip would be lost in wireless oblivion if I tried to explain it via phone. Oh, our public transit is horrible too because everyone uses their own cars. And I almost tried to barter for a piece of jewelry. Reverse culture shock, here I come.

The overall experience I have had with Semester at Sea has broadened my horizons and helped me in my quest to become a global citizen. I have learned so much both inside and outside the classroom about globalization and the blends, distinctions, and preservation of cultures. The academic experience of Semester at Sea has been challenging and enriching. My expectations of academic life were, for the most part, reversed, in that I anticipated Global Studies to be my favorite course and dreaded Operations Management. The latter, with Dr. Dan Duran, stretched me, challenged what I thought I could do and what a professor could ask, and stressed me out. I learned more about public speaking, group dynamics and projects, and a deadline crunch than I ever would in a public speaking class or leadership seminar, but I came away from the course with a plethora of new applicable knowledge and enormous respect for Dr. D. My Business, Government, and Society class was also surprising; I was not anticipating but was thrilled at the focus on Corporate Social Responsibility. I thought CSR was what I wanted to do before the voyage; reading the assigned text from the Harvard Business Review on the subject confirmed it. The only class I anticipated correctly was Non-profit Leadership; I knew I would love it and did. I could not imagine a better way to present the subject than heavy class discussion and debate, and it stimulated all of us. I was impressed by the thoughts of my peers on the subject and proud of the philanthropic spirit that our generation appears to hold.

It seems that a lot of the world is not what I expected. Surprises wait in every new experience and adventure, and memories of them change shade and color your mind and perspective with time. I have seen the everyday life of people all over the world, increased my empathy and urge to contribute, and been surprised by the hope and entrepreneurial spirit I have encountered in people. By the grace of email, I have strengthened some of my dear friendships at home and awoken again the excitement and richness of the letter. I have made lifelong friends on Semester at Sea, and given the nature of the goldfish bowl ship, they have seen me in my raw essence. It has taught me to coexist with people in close proximity all the time and to relish it. This experience has also confirmed my adventure-seeking spirit and taught me that the worst thing that you can do for yourself is to remain stagnant. Stagnant minds, bodies, and souls that are not nourished grow flabby and discontent; challenges bring inspiration. I take this premise back with me as life experience and will always remember my bedroom ocean view of the semester I spent on the sea.

Japan

2009-12-09T19:04:00.000-08:00

At the subway stop in Shinjuku, Japan.

Real live geishas! They were taking pictures of themselves holding the leaves until I tapped them on the shoulder and asked to take one of them. So artisy. Actually I think they were maikos because they look young.

A Japanese garden.

Shibuya crossing! One of the busiest crossings in the world.

Capsule hotel! Best sleep I got in Japan.

5 am visit to fish market. Marcus loved this tuna. Took a thousand pictures of it.

My group meets Frank's group and paints Tokyo red.

Night after the capsule hotel, exploring Asakusa, Tokyo.

Japan

Nov. 11 Friday
We ported in Yokohama this morning and got off the ship after an intense passing through customs that involved fingerprints, pictures, forms, and metal detectors. The Japanese are extremely precise.
My preconceptions of Japan before I came were vague images of delicate bonsai trees, stone and sand gardens, geishas and samurais clad in kimonos, Sudoku, and, above all, SUSHI! They were not far off in accuracy—the traditions and culture are very ethnocentric as 90 % of Japan is Japanese by birth. They are an extremely polite, soft-spoken, passive people that won’t tell you “no” to your face.
After getting a little spending yen (and I do mean a little… the dollar has no power in Japan right now), we went to a 100 yen store (like a dollar store at home) and got a few cheap trinkets. Ah, how tight my budget belt is getting! The group was Marcus, Olivia, Charis, Carley, Mary C, and me. Lunch was incredible—this white dumpling of bread with sausage inside and shrimp and chicken dumplings and pot stickers. SO good. We took our goodies to a KFC (because MCA didn’t like the pot stickers). You know you are living in a flat world when the Japanese man sitting beside you is eating Kentucky Fried Chicken and you’re eating with chopsticks. Transfer of cultures at its finest.
We caught the subway to the small amusement park on the pier and rode the Ferris wheel and roller coaster. Later we met my friend Frank Butz in the subway station! Frank is from Ole Miss and is studying abroad for a year in Tokyo, working on his Japanese. We took the Minatuchi Line to Den-en-cho, the area where he lives.
Den-en-cho is an affluent and quaint neighborhood of corner food markets, dance studios, and teahouses. We winded down the dimly lit, clean, quiet streets as flower markets were closing and sake stores were opening. Discarding our shoes before we entered Frank’s house, we slid the door daintily into the wall to reveal a large rug and low lying furniture. He has 8 roommates from Japan so he is immersed in the language on all fronts. He’s doing quite well too—he definitely impressed me with his conversations and made it a lot easier to get around. We would never have found all the things we went to without him!
Piling our backpacks in a corner of his tiny room, we changed for the night and went with some of his roommates (Dice, Natsu, and Toshi) and 2 of his schoolmates from Germany (Christopher and Michael) to the restaurant where they filmed Kill Bill. It was so cool! Dice ordered our food, and taking me back to Ole Miss, we poured our airplane bottles of whiskey in our cokes to save money. Drinking is good in their culture; here you are expected to go out drinking with your boss at least 3 nights a week or it is considered rude. We had great food—edamame, cherry tomatoes wrapped in bacon, chicken kebabs, mushroom caps with smoky chicken filing, thin Kobe beef and potatoes, and chicken and veggie skewers. We didn’t eat a lot because in a big group it is considered rude. There are so many cultural things here that Westerners do that are rude here—taking the dish you ordered and putting it in front of you (you share everything), separating from a group or walking ahead of the group, handing money to the cashier (there’s a small dish that you place it in), crossing your legs in public (we got nailed on that in the subway), blowing your nose in public, sticking chopsticks straight down in a dish (it means “death to you”), eating fast (we were very rude at dinner, I think). When you receive a business card, you take it with both hands face up and bow. Wait until they leave to put it in your front pocket, never in your back because you sit on it. Japan is an advanced country with so many rights for its citizens; respect is their main commodity, so it struck me as odd that many Japanese cited their suicide rate as one of their main national dilemmas. They have the highest in the world, supposedly from overwork and stress. Japanese take everything so seriously, and honor is essential. If they feel they aren’t performing well enough in the work place they get depressed. There is a team that specializes in cleaning up suicides in the subways… it is the only time the trains are ever late, they say. How devastatingly sad.
It is suicide, not homicide or crime, that is their problem. Japan is one of the safest countries in the world, and they consider it dishonorable and disgusting to steal. One of our friends left a digital camera in a park at 9 am… we went back at 6 pm when he realized it, and there it was, sitting on the rock where he had left it. Another friend left a shopping bag on a bench in the mall and it was there an hour later. Bizarre! It was wonderful to not have to consciously have my hand on my purse when I walked down the street. I felt very safe all the time.
After dinner we took the subway to the Shibuya district for the busiest and most fun night life in Tokyo. Shibuya crossing is one of the most famous intersections in the world—the thick concentration of people flooding across the street from 3 different directions is truly a sight to behold. Shibuya is kind of like NYC’s Times Square—huge lit up billboards, lights everywhere, and an atmosphere that gives you an energy you can’t describe. We went to a Nomihodai place for drinks—you pay about $15 for an appetizer and get all you can drink for two hours. The booth we were in was secluded by thin tapestries and light wood walls on both sides. It didn’t have a hole in the middle for our legs—you either sat Indian style or stretched your legs out to join the people opposite the table from you. We played the Question game, the handslap reverse, and Zooma Zooma. It was great.
About 4 am we went up to Love Hotel hill to check out the legendary hourly themed rooms. We couldn’t look in at one without booking, but I loved seeing that sketchy alley with the bright pictures of castle and heart shaped beds.
Next to the subway to see the opening of the Fish Market. That was a surreal experience. Bright lights, tiny Japanese men running with buckets everywhere, pushing you out of the way, giant four foot tunas being cut by power saws, everything under the sea squirming and crawling in water or frozen on ice, displayed for the grocers and chefs. As the sun came up we watched the big fish auction. Men gave high fives and got really excited when they won a big one. Carts zoomed through the alleys at ridiculous speeds around us and 3 would have taken me out if people hadn’t tugged me out of the way just in time. The market was huge and we lost our bearings, so Frank asked a guy driving a cart if we could hop on the back of his empty trailer. We ended up holding tightly to each other’s backs as we weaved in and out of the alleys as we stood on the back of the cart. Great end of the night.
At about 630 am we started to crash fast. All we wanted was a soft place to lay our heads. Actually it didn’t have to be soft… a corner would have probably been ok with everyone at this point. We went to the top of this classy hotel lobby, but after we found out it was $200 a night we just sat on their couches. When we felt the eyes of the concierge begin to boar into the back of our heads, we shuffled back to the streets to try again.
We decided to try Love Hotel Hill again but after tying to sneak all 6 of us in at about 10 different places we concluded that that plan wasn’t going to work. Trudging back to Shibuya crossing with aching feet, we opted for the second story of Starbucks overlooking the crossing. Sleep pulled at our coattails and slumped us in a mush of bodies together on the floor. While Carley, Mary Chandler, and Charis commentated on the plentiful fashion, from the extremely chic business people to the crazy Hinjuku Goths, Olivia, Frank, Marcus, and I dozed. When the Starbucks barista made us sit on stools, we decided we were officially being hobos. At 10 am the 3-5th floors opened, which contained a big music store and café, so the nomadic herd moved again. I listened to the New Moon soundtrack with these wonderful surround sound headphones and went into this blissful, euphoric state when I heard Bon Iver and St. Vincent’s new track. Charis, Carley, and I bought it for $15 and each paid $5.
We then decided we couldn’t make it any longer and went to Frank’s apartment to get our stuff and find a hostel. We had stayed away from his apartment before now. He had gotten kicked out of his first apartment because his drunk American friend had accidently gone naked into his Japanese roommate’s room in the early morning and the guy was NOT ok with it. Japanese people are very reserved and private (except for the blatant display of porn in the form of Manga, a comic strip magazine of a big-breasted Japanese super hero. I didn’t see any of it, but I heard that men read it all the time on the subways. It seems to clash with their polite, reserved culture, but there are some weird fetishes here. Hello Kitty for example, and the baby doll fashion statement of a lot of young girls.)
Anyway, Frank had to move and we didn’t want to get him kicked out again, but the minute we sat down on his floor we slept for five hours. At 5 pm we all woke up refreshed but couldn’t believe what we just did. He then helped us find a capsule hotel and bid us farewell… that sweet Southern boy gave me his jacket when I got cold, went with Charis to buy flats when her heels couldn’t hold her any longer, waited on us for everything, and always made sure we were having fun and were ok. It was so wonderful to see him! Had an incredible time.

11/21 Sat.
Started this day at 5 pm. Found the capsule hotel easily—It was an easy 30 minute subway ride. The capsule hotel was the coolest thing… We bought our room from a vending machine for 3000 yen ($30) and put our shoes in a locker in exchange for plastic slippers. Our capsule was literally a bed in the wall that you climb into. They were very cozy and spacious though; you could sit up and there was a TV and radio. We ate dinner at an incredible Italian place and I had the best pizza I’ve ever had in my life I think—prosciutto and mozzarella, thin crust. I wanted to do a little dance around the restaurant it was so good. Baskin Robbins ice cream after! Caramel apple flavor, a new one. Back to the hotel for the craziest bathing experience I’ve ever had. We put on our blue kimono style pajamas provided in our lockers and flopped up to the 9th floor to the ladies washroom. Once inside, we took off all our clothes and went into the communal washroom which consisted of four removable showerheads and buckets that you could sit on. After getting squeaky clean you could get in the huge hot tub. It was amazing. We felt fresh and wonderful and sleepy; the minute my head touched the pillow in my little cubby I was gone.

11/22 Sun.
I was woken up by Australian girls giggling and taking pictures right outside my screen. They obviously didn’t think people were sleeping in them because their forearms kept coming into my bunk, clamping themselves to the wall for a cute picture. The temptation was just too strong… I grabbed her. She screamed and jumped off as I rolled the screen up and said, “Well hey y’all, where are y’all from? Want me to take a picture of you?” Didn’t regret that move one bit. So fun.
That day we wandered around our area—Asakusa—to see what we could see. We got coffee and toast with butter and jam at a tiny little hole-in-the-wall place and saw a big temple. Met a really cool girl, Lea, who had just graduated college and was traveling the world solo. So cool. Hawaii was her first stop, and after Japan she’s headed to China, so opposite of us. From Oklahoma. Went to Denny’s for wifi and then to a sushi go round restaurant with her. The sushi, mostly sashimi, was placed according to price on different plate patterns and served in twos. The plates go around and around on a small conveyor belt in front of you and you just grab what you want. SO good.
Ok, I have to talk about the toilets. After the squatters in India and China, they came as a shock… the toilet seat is heated! It’s also electric and has about 4 buttons with options. You’ve got the water squirter for a nice, refreshing clean feeling, and you can adjust the pressure, the blow dryer (in case you feel climate friendly and don’t want to use toilet paper), and the automatic hand that wipes your butt for you. Ok, joking about the last one, but seriously! They were nifty.
After lunch walked around a bit more, hit up Starbucks, and headed to Tokyo station to figure out the overnight bus. The bus to Kobe was booked, so we went on the one to Osaka, which is 30 minutes away from Kobe. We ate at a noodle bar where you order and pay for your meal by pictures on a vending machine. You give your ticket to the cook and they give you hot green tea made from green powder while you wait. I had a big bowl of chicken, egg, rice, and cilantro for $4.50.
Our double decker bus departed right at 11:39 pm on the nose and we popped our seats back and our footrests up immediately. Pretty comfortable, actually, but I still couldn’t sleep. The thing reminded me of Stan Shunpike’s Midnight Express bus in the 3rd Harry Potter… what was it called? The purple one with the crazy driver… more magical than “Midnight Express,” right? Killed 2 ½ hours with HP6 on Charis’s computer.

11/23 Mon.
Arrived in Osaka dog tired… the plans to explore the city quickly turned into plans to see the back of our eyelids on the ship. Quick 30 minute subway to Kobe straight back to our rooms.
At 2 we emerged again and Olivia, Kate, and I walked around Kobe for a while. Big city with great shopping. Too bad it’s all way out of my price range right now. Chinatown, on the other hand, was a much better option. Olivia impressed us with her Chinese and we got little dumplings from the cute stations.
Later we took the train to a hot springs in a quaint tiny town about 30 minutes away. I feel like I’m back in the Delta with everything being 30 minutes away! Add 30 naked Japanese women to the equation and the spa was basically the same as our community bath the other night. We shed our clothes in the locker room and walked into the steamy community baths to sit on a bucket again and shower thoroughly before our soak in the springs. I’ve never seen that many naked women in my life. I’m very comfortable with my body now though; modesty’s out the window and my friends and I have bonded, to say the least.
As we walked through the narrow, winding street, the cold crisp night air felt welcome to our warmed insides. The baths were definitely a cultural experience. It’s crazy how bathing together is just a part of life there… it’s so natural to them. Made me wonder why Westerners have so much stigma attached to nudity; it’s automatically over-sexualized. The Japanese women seemed very comfortable in their skin and happy with the way they are. I wish their attitudes could be exported and swallowed by American teenagers.

11/24 Tues.
Our trip to Japan would not be complete without at trip to Kyoto, the keeper of beauty and culture. There are over 2000 shrines and 17 temples in the city and surrounding areas. Kyoto is home to one famous, illusive keeper of culture that baffles the mind of the Westerner—the geisha. Their refined grace flows easily as they daintily pour tea, light cigarettes, perform and sing with delicate instruments for a select group of Japanese businessmen behind the closed screens of tea houses. They are not prostitutes, but arrangements can be made with the highest bidder… and the bids get very high. Said to have dwindled in numbers to only 1000 in the world, geishas and maikos (their apprentices) appear one moment in quiet streets and stone paths and vanish in another. Their illusive tendencies make you wonder if you just hallucinated. The pale white faces and tightly wrapped silk kimonos linger tangibly in your mind only for a second before they too swirl into mist, impossible to capture. We were lucky enough to see 3… I think. I recommend reading and watching Memoirs of a Geisha… wonderful and fascinating true story.
Autumn in Kyoto flattered the city with brilliant shades of yellow, crimson, and green. Leaves of golden ginkgos leaned over swooping tiled roofs of temples and homes and bright red maples dipped their leaves into still lakes. We walked along the Philosopher’s Path, a quiet stone path that wove with a stream and the woods. As we meandered, we passed beautiful temples and small family-run shops. We ended up at the Nin-jo Castle right before it closed for the day and ran through its cold, empty rooms. The one attraction in the sans furniture palace of Berber carpet were the beautiful walls of gold-leafed murals depicting cranes, cherry blossoms, and women. The grounds were extensive and beautiful in their simplicity as well.
We cut it really close on time in getting back on the ship in Kobe, making a dramatic dash in the rain from the subway with 3 minutes to spare. We made it with no dock time though! Literally squeezed everything we could from our incredible time in Japan. It’s difficult to say because they are all so diverse and wonderful in their own ways, but I think Japan might have been my favorite country.

China

2009-12-03T01:54:00.000-08:00

Hong Kong, China

Wed. Nov. 11

Hong Kong, once called the barren rock, is an island of entrepreneurial superpower. Skyscrapers shoot from the water’s edge and cover everything except the lush green mountains that creep slowly behind the city of glass and steel. Once a British colony, Hong Kong rejoined the People’s Republic of China in 1997. Its bustling capitalistic economy preserves its democratic tendencies and keeps China from taking complete control. Called the New York of Asia, HK has an energy and electric feel that certainly reminds me of the city that doesn’t sleep. This city does though; people of all ages flock to the parks at 5 am to do Tai Chi. Unlike the rest of China, the majority of people speak Cantonese, not Mandarin, and about 35% speak English. Feng Shui is taken very seriously, especially in expensive construction projects. Thought to make or break a business. Ba gua mirrors deflect evil spirits and buildings lack any floor number that has 4 in it—4 is very similar to the word “die” in Chinese. Fusion of east and west with food too—dim sum, hot pot, and fast food restaurants coexist with haute cuisine.

We booked a trip through an independent travel agency, the China Guide. When we arrived in port, we were picked up from the ship for our Hong Kong city tour. We saw the Man Mo Temple, a Taoist place of heavy adornment and heavier incense. A hundred smoking coils of incense hung from the ceiling and sticks smoldered in sand pots near shrines, making a heady fog of sweet smells. Fruit, flowers, and candles were offered to a Buddha draped in yellow silk and Chinese lanterns gave off a dim glow. One side of the small temple was dedicated to fortune telling. There was one device, similar to an 8-ball, that you ask a question and your answer is revealed in an ancient book. It was a skinny clay pot filled with sticks that all had a number on them. You would shake the pot until 1 stick fell out, and that number corresponds to your fortune in the book. It took a long time to get just one out; if more than one fell, you had to start over. Kinda like Jenga, in a way. My number was 66… it chronicled the life of a Chinese poet that has links to my life. My fortune:

Saying #66: “Tao Fu relaxed in the bliss of spring.”

Message: Very bright prospect

Historical reference: Basically he had a great life… loved poetry and long story short ended up building himself a grass hut by the side of a stream. There, in the bliss of the warm spring air, he relaxed and indulged in drink, poetry, and the scenery. People said this was the most joyful moment of his life. So, can anybody see me ending up by a creek when I’m about 70, reading poetry and having a little wine? I can totally dig it. Thanks Tao Fu. Holla to my Chinese kindred spirit ancestor dude.

Prediction and advice: Sickness heals in no time.

Lawsuits settle quickly.

Wealth grows by degrees.

Travelers return.

Ripe time for marriage. (or not…)

Fortune gained without effort.

So basically I’m going to get married in 5 years and end up in a grass hut by a stream. Sounds ideal to me. I’d like to stretch out the marriage period to 10 years… but we’ll see.

After the temple it was out into the clear air again and up the steep tram for views from Victoria Peak. (Passed a wax Jackie Chan in the tram station… just throwing that out there.) Seeing the skyline from that height was absolutely incredible. So incredible that I bought a $6 ice cream the size of a kiddy cone. Didn’t realize it until it was in my hand. Hey, gotta give it to them though; these guys know their market. Everything was jacked up in price on that hill.

Snaked down the mountain’s steep curves and thrilling drops on a bus and had a traditional Chinese lunch of fired crab wontons, egg drop soup, some assorted meats and greens, and of course, tea! Black and jasmine.

After lunch we saw where it came from—the Aberdeen Fishing Village. We boarded cute little sampan boats used to take people across the Bay to Jumbo, the largest floating restaurant in the world (3 story dinner boat). The very traditional and delicate architecture of the dock provided stark contrast to the high rises just behind it, but was another example of preserving tradition while welcoming the future. Long green tile coated the roof that curved and swooped back up to the sky before it ended. Intricate geometrical latticework and small murals of warriors and women in silk hid between red columns. A fierce dragon head snarled from his illuminated circle atop the roof, and of course, the whole thing lit up like an incessant firefly at night.

Our sampan had about 25 Chinese lanterns hanging from its bamboo roof. Their fringe rocked and swayed as we motored around the fishing house boats of the harbor—yachts on one side, rickety old dingys on the other. Stark contrast.

After the fishing village we went to the most famous beach in Hong Kong—Repulse Bay (which doesn’t sound that wonderful really, but it was cool). It held a huge sculpture garden of enormous tiled buddas, golden fish, dainty gazebos, terracotta horses, and a giant tiled Chinese old man riding a turtle.

Went out to see the incredible light show across the bay that night—the buildings had lights that zig zagged, swirled, and jumped over the tall metal frames. As the lights reflected off the water, they danced to a chimey musical tune. It was hokey but awesome. That night Olivia, Carley, Mary C, Charis, and I went to the Four Seasons HK for a drink ($14 cocktail was amazing) and a late dinner.

Thurs. Nov 12

To Beijing by air today—3 hour ride from warm 70s in HK to the freezing 30s in the north. The city, white with new snow, seemed much quieter than HK. We checked into Huayu Hotel and tried to find a cool traditional Chinese place for dinner but it was so cold that we ended up going to a really weird place. Most people ordered cheeseburgers and paninis and they were terrible. My Chinese food was pretty good though. We then made a strange attempt at going out at this karaoke bar… we were the only people there and our “Love Shack” choice fizzled pretty quickly. We then went to Ho high street, which is a district of really cool bars around a lake, but it was completely dead. Which I found weird on a Thursday night… but I guess Beijing isn’t Oxford. And good luck with taxis… the language barrier is huge. This is the thickest wall I’ve encountered so far because there are no similarities between Mandarin and English at all. You have no chance of figuring out what things mean. We stopped 4 taxis before we found one that knew where our hotel was. Bizarre that we got where we needed to go each time!

Fri. Nov 13

The frosty morning air revealed a beautiful city cloaked in powder. To the girls’ delight, the first item on our day agenda was shopping in Silk Street, a five-story plaza with tons and tons of independent booths selling great knock off everything—North Face, Patagonia, Jimmy Choo, Salvatore Ferragamo, TODS, Longchamp… I mean every brand you could think of. Floor of coats, floor of shoes, purses, and accessories, floor of silk, and a spa and restaurant on the top. I did too much damage in Vietnam to go crazy again, but I did buy black and gold flats ($11), brown flat riding boots ($10), and a really great Ferragamo leather purse ($20). Not too bad right? Got a great deal. Could have done a lot more damage. I took myself out of the game and went to a Starbucks around the corner. After my Christmasy Cinnamon latte, I stopped off in the McDonalds bathroom—a squatter, like the rest of China (except the really nice places). For those of you that don’t know what a squatter is—lucky you. It’s a hole in the ground that you squat over. That was fun.

After we piled on the bus with all of our bags and burdens we rolled off to the Drum Tower where we met Tom Li, an adorable little guy about 23 that said “Ok great” and “awesome” in the cutest tones and said every word he considered important 3 times in case we didn’t catch it. Example “Ok, this is the ancient drum tower that the emperor used to call people together, people together, people together. Got it? Ok Great!”

A tiny little man cycled us around the town on his rickshaw after we trekked down from the tower and Tom Li hopped on the handlebars. We bumped through icy, muddy clay and rock and said “Ne haw” (hello) to everyone we passed. Very entertaining.

We were so glad to duck into an alley and someone’s home after the rickshaw—cold and hungry—best hot tea and peanuts I’ve had. We had a lot of wonderful food that the mother of the home had prepared, and at the end of the meal she introduced us to her pet black bird that spoke Chinese.

The doorways to homes are very characteristic of its inhabitants and what kind of family you will find there. Two posts above a door signify a lower/middle class, 4 posts signify upper class/government… more than that and you are a big deal. Also the doors are not flush with the floor; instead you step over a ledge before you can enter. This is based on the belief that ghosts are kneeless and cannot enter because of that barrier.

After we were toasty and warm we began our journey to the Great Wall—a 3 hour drive through the snowy mountains. We arrived right at sunset and ran up the slick hill to see the sun sink behind the craggy horizon. Absolutely majestic. We had dinner at a restaurant at the base of the wall—JinShan Restaurant. Very good.

We then piled on the bus—only had 1 boy in our group and 24 girls, so everyone strapped on long johns and piled on more layers. Except me, of course, because I never really bundle properly for anything. Carley, on the other hand, wore leggings, jeans, snow pants, 2 long sleeve shirts, a polar fleece, a hoodie, and a jacket. Not exactly sure how she moved! 15 degrees below Celsius on the Wall. Ridiculous.

We were given tiny crank flashlights and told to commence our 45 minute hike up to the wall in the dark. For most of the hike we sang Mulan tunes, and then we switched to Beatles. I’m sure someone wanted to throw snowballs at us. Or rocks. When we finally summated, we followed the wrong guide 2 towers down and hiked about 20 minutes out of the way. When we finally reached our tower, water, beer, and Oreos were waiting on us, along with our very relieved tour guide.

Mary C brought 2 bottles of wine, and watching her try to open them with cumbersome mittens and a black guard covering her face was hilarious. We made a huge pile of bodies outside and watched shooting stars for hours. The close night sky was more expansive, luminous and breathtaking than I’ve ever seen it before. Our laughter kept us warm as we huddled together with our backs against the crumbling ancient stones and snow. We slept inside 2 sleeping bags and were relatively warm, thanks to body heat.

Dawn came early and we shook the morning chill off with difficulty. The morning sun touched the rugged landscape and revealed the wall to us in all its glory for the first time. Whoever said the Great Wall was overrated didn’t see this morning. Your eye could trace it for miles into the distance; the extensive expanse is astronomical.

We climbed, scrambled, and slid up and down the crazy angles of the wall for about 2 hours (some of the hills were covered in snow and ice and looked like 60 degree angles) before we took a zip line across the lake and had lunch.

After returning to Beijing we put our stuff down in the hotel and saw the Forbidden City, Tiananmen Square, the Summer Palace (where I got roasted chestnuts for the first time—pretty good… different from what I expected. A very meaty nut, the chestnut). Naked branches of weeping willows lightly kissed the huge frozen lake beside the Summer Palace. The sun glinted off the ice as towering trees made long shadows and dappled light spots on the ancient walls and walkways.

After the Summer Palace we stopped at the Beijing Olympic sights to see the Bird’s Nest and Swim Cube. Really crazy architecture. After we were chilled to the bone we stopped at a tea house to sample the local delicacies. Tiny women taught us to drink and eat properly. Some tea you slurp, some you sip, and some you smack, surprisingly enough.

Time to depart Beijing! To the train station to catch the overnight sleeper to Shanghai. It was MCA’s 21^st so we had a good time together. Very comfortable sleeper compartment—4 to a room (MCA, Charis, Carley, me). Arrived the next morning to a chilly, rainy Shanghai and went back to the boat for a nap. Our boat was delayed half a day so we had a bit more time to play around there but it was nasty out and we just stayed in and watched movies. Too exhausted!

I loved China. The government was a little strange at times… Facebook and a few other major sites are blocked in China and the Tiananmen Square Massacre is a taboo subject that nobody every touches. One American student googled it when he was studying abroad in China and the police showed up at his door 2 hours later with a warning. It’s just kinda weird. But everything else was so cool. It’s such an ancient country with rich traditions and strong culture. Hard to not be impressed.

Hong Kong, China

Wed. Nov. 11

Saying #66: “Tao Fu relaxed in the bliss of spring.”

Message: Very bright prospect

Prediction and advice: Sickness heals in no time.

Lawsuits settle quickly.

Wealth grows by degrees.

Travelers return.

Ripe time for marriage. (or not…)

Fortune gained without effort.

So basically I’m going to get married in 5 years and end up in a grass hut by a stream. Sounds ideal to me. I’d like to stretch out the marriage period to 10 years… but we’ll see.

Thurs. Nov 12

Fri. Nov 13

Tiananmen Square. Freezing

Beijing, part of the Forbidden Palace.

Tiananmen again

The Great Wall.

Piling together for body heat.

Cute, bored rickshaw caddies.

Hong Kong.

Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam

2009-11-08T06:09:00.000-08:00

Streets of Vietnam

Might be our dinner tonight! Our guide swore it was still alive. And I'm pretty sure I saw it breathing.

Ha Long Bay, Vietnam.

Front of the boat looking out into the bay.

The girls with Mr. David and Mrs. Susan, first night in Vietnam

Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam

Nov. 3-7

Tuesday Nov. 3

Vietnam, the country tainted in American minds, came upon us in the night as we snaked up the Mekong Delta. The muddy churning water and flat lush land reminded me of home, minus the occasional cone-topped fisherman.
We docked at 11 am in Ho Chi Minh City, (formerly Saigon, renamed after the Southern leader Ho Chi Minh after the Vietnam War) and parents came on board, including Mr. David and Mrs. Susan Allen. Mary Chandler was so excited, and it was great to see familiar faces! After our ship was cleared and our passports stamped we took off in search of the legendary shopping. The Dong, the Vietnamese currency, goes a long way against the dollar… $1 = 17,856 Dong. So we were all millionaires and had a field day in the markets. There’s a black market of North Face (they “fall off” the trucks, apparently) and lots of other quality knock offs plus great jewelry, perfume, and general knick knacks (Asian knick knacks are a lot cooler). Can’t wait to show you what I got!
It’s hot… 90s and above, but I’m still drinking a lot of coffee… it’s incredible here. It’s one of their main exports. Iced coffee in the afternoon… hits the spot. Supposedly the best is called “weasel coffee”… very expensive and literal. The weasel eats the beans and the coffee producer collects them at the other end. Something about the acids in its stomach makes it delicious apparently. It’s like Jack Nicholson’s coffee in “The Bucket List” that he throws a fit over. I’ll let you know whether it’s worth the hype.
That night MCA’s parents took us out for dinner and drinks. MCA, me, Carley, Leigh Anne, Olivia, Kate, Bobby Lee, and Charis. We had some white wine at the rooftop bar of the Majestic and went to Lemongrass for dinner. Wonderful dinner… lots of cilantro, lemongrass, licorice, and coconut. Very light and fresh. Then went to the rooftop bar of the Rex hotel for an Irish coffee. Early morning tomorrow, so I jumped on the back of a motorbike taxi and zoomed through the pulsing, energetic night city air back to the ship.

Wed. Nov. 4
I didn’t sleep at all last night; I think I was nervous I wouldn’t wake up for my 430 am departure. So I was as bright eyed and bushy tailed at that 430 breakfast than I’ve ever been for an 800 one, but later I hit a wall and slid down it into oblivion for a while. A quick hour flight later we arrived in Hanoi, the capital city, and saw the Temple of Literature, a 1070 A.D. Confucius temple and place of esteemed scholarly pursuit. After the Chinese conquered the Vietnamese, the study of Confucius ideas and the Chinese language were integrated into the culture. After Vietnam’s independence, however, Chinese culture was largely rejected again. Vietnam had no official written language until 15 years ago, and it looks like mixed English letters with a bunch of crazy accents. Like most Asians, they have 6 different tones. It is exhausting trying to communicate sometimes! But they are friendly and very curious. I have a 6’5” black friend and walking down the street with him was hilarious.
After the temple a nice lunch:
· fresh noodles broth with chicken, pork sausage, meat boll, sliced egg, and mushroom
· fresh nem rolled with prawns, chasui, pineapple, and vegetables
· deep fried prawns with almond and fresh coconut
· stir-fried pork loin with cashews, mushrooms, bell peppers, and baby corn
· sautéed beef filet with green mango, bell pepper, and baby corn
· stir-fried seasonal veggies with garlic
· cream caramel
· Vietnamese coffee
Mary C, her parents, and I sat with Dr. Duran and his wife, Alicia. We really enjoyed them...especially after he said I had an A! After lunch a 3 hour drive took us to Ha Long Bay. We stopped halfway at a factory where young Vietnamese were sewing intricate pictures of rural scenes by hand. The threads of their labor came to life as we drove through rural Vietnam. Rice fields held small patches of land, each owned and worked by a different family. Water buffalo roamed freely as straw pointy hats bobbed in and out of sight between the tall emerald green sprigs. Sidewalks everywhere held miniature red and purple plastic tables and chairs, the perfect size for our toddlers and their handiwork. Tiny people fit naturally in the tiny furniture, cooking their dumplings, omelets, and soups and selling their jade jewelry on the side of the road. Homes were built in the town-house style—3 story, narrow width and long depth. It looked like someone had built a colonial 2 story house, squished it with his hands on both sides, and painted it a gaudy color. Most only had paint on the face of the house; the sides remained gray cement. It was as if the people were anticipating expansion and built to accommodate very close neighbors, but the rice paddies and dirt roads did not seem to beckon to industrial growth. Who knows, maybe I’m wrong. I hope not. I love the charm of rural towns.
Halong is a beach resort town, and the small craggy coast is dotted with casinos, hotels, and restaurants. We checked into the Halong Grand Hotel and had dinner at Cua vang (Golden Crab). Very good… all of their seafood was crawling outside the restaurant in pink plastic buckets, so we knew it was very fresh.

Thurs. Nov. 5
We checked out of our hotel and boarded an old wooden dinner boat in the bay. The magnificent scenery of Halong Bay is considered one of the natural wonders of the world, and rightly so. The weather was about 20 degrees cooler than Ho Chi Minh, in the pleasant 70s, and there was not a cloud in the sky. The bay’s tranquil beauty encompasses 1,500 square miles dotted with more than 1,000 limestone islands and islets. Bizarre rock sculptures jut dramatically from the sea, and numerous grottoes create a picturesque setting. The sails of the junks and sampans gliding on the bay added to the timeless beauty of the sea, and we passed a floating fisherman village. The bright sun danced on the water, creating a twinkling light show that the Jones could only wish to achieve in their gaudy Christmas lawn displays. We weaved in between the massive rocks for four hours. We filled the time with a seafood lunch, a refreshing swim, and lots of tanning.
After our relaxing day on the bay we drove back to Hanoi and checked into another hotel. Mary C and I found a cheap place for massages and got an hour for $8. It was kinda sketchy though… The guy walked us to our separate rooms, pointed to the shower,vb and said “shower” about 4 times. I guess the masseuses get a lot of dirty people in there? Anyway, I took a shower and lay down in the relatively bright room. Adjacent from me was a long mirror, which I found strange. There was also no spa music or oil, which I missed because it kind of burned when she’d rub my arms really hard. But it was a really funny experience, glad I did it.
Crossing the street in Hanoi was an intense experience. There are virtually no stop lights, and motorbikes and cars flow in a constant thick stream. You’ll never get across the street if you don’t step out into oncoming traffic. You just continue across the street at a steady pace, and the traffic anticipates your path; it is when you hesitate or speed up that you get into trouble. No spazing allowed, or you get slammed by a 30 mile an hour motorcycle. I loved it! Laughed the whole time. Really thrilling. Wish I could have video-taped it; you wouldn’t have believed it. That night Susan, David, and MCA were tired of being groupy and decided to go to Vino, a Lonely Planet suggestion instead of seeing the planned water puppet show. No complaints there, although I’m sure the water puppets were thrilling. I had the Nah Trang seafood risotto. Very good.

Fri. Nov 6
An early breakfast (but I would get up early every morning for this coffee!!), and we set off to see Hanoi. We saw the One Pillar Pagoda (little shrine), Ba Dinh Square, Ho Chi Minh’s house, and Tran Quoc Pagoda. Shopping in the old city center was incredible… they had streets of nothing but shoes, streets of sunglasses, streets of purses, streets of backpacks, of shirts… it was crazy. But very organized. I didn’t have to waste any time on a sunglass street if I knew I wanted hiking boots. We ate lunch at another Lonely Planet recommendation, Medditerano, a fabulous Italian restaurant, and had a veggie pizza. Really good. I love Italian. Flight back to Ho Chi Minh that afternoon and said goodbye to Susan and David after drinks at their hotel. I had a wonderful time with them! They really took care of me, and they are just fun people in general.

Sat. Nov 7
Last day in Vietnam! Leisure day… shopping again to complete my Christmas gifts and to a spa with Carina and Gefa. Had a wonderful 2 hour aromatherapy massage, manicure, and pedicure, all for $53. We could have gotten it cheaper at another spa, but this one was pretty nice. Spent about 4 hours at the spa. SO much fun!! Then the girls picked up their dresses they had made, I bought 20 movies for $20, and we went back to the ship. Left at 6 am the next morning. Farewell, Saigon!

Chennai, India

2009-10-28T13:30:00.000-07:00

(Left): The bullock cart at the village.

(Right): A lady of the ghost town before the village.

Me sitting on the "welcome" porch of the village home.

Chennai, India
October 23-27

Friday 10/23/09
This morning as we landed in the fourth largest city of India—a city of 7 million—I was excited and a little apprehensive. I had no idea what India had in store for me. We were told that the white part of the ship would be black by the time we left, and the stewards had coated the high traffic areas of the ship with cardboard and plastic. We were warned not to eat anything uncooked, not to drink the water, eat the ice, or open our mouths in the shower. We were also told not to give money to beggars, especially the children because they will more than likely turn it around to their gangster—a la Oliver Twist and Slum Dog Millionaire. You only feed the industry of begging and encourage parents to send children out into the streets instead of to school by giving them money. Yet the slums and corruption is only a small part of Indian life—the middle class is growing, and the Indian people I’ve met are quick to remind me of the good parts of Indian life. Their funny dialect and friendly smiles are part of what makes their culture theirs.
We entered the city center among bicycle rickshaws and 3 wheeled taxis called auto rickshaws. Indians believe in honking… I don’t think they even notice that they do it. But the horns are too high-pitched to be angry; they sound like clown-car horns. The rickshaws actually have the squeak horn that adorns five-year-olds’ bikes at home, so even if it’s a really angry Indian that thinks he has the right of way, you can’t take him seriously.
India has three temperatures, according to locals—hot, hotter, and hottest. The Indian sun did not disappoint; he made our foreheads glisten and melted the rest of us a little. India, 81% Hindu and 9% Muslim, is a conservative country. Clad in heavy jeans, I found myself lusting after the light, breezy, and loose clothes of the natives. Plus they just look awesome. The women in their bright, long, gauzy saris and the men in loose slouchy pants and button down collared shirts made handsome couples. It seems that all women in India are beautiful, especially the young ones my age. Their features are so striking—high cheekbones, big dark eyes, jet black hair. India loves color; even the street vendors arrange their pyramids of apples in a spectrum of dark to light.
We went to Fort St. George, a military compound that is the center of the Tamil government. Southern India speaks Tamil, northern India speaks Hindi, and those two governments make up the Union or Central government. The Central Government rules India’s 28 states and seven union territories or the Republic of India. It’s a democracy with 3 branches, with a president and a prime minister making up the executive branch. Inside the compound was Saint Mary’s Church, a reflection of British colonization.
After we visited the church we continued along the Marina of the Bay of Bengal beside the second longest beach in the world. (The longest is Florida). We arrived at a nice oriental rug shop with a show room on the first floor and beautiful wood and iron statues on the second. We were given the most fantastic coffee I’ve had in a while—I almost did a little dance around the Indian that gave it to me after I tasted it. It was fascinating to see how an oriental rug is made. The guy was a great salesman… if I wasn’t a broke college kid he would have had me.
Outside a snake charmer got our attention when a cobra popped out of his little basket. We quickly got on the bus and went to the ancient Hindu Kapalushwar Temple. Hinduism is a hard religion to peg; it is much more a way of life than a religion, per se. It has so many options for the worshipper that outsiders tend to get confused. It doesn’t claim one prophet, one dogma, one philosophy, or one god. It has 3 main gods who the big shrines in temples are devoted to—Shiva, god of anger, passion, dance; Vishnu, a popular god and protector; and Ganesh, the elephant god of travel and undertaking of projects. They believe in Brahma, a formless, abstract eternal being without attributes—the “that” behind and beyond reality. They also believe in reincarnation, samsara, the endless cycle of death and rebirth. The soul, atma, is separated from Brahma (Ultimate Reality) and trapped in samsara until it attains Moksha or liberation from samsara and reunion with Brahma. Moksha can be attained by works, knowledge, or passionate devotion.
When following dharma, the path of works, you must fulfill your social and religious obligations like:
· follow your caste occupation,
· marry within your caste,
· and raise a son to do the same.
The caste system is still very prevalent in India, and people of higher castes don’t associate with the lower castes, even though everyone has a vital role in society and depend on each other. The lowest caste (now called OC or other caste; the term “untouchables” is considered politically incorrect) cleans the city, cremates people, and does all the things higher castes see unfit to do.
When following inana, the path of knowledge, to obtain Moksha, one uses self-renunciation, meditation, and yoga. This path is only open to men of the highest castes or Brahman (learned men, priests).
The Bhakti path, the way of Moksha by passionate devotion, is the most popular way. You may choose any of the 330 million gods, goddesses, or demigods and passionately worship that particular god (usually Vishnu or Shiva).
It seems to me a crazy religion with lots of cows, bulls, elephants, combination creatures, and gods of four arms and 3 heads. Fascinating, but strange.
The Kapaleeshwar Temple in Chennai is in the old section, and when we got there, as is custom, we left our shoes with the keeper and paid 20 rupee ($.50) to have a picture permit. The temple had many shrines to various gods where among dripping candles and splashing rose water, devotees were marked on their foreheads with a white streak. The main shrine reminded me faintly of Disney world with comical colorful animated figures covering the tall flattened pyramid roof of the temple. At the center of the temple yard, tucked behind the shrine was a cow-pen, which is a sacred animal to Hindus. Walking barefoot on the 300 B.C. floor inside, I was reminded of my senses. I likened my feet, now absorbing the cold worn stone, to my hands when they trailed along the marble of cathedrals in Europe. How different these two places of worship were!
Back out in the loud, dirty, crazy streets, we watched women making beautiful flower garlands of jasmine and marigold to sell at the temple for offerings. Motorbikes carrying entire Indian families—father driving, mother seated side-saddle on the back holding a child, and a little boy sandwiched happily in between—whizzed by, making their comical beep.
That night it was our friend Charis Brassel from Nashville’s 21st birthday, so we went to the Taj Hotel for dinner. We walked into a beautiful courtyard and sat beneath a gazebo to have some great southern Indian food. We had light appetizers: Chennai pancakes with different chutneys (I think peanut and coconut) and chicken coconut with coriander and green curry dish served with naan, the thick crepe bread. I was so full but still had mango ice cream and cake for Charis (chocolate mousse actually). Also had some fabulous coffee again. Great night.
10/24 Sat. Kancheepuram/ Mamallapuram
Known as the “Golden City,” Kancheepuram is a holy site for many Hindus due to its 100 + temples (most inactive historical sites). About an hour and a half from Chennai, this small town is famous in India and the world for its very fine silk. Our Indian friends told us if you are going to buy silks, Kancheepuram is the best.
First we went to the 1200 year old lonely Kalasantha temple, a pantheon of sandstone. As tradition, a bull sat at the entrance of this Shiva temple, worn by time to a rudimentary form. Inside the deserted walls cubby holes were intricately carved for monks’ meditations—the Brahman trying to reach Moksha. I squeezed in one; not very comfortable, but our guide said that was the point. Our only company was the Brahman keeper at the entrance and the occasional bright green parakeet.
I kicked off the converses again at Ekambareswara temple, an impressive and working 10 story temple dedicated to Vishnu. This 16th century place of worship housed the legendary 3,500 year old mango tree, a gem of Hindus and the favorite science wonder of botanists everywhere. It produced mangos until 2 years ago when it mysteriously collapsed. The legend says that Vishnu and Shiva were married under that tree and an important prophet gained enlightenment under it.
The last Kanchi temple, Vaikuntanatha, we reached at the height of the day, and the stone leading to the shrine felt like hot coals to our feet. Also erected in the 16th century, the Vaikuntantha temple is known as the “hall of 96 pillars.” When we arrived men were washing the dust off the pillars with long brushes and soapy water, preparing for a visit from the President.
Next was what I had been looking forward to—silk shopping! The little shop was tucked away from the road on a side street, right next to a pen of chocolate cows with big brown eyes. The silk in the shop felt exactly like a Ferragamo scarf when it melted gracefully over my hands (not that I’ve felt that many). I got 3 scarves, 2 small pashminas, and 3 round silk cushions of brilliant blue, green, and red. The weaving room on the second story contained 4 silk looms and the weaver was working on a red pashmina with red and real gold thread.
Mamallapuram (puram means “place”) held lunch at an exotic Radisson- a traditional Southern Indian buffet that was delicious. We all ate way too much. The salt air of this coastal city hung thick as we got off to see a huge mural of stone carved into a rock face. Called Arjuna’s Penance, this intricately carved scene is the biggest bas-relief in the world. It depicts the wasted body of Arjuna in the yoga pose “tree” in appeal to Shiva for a weapon to destroy his enemies. The mural depicts the 7th day when Shiva comes to grant Arjuna’s request and a huge heavenly host turns up for the event.
We then went to the Five Rathas, large carvings in a sand pit of the heroes of Mahabharata, a famous Indian epic. I didn’t hear much of the history because I was so distracted by the flood of young girls in peach saris that had also come to the sight. They were training to be teachers and loved talking to us but, like all 13 year olds, got very giggly quickly. Also their English was broken so I didn’t get very far in a conversation with any of them. The flowing salmon color on their black skin was stunning and the group had a cheerleader effect-they all looked gorgeous in a group. The really funny thing that we were beginning to notice in India is that we, especially in the small cities of India, were as much as interesting novelty to the Indians as they were to us. We had families take pictures in front of us and people snap them with their camera phones when we walked by. I liked it though—made me feel better about asking if I could take a picture of them too!
We were worn out by our day of touring, but before we left Mamallapuram we had to see one more temple and the most famous of the day, the Shore Temple. The Shore temple, reached after a long grassy promenade, was the gateway temple that everyone leaving the area and coming in (even the king) stopped to ask safe passage from Vishnu and Ganesh. Cows of sandstone, worn faceless by the salty breeze and constant beating of the elements, outlined the temple. The big tsunami that devastated the eastern coast of India five years ago hit this temple hard and it took a lot of damage. Also taking in the sight was another group of young student teachers, this time clad in bright blues and hot pinks. They clustered around us with the same shyness and giggles, even the boys!
10/25 Sunday
Leigh Anne met some Indian girls our age at the Welcome Reception the 1st night that she liked a lot. Yoga and Lucky are both studying to be dentists and offered to take her out for shopping and lunch. She took me along, and it ended up being the coolest day! Lucky’s driver, Kennedy, and her hot older brother, Kanna, came to pick us up at the ship gate in their tiny little black car at 10 this morning and took us to their home. The live close to the beach in a nice neighborhood. Lucky’s granddad was a very famous Tamil poet and her father was a Bollywood director. We took our shoes off before going in to meet all of her family—Kanna and Sharan, her older and younger brothers, her mother, her uncles, and her aunt that made breakfast for us. They sat us at the table and watched us try the traditional breakfast foods they made. Trying to eat daintily with our fingers wasn’t easy! There was a white sticky lump of rice and dan that you dip in a chutney (kinda tasted like a sweet salsa), this orange lump that was sweet, and thin sweet crepes (or whatever they’re called in India). Her aunt kept on bringing more and more food and we were stuffed before we realized—curse the expanding nature of rice! Kanna sat down and ate some with us, accompanied by an Indian People magazine.
After washing our fingers in the sink right next to the dining room table, we went back to Lucky’s room. Lucky is called Satiya by everyone but her family, but she wanted us to call her Lucky. Kanna told us on the ride to the house that the hospital had a power outage when their mom was in labor with her and the power came on just in time, hence her nickname. Lucky gave Leigh Anne and I some necklaces from her closet and her mom gave us a little gold figurine of one of the gods, both of which we will cherish forever. Lucky’s favorite god is Ganesh, the one with the elephant head and man’s body. We gave her a random mixed cd that we burned for her; Leigh Ann put some big band swing and good 90s; I gave her a little Girl Talk, MGMT, Band of Horses, Avett Brothers, Santigold, and Old Crow Medicine Show. No idea how that’s going to be received. Definitely a RANDOM mix.
Next off for a little Indian shopping! Lucky’s driver Kennedy dropped us at Spencers, a popular local shopping mall, where we met the other friend, Yoga. Yoga is petite, sweet, and beautiful like Lucky. All Indians really do do the bobble-head thing when they mean “ok” or “good” or “sure”—that’s not a cliché—and Lucky and Yoga are no exceptions! They were so cute. We walked around in the mall, and I got some cool gold and red flats and some really full Aladdin pants—red with gold specks. Not going to wear both together, don’t worry. Yoga’s a good bargainer and got the shoes for $12 and pants $5. Also got a few bangles and some cool Tamil party music. Still stuffed, but they said we had to try Pani Poori, a snack. This little vendor in the mall looked like it had food poisoning written all over it, but we couldn’t say no. These very thin hollow crispy rice balls were punched at the top and dipped in either hot or sweet sauce and served in a small bowl. You put the whole thing in your mouth and usually eat about 5. It was good, but I was still so full from breakfast! The people in southern India are like the people in the South; now I know how the Australians that visited us felt! Walked around some more, got a cookie and this dessert called Shree Mithal made of condensed milk that had curdled in the center, making a spongy, tofu like texture that you eat cold and with a spoon.
Now… I can’t believe it.. it’s time for a late lunch. AH! We went to this local restaurant, Sea Shell, and LA and I split mushroom masala with rice and naan. Ok, don’t know where the room came from in my hollow leg for that. Shopped a bit more after lunch and got dropped back at the ship around 430 to rest and recoup before going out!
Kanna picked us up at 9 at the gate and Giri, the interport student from Chennai came along too. But Kanna was so nice and, thank goodness, rolled with it and let him come. They are in the same caste and live two streets down from each other but didn’t know each other! Giri goes to Loyola college, the same as the younger brother Sharan, but it’s a big school so they didn’t know each other. But they were facebook friends! Ah the overwhelming connecting power of the FB. We met Lucky, her cousins, Sharan, and their friends at Pasha, a small but fancy club that I’m told, is frequented by Bollywood actors. We actually saw one, but they said he was like D-list. Had a King Fisher Indian beer and had a really good time dancing. After the club closed at 1130 (Sunday night), we really wanted coffee so we drove out to the Chennai airport! Ok, but it was sooo worth it. Coffee = incredible here. The rickshaws had gone home for the night when we got back, so it was nice to have Giri to walk back with to the ship. Pooh and Giri, the Chennai students, are staying on board until we depart Chennai.

Mon 10/26 Village visit
Today might have been the best day of my trip thus far. First of all, there was an omelet station at breakfast this morning and I halved on with one of my friends. Then, with nobody really knowing what to expect, we got on our small bus and headed out. The group size was about 20; so much nicer than the huge groups of 40. Everybody’s still at the Taj Mahal so all of our trips have been small and wonderful. About 2 hours later we walked through this tiny town to a big temple that was out of proportion to its small host. Like a ghost town almost. Random cows, goats, monkeys, and chickens roaming free. The cows and dogs here are best buddies; they run around together everywhere.
Then about 30 minutes down the road ini Thirudorur Village, we gathered around the large square reservoir, the main source of water for the village. I’ve seen these square reservoirs in all the towns I’ve been in, usually in front of a temple. The people used to absolve themselves and bathe before entering the temple, but that’s not really done anymore. Now they are developing main line off the reservoir so the government can set up sanitation programs and underground infrastructure.
Down the dirt road and past colorful and worn looking concrete houses, I looked to my left and saw a striking juxtaposition- a towering and huge power line shouldering a squat thatched roof hut. Past meets future in front of my face. We were given a traditional welcome by the “Mother Teresa” of the village; a women that volunteers all her time to feed children, welcome visitors, and check up on everyone. She held in her hand a copper pan. A tin red sauce coated the bottom, and a leaf with three white cubes skimmed the surface. She lit the cubes and chanted blessing and welcome for us. We then received dots on our foreheads and under our chins with oil and red powder.
Our guide stopped in front of a huge campaign poster the size of a billboard for the next local election. It looked as bizarre and out of place as the power tower in the little rural village. Candidates come to the villages and paint their symbols on village walls. Clock graffiti was everywhere—that’s one candidate’s version of Obama’s field and sunrise logo.
We went inside a tiled roof house with the traditional side sitting porch. The porch is raised and close to the roof so travelers could sit and rest a while or stay the night and take advantage of the hospitality so warmly offered. That doesn’t happen so much anymore because people feel it’s dangerous and don’t trust strangers as much. A pity—such a charming idea. Travel by day, crash on a friendly porch at night and chat over chai for hours in the cool shade of a neem tree. The small house had one common shade of brilliant turquoise throughout, though time had taken an artistic scratch and rub in a few places. They had a small shrine room and bedrooms that all opened onto the main living and kitchen. Tiny short people too—had to stoop inside and duck through doorways. The backyard was the kitchen—big pots, grinder (like a mortar and pestle), and fire sticks. They gave us some wonderful chai tea, and we all said “robo nadrie” meaning many thanks for letting us into their home. Outside were chalk designs—a sign of welcome and happiness inside the home. These designs are done new every day unless the family was mourning a death. A girl showed us how she did it—with a ground mix of chalk and rice, she pinched a bit to make dots and drew. She asked for a volunteer and I drew a crazy lopsided thing… fun though.
We heard clopping and commotion behind us and saw oxen-pulled trailers or bullock carts arrive for us. They took us to the rice patty. I was furiously taking pictures and didn’t zip my purse… it flipped over and my shore pass, the very important travel document the port agents require us to have in India, flew into the massive well. Sounds like me, doesn’t it? A tiny little Indian man looked at me and said, “Important?” “Yes!” I replied as I sadly nodded my head. If we lose this it’s possible to get another but we were under the impression that a heavy fine and lots of disgruntled huffs were imparted by officials as a result. Without hesitation the little man began climbing down the small ledges that jutted out in a spiral, working his way down to the water. A long stick was thrown to him, and he fished the document out to my delight and the entertainment of all. I happily stuffed and zipped everything back in my purse and sloshed after our group to the far end of the paddy, where the planting was taking place. Men would pluck the green sprigs from the watery mud, bundle them, and leave them for the women. Bending in a constant position from the waist with saris rolled and tucked, the women would separate the sprigs of green and stick them back in the watery mud. This process gives the rice more room and it grows bigger and produces more abundantly. We then were given an opportunity to plant alongside the women, and I rolled up my pants and sloshed ankle-deep in the mud. I was handed a bundle by the women and watched rows being formed before I began making my own. It was easy work, if tedious; the rice slid smoothly past water into mud and found its new happy home.
After we washed the mud from our hands and feet, we thanked the workers with “robo nandrie” again (or “many thanks” in Tamil). We hopped back on our rural chariots and rolled off to the coconut grove, where a man with a machete gave us the purest and healthiest drink in India—the juice of the coconut. I also ate some its white flesh, which tasted like a chewy slimy version of the coconut I’m used to. We watched him climb a tree and retrieve the fruit, and then we tried. I only got like 2 feet off the ground, but some of the guys were about 7 feet.
It was now time for lunch and we thanked the village for hosting us. Before our next stop, we popped in at a school (one of the guides was a teacher and wanted to introduce his students to us). Clad in blue pinstripe dresses with a crisp white bib that was v-necked over the dress, the uniform was classy and complimented the rick black skin tone of the girls. They wore 2 long braids in a loop that were secured at the top with white bows that they said their mothers arranged for them. The girls were on one side of the room, and the boys were on another. They showed me their economics, accounting, and English books and reminded me of the giggly teenagers we had encountered the other day. Very sweet and extremely interested in us. As our guide talked, I wrote notes to all the girls on the front row and whispered and giggled with them. They all wanted to shake my hand and one ran up to me and gave me a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. Sweet.
Lunch was at the Dakshinachitra Cultural heritage village—traditional southern Indian cuisine. This center was established to bring all aspects of rural village life together to preserve and educate. The lay out was the same as a village might have been, and we were taken around to see silk weaving, glass blowing, rice grinding, basket making, and pottery throwing. I threw a pot, but I botched it the first time and the tiny Indian helped me with the second. The villagers are all so small here! Everyone’s about 5 feet. There was a small market at the center and my guide helped me bargain for 2 silk hangings and some bangles. Got a good deal, I think. I loved seeing the vastly different side of rural life in India and enjoyed the trip.
Tuesday 10/27
Last day in India. Leigh Anne and I hopped on an auto rickshaw and set off for the markets. We told our driver, Manthu, we wanted to buy some jewelry, and he said no problem, I take you to nice place. He then showed us his laminated letter of thanks and approval from a previous Semester at Sea student and his ring of honesty from the government. The oriental rug place he took us was deserted and very nice, but the jewelry price point was a little bit more than what we wanted. He then took us to the street markets, which were too cheap. So we hopped back in our rickety motorized 3 wheeler and met our Indian friends at Mocha, a popular coffee place, for a last wonderful conversation and chai tea.
Kanna took us back to the port gate, and we waved goodbye for the last time. Goodbye to a place of distinct personality and quirky spunk. A place of dirt and grime, of foul sewage smells and white fragrant jasmine temple flowers. Of traditional dance with flexed hands and feet and extreme facial expressions. Of crazy driving and sometimes crazier ethics. Of huge elaborate wedding and spicy wonderful food. Goodbye to the land of Bollywood, red dots of adornment, and sacred cows. Of prevalent castes and welcoming hospitality. Of cheating and petty crime and warm, good-natured hearts. Goodbye to India, an exotic place where I was challenged, over stimulated, amazed. I loved my affair with you.

Port Louis, Mauritius

2009-10-28T13:29:00.000-07:00

Mauritius
Thursday October 15-17
“It would seem that Mauritius was built first, and heaven modeled after it.” –Mark Twain
Mauritius, the little island off the coast of Madagascar, was a welcome relaxing reboot. A cool breeze drifted from the sharp green peaks of the island mountains, and the climate was warm yet overcast. I had never heard of Mauritius before I investigated the itinerary of Semester at Sea, and before I went I assumed it was going to be a charming little backwards island. Not so. It exports 70% of the world’s sugar cane, has a huge tourism base, and is currently mobilizing to become a big player in outsourcing. This little island has big plans for its future, and with the proactive and involved government, access to the SAFE cable (a submarine fiber optic cable that provides direct communication between Asia and Europe), and current rate of expansion, I wouldn’t be surprised if it begins to get some big international attention. I think it’s small niche market might be just what some investors in outsourcing are looking for; it’s tangible, able to be transparent, accessible, and the price is right. They will probably be able to provide better, more customized service than the big outsourcing powerhouses of India and China, and a private law firm in Indiana might appreciate that. (Sorry, did a project for Operations Management on outsourcing in Mauritius and spent FOREVER on it. Had to share a bit).
We rented a villa (what they call small little apartments—don’t think of the grand romantic ones of Tuscany) in the Flic en Flac region in southern Mauritius. 15 girls in 2 villas the first night, 9 girls in 1 the second night. Fit comfortably though; everyone had a soft spot to land. A few left to go on a catamaran trip the second day. Flic en Flac was a small town with a few restaurants, blue water, and a white beach with bits of coral strewn across it. We were close to a grocery store and had a smorgasbord one afternoon of fat red and green grapes, a baguette with balsamic and oil, cucumbers, and butter crackers with gouda, brie, and herb cheese. I think we budgeted well; no leftover food at all (in a house with 15 girls, are you surprised?) We just hung out for 3 days… I read my new book, A Passage to India by E.M. Forrester (India’s our next stop, trying to finish it before our passage there is finished) and we went to see the traditional dance of the island, Sega, one night. Basically a mix of hula and Indian dancing. The people of the island look Indian, and there is a big influx of Indians due to the new outsourcing craze. Yet the Dutch, French, and English had a hand in colonizing the island, so you see small indications of that sometimes. Lots of French food, and the people are bilingual in French and English. All in all a fun little 3 day excursion.

Cape Town, SA

2009-10-10T08:33:00.000-07:00

Aquilla Game Reserve

Girls going out.

Townships.

Nelson Winery.

Township little girl.

October 3-8
Saturday 10/3 Wine Production and Management
It’s spring in Cape town and feels amazing. We arrived in a picturesque port in the morning. The waterfront is just like Halifax—very clean, nice restaurants, very touristy, lots of new colonial style buildings masquerading as old, but still achieving a nice effect. Baby blues, whites, rusts, and mustard stucco buildings with exaggerated molding—a manufactured charm. Nice change of pace form Ghana though; give ourselves a little break from the culture immersion, so to speak.
I had an FDP: Wine Production and Management for two of my professors, McGowan and Duran. Yeah, not a hard decision to go on that one. Will be my favorite FDP of the trip, I’m sure. A lot of people went that didn’t have either professor.
We chose McGowan’s bus because he’s not as intense as Duran (McGowan’s the one that did shots with students one night). But we broke down on the side of the road. T.I.A. This is Africa.
Got on a new bus and went to Backsberg Wineries first—the only carbon-neutral winery in South Africa and the 3rd in the world to be so (there are currently 7 “green” wineries in the world). Fittingly the power was off, making it cool, dark, and romantic. The grounds were beautifully manicured with a spectrum of flowers overlooking the hazy blue peaks in the background. This must be the most beautiful wine country in the world—rolling hills of twisted vines framed by sharp rocky mountains and perfect weather. The owner of Backsberg was a handsome older man that said he primarily did the marketing for the label—OK, how do I get his job? Or I could take the job of the guy who led us through the tasting. They apparently export and sell a lot in the U.S., so I need to look for the John Martin Sauvignon Blanc Reserve 2009. Lemony, tart, sweet, and light. Taste of fresh green grass and green apple. Made in French oak barrels, so it doesn’t age well because it doesn’t have enough wood contact to age. Good for about 2 years. Fresh clean aftertaste, a sellout. Excellent. And yes, I discerned all of that for myself with my established pallet I have/ just read what they said it tastes like and believe them. Cotton candy? Oh yes, I taste the subtle sweet undertones of that. Whatever. “When it comes to wine, it’s personal. Be honest.” –Backsberg wino.
The next winery was Nelson Vineyards. The GM (again clad in jeans and a button down, the official uniform of a corporate wine-guy… I wouldn’t mind doing corporate if it was with wine) walked us over to the vines and expanded on a much more detailed approach of operations and business (because Duran’s group had been there first and grilled him), so I took furious notes (blah.) We then had our tasting outside which was very pleasant except for the “muckies” (what South Africans call little flying bugs). Not as good as the first winery, but good.
Got back to the ship, had a tiny bit of wireless time, and found a great restaurant with Carley, Leigh Anne, Mary Chandler, and Karis. Had seafood tortellini and a small salad, complimented with a nice Chenin Blanc wine. After dinner on the Victoria and Albert waterfront we found a great wine bar, Belthazars, where I had a fabulous De Trafford Chenin Blanc. Excellent. Biggest wine bar in the world, they claim. We then got a cab to Long Street, the Bourbon of Cape Town and bar hopped a little. Flirted with these adorable little 18 year old South African boys for a spill. Good night.
10/4 Sunday Robben Island
Today we set off to try to see Robben Island, which was iffy because usually you have to buy tickets the day before. We (Bobby Lee, Lindsay, and I) formed at breakfast. Lindsay’s awesome. Sweet face, pixie cut hair, super laid back, easy, and a little airheaded. Much more my personality fit. Reminds me of Katie-Chloe.
We had a wonderful quick lunch in the V and A mall after getting some rand from the ATM. Turkey, avocado, mozzarella, cucumber, and a ranchy dressing on a brown roll and hazelnut and “bar one” gelato. Amazing. The mall felt completely American—had lots of our shops. Nice break though.
After lunch we made friends with the manager of Robben Island and he got us on the 3 pm tour for 186 rand a piece. The ferry was 30 minutes out to the island, and we were greeted by thousands of gulls and other seabirds on the rocky coast, including penguins. Waddling around like tipsy tuxedoed waiters, those flightless birds seem even more charming in the wild than they do in the zoo. We got on a shuttle bus, which was accompanied by one of the best tour guides I’ve ever heard, and circumnavigated the 5 by 2 kilometer island. Robben Island came into its international fame it enjoys today largely by the political prisoners it held in its bowels during the South African apartheid government. From the 60s-90s, it held important black resistance leaders, with Nelson Mandela at its helm. Our guide’s booming, inflected, and charismatic voice, commanding demeanor, and personal experience made the tour wonderful. He was never a prisoner on the island, but was kept in a prison on the mainland. After the revolution, he gained a seat in Parliament and is personal friends with Mandela and Zimbuko, the father of the resistance. He related how every country that was represented on the shuttle—UK, France, Australia, and the U.S.—had an impact on the island. He hounded the Australians for bringing the greedy eucalyptus tree that sucks up all fresh water and takes over and for bringing rabbits that bred like crazy and are pests on the island. Among the rabbits were blue-headed guinea fowl, deer, and seals. Apparently the rabbits attack the penguins. Everybody’s got a soft spot for penguins, so I’m anti-bunny now. We saw the stone quarry that the prisoners worked in just for the sake of work. The limestone they were made to dig up wasn’t needed for the South African market, so it lay in waste. Sometimes the prisoners would carry it back and forth from one end of the quarry to the other during their backbreaking 7 hour day. The sun was so bright in the quarry that most of the prisoners are now half-blind. To this day Mandela asks for no flashes in cameras. But they would talk all day about intellectual matters, sharing their knowledge with everyone, even the young white guards. Mandela preached reconciliation, not revenge. When he was released in ’92 and elected president in ’94, he said “never again will any group oppress another like this.” He’s 94 now. A few years ago he was an interport lecturer for SAS and joined to voyage for a week! Can you imagine going for a coffee with Nelson before class one day? Crazy. He’s a great man.
We entered one section of the prison, this time led by ex-inmates. I couldn’t believe that the prisoners actually now work at the island—“This was my cell, this is the mat I slept on.” They say it’s a very good job though, and with almost 48% unemployed for whites and 95% for blacks in townships in S.A., they aren’t in a position to be picky. And they like educating people about what happened so it won’t happen again. Mandela’s cell was so small. He was imprisoned for 28 years.
A lot of correlation in my mind to the Civil Rights movement of America. Yet white supremism seems like it was more stifling here than at home. Maybe that’s a pride thing—it couldn’t have been this bad at home. Perhaps it was because it took place later in history and took longer to overthrow apartheid. The revolution lasted until the 90s, after all. P.S. It was bloodless until the white police opened fire on a crowd of protesters, most of who were shot in the back, fleeing.
After we got back to the mainland, Lindsay and I ditched the spare (just kidding, she wanted to peace out and go get her ear pierced.) We didn’t want to eat in the V and A again, although there are lots of restaurants (little over-priced). So saw a Westin shuttle and hopped on—took us to their concierge, who recommended the cape quarters de waterkant area, which was a little replication of Italy. Cobblestone streets, quaint restaurants with lots of outdoor seating around a modern fountain. Ate at Andalucía, a great Italian restaurant. Had a very light Sauvignon Blanc, an Italian tart (spruced up brushetta), and a great pizza—artichoke, olives, ricotta, pumpkin, rosemary, and butternut squash. Sweet, very good. Our waiter, Max, was a cute blonde that kept on saying “is it?” after everything, like an affirmation. Very S.A. phrase, “is it?” After our romantic dinner, we were led by the sound of Aretha and Diana to a corner bar, Café Manhattan. 3 huge voluptuous black soul singers with tight dresses, afros, and lots of makeup too us straight back to New Orleans and Memphis to the queens of Beale and Bourbon. Well, I don’t know where it took New Yorker Lindsay, but that’s where I went. Bonus: it was a gay bar and we saw the show from an open window outside. And witnessed a first date. He left early so it must not have gone well. He said he was a friend of a friend so it wasn’t really a date. They were just hanging out. After a few Castles (local brew) we hopped a cab to the Camps Bay area to Caprese, a club that Max recommended.

Mon 10/5 Operation Hunger
Operation Hunger, an FDP today. We went to the shanty towns/townships outside of Cape Town to a day care, where we measured and weighed children to determine if they were malnourished or over-nourished (poor diet). All fell in those two categories, none were normal/good nutrition. We then went to a church hostel for our box lunches and heard a little more on Operation Hunger.
It’s a nonprofit based in Cape Town that helps communities set up soup kitchens and nutrition programs. Yet the need is so huge that they have to qualify for aid because they can’t help everyone; they simply aren’t big enough. So the kids have to be evaluated and measured to see if their malnourishment is severe enough. So sad. The lady that worked for it had a young, sweet voice and face to match it—always with a smile. They want so much to alleviate the bad situations and bring hope and a better future to the children and people of the shacks. Shantytowns, townships, squatter camps, slums—call them what you like, these villages of rusted tin and filth. A home is small pieces of rippled flimsy metal (3 walls and a roof, maybe a door of cloth or wood.) They come to Cape Town looking for nonexistent work (unemployment is 95%) and end up in the outskirts in these shacks. Yet the people seem to have a spirit about them—there’s a strong sense of community in this struggle to survive. It’s where most of the crime happens—Cape Town is the #1 crime capital of the world, and most of it happens in the shanty towns. You don’t want to go there alone. Yet when we arrived in our huge tour bus with its cushy seats and AC, a big black lady named Miriam hopped on the bus with us and with a smile that lit up her eyes told us, “Ok sweeties, I don’t want you to be scared. I work with these people every day and they are just people that live in a bad situation. Alright, stick near me, and let’s go!”
Walking through the shacks, through the puddles of wrappers, chicken feathers, tires, and sour ick, we felt strange and hypocritical with our cameras and our nice clothes. Yet the people didn’t seem to mind—in fact, they seemed to be glad we were there; perhaps they think that we’ll somehow help them. But the truth is that we won’t. Maybe we’ll give a small donation at Christmas, maybe we’ll fit them into a small slot on CNN, somewhere between the sports and weather. People will see it, and they will probably be touched and sympathetic. Then they will go pick up their kids from soccer practices and get back to their hamburgers, pushing the unpleasant image to the dark recesses of their mind to deal with later or not at all. This is hard to write and I’m sure to read because we’d rather ignore it, pretend it’s not happening. We really can’t do anything and why dwell on what you can’t change?
Maybe we’ll find a way someday. Until then, at least the memory of these people will make us thankful, grateful, and conscious always in our community, family, and lives. Maybe it will help us become better citizens, daughters, husbands, wives. Maybe not. I know one thing though—I was touched.
After we visited the daycare Miriam took us to her home right next to the township—a modest but comfortable brick house with a pretty, well-cared for garden. We helped prepare our leftover lunch (apples, bologna sandwiches, Oreos, chicken legs, brownies, and juice boxes) for the kids to have with their thin broth soup that they get every day. It was a feast. Miriam is the mother of the community; everyday she opens her home to about 40 kids. She feeds them, disciplines them, laughs and cries with them, and nurtures them. And they mind her so well! They don’t get the parenting that she gives them at home, so Miriam is essentially raising them. You could see her faith in God radiating form her every move and word. An amazing person.
The minute we finished cutting up apples, the kids flooded the house and ran up to us, smiling and tugging on our arms. With a word from Miriam, they all lined up and sang for us. The songs of children are always sweet, but these kids touched our hearts.
After they sang we helped distribute the food—I got the huge bowl of apple slices—one slice for each child. They loved getting their picture taken and seeing it on the screen. It was hard to leave.

Tuesday 10/6 Aquilla Game Reserve
At 545 we had a light early breakfast on the ship. We got to the Aquilla Private Game Reserve after a short 2 hour bus ride through wine country and into the mountains—beautiful. Gradual cliffs covered in thousands of shades of stone—terracotta, caramel, rust, sand, deep green. The reserve is a small, plush lodge with bungalows and a beautiful restaurant which held an incredible looking breakfast for us… So of course, I had to at least taste it. Very very fresh grapefruit, pears, pineapples, passion fruit, papayas—I had forgotten how wonderful fresh fruit is! (Boat fruit is never ripe or it’s over ripe.) Coffee and passion fruit juice awesome as well.
After breakfast we walked across the road to the lion, leopard and cheetah enclosure—the ones that were rescued and can’t be set free because captivity has made them unable to fend in the wild. Just a simple wire fence between me and questioning yellow eyes of a lioness. Felt a little too close!
We then jumped in open air jeeps and bumped off into the small reserve. At the watering hole we saw antelope, hippos, ostriches, and later rhinos, elephants, zebras, and wildebeests. Since it’s a private reserve, we were able to see the different animals within like 5 minutes of each other. Almost felt fake—so surreal. In big reserves you have to track he animals and it might be 4 hours in between animals—so this is a lot more my style. I’m so glad I just did a day safari—I think I would have regretted sacrificing time in Cape Town for a 3 day like a lot of my friends did. When we got back we had an incredible lunch of traditional African food (again, SO fresh). Waddled back to the bus and had a good nap.
When I got back to my room Charis, Carley, Olivia, Mary Chandler, and Leigh Ann were all there. Good to see everyone and hear adventures from them. Everyone had wild stories (no pun intended). Even though it hurt to think about food (I felt like an overstuffed chicken), we went out to Belthazars, the wine bar and restaurant, where I had a filet of ostrich! Julie and I split an ’09 Sauvignon Blanc –great. Even cheap wine here is great.
Wednesday 10/7 Wine lands
A group of us decided to go wine tasting today—brothers Bret and Kevin (CO), Lauren (St. Louis), Aleilei (looks Hawaiian and has a Hawaiian name but is from Denver), Cynthia (very rich and sort of knows it, but enjoyed her), Alyssa (Detroit, blonde), Carter, and Mary Chandler. We hired a driver to take us out and he took us to Spier Winery, where we petted a cheetah! It was very tame and the handler was at his head—very soft fur… chilliest cheetah I’ve ever seen. Young girls from the UK and Australia were working there—cool job. Tasted some good vintages, but it’s not allowed to ship wine back to MS. Something about taxes and regulations. Probably good, need to slow down on spending.
Next we went to Asara winery, which was gorgeous. Got a great tour from Stephanie and she made the operations of the winery infinitively more interesting than the Nelson Winery guy on the FDP. I’ve decided I want her job. She told me to keep in touch and do a South African wine accreditation program if I move here. She also said to come volunteer for harvesting—they need all the help they can get hand picking grapes—like 20 hour days, but drink a lot and bond a lot. Would be SOOO cool. I’ve asked a few people if it’s hard to get a work visa for an American in South Africa, and they say not too bad. Really might look into it.
After we tasted the wines, we went over to Zanzibar, the whiskey and cigar bar. I had a double Johnny Walker Red on the rocks and a Bolivar cigar, which was really fat and smoky. Am I a 60 year old man? Yes. But that’s nothing new, eh? Some others got cigars too, but the consensus was that mine was the best. I was in heaven. Soo fun. Cheers my mate.
Thursday 10/8 Leaving
I went to a small café outside and had the prettiest cappuccino (barista drew a tree with the froth and cinnamon soil) I’ve ever seen with an incredible breakfast warp—avocado, eggs, mushrooms, lettuce, ham. So good. Wrote a lot in my journal, then found a fresh guava and orange juice at a quiet outside table by the food court and wrote some more. Then a lady came and asked to sit with me because she didn’t want to eat alone. Of course. Her name is Babalwas but some call her Beverly. She works at Robben Island and said “lovely” about everything. SOO nice. Very interested in Semester at Sea and we talked about Nelson Mandela, who she said she’d try to introduce me to if I come back. She said she’d love to help me with anything and everything when I come back, and I believe her! So sweet and genuine.
After basically writing a novel in my journal, I accidently went shopping and found an amazing hole-in-the-wall place called Pure Solid. Asian-inspired, Anthropologie type bohemian clothes at extremely reasonable prices, and it’s owned by the designer Marco! That’s why I had to buy; I’ve never had anything made directly from the designer and sold to me by the designer. He’s from Cape Town and has a Chinese girlfriend, his muse. Absolutely amazing and well-made clothes—I got a hunter green/taupe parka for my Great Wall trip, a blue and chocolate peasant dress with these crazy flowing sleeves, a gray and muted blue bubble dress, a wonderful white tunic with khaki trim, and a hunter green asymmetrical jersey-type dress with three buttons at the top and two crazy random pockets on the side. I love it. My parents and Gere will probably hate it. Anyway, good prices.
I still had a little rand left, so I stopped at a sushi bar and had a chardonnay and crispy snow crab roll. Off to the ship now, I’m a little past “Byron time” (our Dean of Students, Bryon, says be on the ship an hour before “on ship time” which is 2 hours before we sail so you won’t get dock time). I watched Out of Africa with Meryl and Robert tonight—my new favorite movie. So many great quotes. I’m now out of Africa too, but I think I left my heart there.

Ghana

2009-09-27T03:53:00.000-07:00

Accra, Ghana

Tues, Sept 22- Fri. Sept 25

9/22

Arrived in Ghana at 0800, but as the Ghanaians say, they are “in time,” not “on time,” so we weren’t cleared from the boat until 1100. I never imagined that ship yards would become so familiar to me… I feel so important when I am granted access back in. Flash the badge to the security, you know. We’re getting in a groove now with class-to-port and feeling our way around countries. The gangway moves with the tide from the second deck to the fifth and switches sides all throughout the port though, so we never know where it is and are cursed to chase it around for the rest of the voyage. The illusive exit, endless enigma. We ported in Tema, the industrial center of Ghana. It’s about 45 minutes away from Accra, the capitol, depending on traffic, which is horrific. The roundabouts in Tema hold homage to the likes of Goodyear and other big corporations, an interesting way to advertise.

Ghanaians are SO friendly. We were met by the port agents and tour guides by a big “awakaaba” or welcome, the first country to really welcome us. I did the city orientation tour, and they took us to the humble sites of history in Accra. At the beginning of the day tour we went to the university in Accra just to see it. Cool, but too long. The bus drove around campus for 2 hours! We saw Independence/ Black Star square and Kwame Nkrumah Memorial Park. Ghana gained Independence from British rule in 1957, and Nkrumah was their first democratic president. The black star, a poignant national symbol and the center of the flag, symbolizes the people of Ghana and maintains that though it seems impossible, the dark star can shine brightly, like the moon. We also saw W.E.B. Du Bois’ house, an American Civil Rights activist who founded the NAACP. He was also a Pan-African (for the betterment and peace of all Africa). He moved to Ghana with his wife when he was 95 and died two years later, so he couldn’t really do that much, but he is very respected in Ghana. As is President Obama, who was here in July. There are buildings and massive signs everywhere, welcoming the first family, and street vendors sell crazy loud t-shirts with the American flag and Obama’s face plastered all over it. They also sell an unbelievable plethora of stuff—old computers, dishwashers, coffins, couches, barbequed muskrats, and fufu (their doughy bread). Also I thought it a cliché before, but it’s actually true—women really do carry everything on their heads all the time. Pretty much if you are a woman and walking, you have something on your head. I understand if you’re selling stuff… that makes sense… but most look like they are taking all this stuff somewhere. Where are they going, and why do they have to move everything around so much? I swear they do more for transportation and distribution in this country than Fed Ex ever thought about doing.

We also went to the market, which was a totally different experience from the souks of Morocco. Here, they also heckle the heck out of you, but their smiles reach their eyes and their low, sweet voices make you stop and talk a while, even if you don’t buy. They don’t have as much as the Moroccans, but they aren’t as aggressive and angry if you walk away. They’re happy just to chat and seem to be genuinely interested in you. A point that the interport lecturer made before we got to Ghana is true—Ghana is not like America in that when people say “how are you” here, they don’t say it in passing and expect a cough out “great, you?” like in America. They mean HOW ARE YOU. How’s your family, and your health, and happiness. They are glad you are visiting their country. National pride is strong, but the people are humble and kind. Christianity is prevalent on the back of vans, in shop names, and on the faces of almost everyone you meet. Tiny little roadside shacks will have “if God says yes who can say no” and “twill fight the better fight.” They have so little, yet they are so happy. I think it is their simple faith and simple lives that make them content. It’s amazing how much happier and more content they are than Americans. They who have so little and we so much, yet they have the peace in daily lives we lack. What is better, abundance and pursuit of prosperity, or cherishing the things you have and having family, friends, and God as the center of your world? Struck me as profound, this way of theirs.

Anyway, back to the market. The booths were packed with wooden jewelry and dangling beads, kenti cloth stoals, blankets, and tunics (kenti is the beautiful local fabric—men weave, women dye) long, carved masks, and paintings of women with babies in a sling on their backs and fruit on their heads. I didn’t have any cedis (the local currency) yet because all the ATMS were Visa, not Mastercard, so my “I really have no money” sounded like a disappointing cough out. Nevertheless, I did get a serious marriage proposal. He sat me down in his booth, took my hands, gazed into my eyes, and told me to please come visit him again. He wanted to cultivate the relationship before launching into the proposal, but his friends bounced around chanting “American wife, American wife,” so his subtlety was shattered.

After the heartbreaking departure from the market (I didn’t buy anything and had to pat my friend’s hand and bid farewell), we had a confusing and crazy taxi ride to an ATM that took MasterCard (only one in the city). We kept on picking up people on the way… apparently that’s a normal thing here, and you get there when you get there. After that we had the local Star and Stone beers, which are almost twice the size of American bottles, and followed some locals to “the best chop bar in Accra,” the Asante Local. A chop bar is a local restaurant where they serve traditional African fufu and red rice with a fantastic sauce on it. But another SAS family was eating there and said it wasn’t good, so we went to a Chinese restaurant. I had eggplant in brown sauce, and it was awesome.

Wed. 9/23

Today was the Mona Monkeys and Wli Waterfall FDP. We hopped on a bus at 0800 and arrived at the Wli Agumatsa Waterfalls 4 ½ hours later. We went deep into the Shai hills, passing tiny villages and bouncing like you wouldn’t believe on the dirt road. Totally NOT made for a bus. After a nice level hike into the forest, we arrived at a massive fall. The spray cooled you down from 200 feet and shot tiny needles into your skin at 20. I didn’t have a swimsuit because I was planning on just wading, but after a few steps out I was soaked. The current and waves that this thing generated set the small stream that fed off of it rushing down the forest bed, almost knocking us over several times. It was a hot day, so the dip in the falls was perfect.
When we got back to the village I was buying some bracelets when our trip leader runs out of the woods, out of breath. “Does anyone know CPR?” he yells. Five of us students run forward and follow him about a ¼ of a mile in, where a black man from Louisiana (the only other tourist there) had complained of chest pains and collapsed. Barely conscious but breathing, he was supported by 2 guys and fanned by the girls until a motorbike came and could roll him to town and a hospital. I hope he’s ok.

After the excitement, we boarded our trusty coach and went to a mess hall for lunch, an old army building. We were served peanut butter soup with chicken and a big ball of mashed sticky rice, a salad of sorts, roasted chicken, and the red rice with the wonderful red tomatoey sauce. Not spicy, almost sweet. I ate too much. I also had a pineapple soda, sort of like yellow fanta and real pineapple and watermelon for dessert. Delicious.

Yay, it’s finally monkey time! The Tafi Atome tribe is famous for its Mona monkeys, which followed them when they were displaced by the British. They believed the monkeys were gods protecting them, and in turn they protected the monkeys. We bought a bunch of plantains (little sweet bananas), and the monkeys would creep down the vines and tentatively snatch them from our hands. Got some great video. They made this really screechy sound that the guy showing us around could do better than the monkeys. The Tafi Atome tribe (or ethnic group, as they call it), lived in a traditional village with thatched straw roofs and smooth mud walls. They made their food over a fire and carried firewood on their heads. The children, clad in rust-colored uniforms, were all smiles as they rode their bikes home from school, and after they lost interest in us they picked up a football (aka soccer) game.

We went to the Shai Hills Reserve after the monkeys, where we climbed huge rocks to get to a bat cave. Later we saw antelope and baboons. Successful day in the bush. Stopped on the side of the road and had mince pie, which is thick sort of sweet dry bread with something that looked like onions but was sweet inside. Interesting.

9/24 Thursday

Another SAS guided tour today. We had Stephen, a Ghanaian that smiled with his eyes and his whole mouth, all the time. I couldn’t believe how much he smiled. Reminded me of Sarah Nan. Every time we were on a tour and the guide wanted our attention, he’d say “Aago”, to which we were supposed to reply “Ahmen.” They told us it meant “Listen please” or “attention” and our response meant “we respect you,” but I personally think it could mean anything—“Hello fat white tourists. You are stupid, yes?” “YES.”

So 2 ½ hours to the village. The first thing we saw when we got there were the faces of a ton of children, waving and running up to the bus. When we got out, there were lines of them waiting to shake our hands. They said, “You are welcome, you are welcome” over and over until it rang in our ears. We then turned the corner and saw the entire village decked in brightly colored sarongs and traditional African garb and sitting in a big square of white plastic chairs. On one side, 40 chairs stood uninhabited, waiting on its audience. We walked around the inner corners, greeting the front row villagers, the elders, and the king, queen, prince and princess. The king doesn’t ever speak directly to the people; he has a royal linguistic that speaks to the people for him in a diplomatic way. Also, there cannot be a king without a queen, and neither can make a decision without the other. The king takes care of the men’s’ concerns; the queen takes care of the women’s’. They said that they’ve been practicing democracy long before the Americans conceived the idea!

Then the drumming began and children danced a rhythmic chicken dance that would look ridiculous if a white person did it. After the bongos ceased, a hush fell over the crowd as the linguistic picked his way, staff in hand, to the front to deliver the king’s eloquently written welcome address. We were then all given traditional African names, which took a really long time but was segmented by interludes of the dancing children. Mine was Aazo Isoenamawu, which means “give everything to God.” They also gave us a handmade pot with our new name on it and a beautiful handmade beaded bracelet. After the ceremony, they made all the white people dance with them, which they thought was hilarious and loved. I definitely looked ridiculous doing that chicken dance, but I loved dancing with the precious children. Our sweet guide, Stephen, was from the village and at one point went over to the drummers and told them they weren’t playing with enough spirit.

The people in the village speak the local dialect and little English, but most in Accra and Tema speak English and Asante, the language of the aggressive ethnic group that conquered most of the others before British colonization. “Etusane” means hello. But it was easy to get around because everyone for the most part was willing to help and talk.

9/25 Fri

Last day in Ghana. Everyone loved it and wanted more time here. We went to an internet café in Tema, where the coffee guy was reading the collected works of Shakespeare, unabridged, cover to cover. Said he expected to finish in about a month. I love Ghana. I’d love to come back someday. It has been my favorite country so far. Sure, they have cool animals and pretty decent food, but the people make it what it is. Their art, attitudes, and hospitality seem to have rubbed off on the shipboard community. We’re all in such good moods!

9/26 Sat.

Neptune Day! First day back on the boat headed to South Africa, and we’re crossing the Equator today. To celebrate, as tradition, all of the “pollywogs” (those who’ve never crossed the Equator by sea) ask King Neptune (our very hard ass, serious, and very British Capt. Jeremy, who was body-painted in green and rocked long, white, stringy hair and skirt, completed by rod, scepter, and crown) for permission to pass. We were christened “shellbacks” when we were “slimed” with fish guts, jumped in the pool, and kissed a fish. Or you could shave your head. I think 14 girls shaved their heads. Inspired by the Ghanaians who all have beautiful bald heads, I did! Don’t worry though, it’ll grow out a little and I’ll have a cute little bob when I see you in December. It doesn't look too bad. Going to take some getting used to. I also got fish guts poured on me though. Delicious. I’m now a shellback. Aarrrggghhhh.

Casablanca, Morocco

2009-09-15T11:48:00.000-07:00

the souks of marrakech. spices, olives, crazy other things.

rose bar in marrakech. L to R: Annie, me, Brittany, Sam, Kelly, Lily, and Carolina. the "sassy" group, haha.

I swear that camel almost spit on me. Can't believe it didn't. A tad bit disappointed, not gonna lie.

Casablanca, Morocco

Thursday Sept. 10-14

I think this the beginning of a beautiful relationship.- Casablanca

Thurs. 9/10
We arrived in Casablanca at 0800, and I immediately left for my tour of the city and mosque of Hassan II. Casablanca, like any city, has its smells, but a unique switch in the winds could bring sweet from the jasmine trees that line select streets to sour fish from the markets. We stopped to see a church, ugly plain concrete from outside but beautiful stained glass windows within. Called Notre Dame something. That church is personification of people, in a way. The culture of Morocco is heavily influenced by the French—the two national languages are Arabic and French, but French is the language of business. We then went to the Hassan II mosque, which I think is the 3rd largest in the world. 20,000 worshipers inside, 80,000 on the grounds outside. Lots of Moorish architecture. It was completed in 1993 and only took 6 years to build because they worked on it 24 hours a day. It’s Ramadan in the Muslim calendar year, their time of fasting. They abstain from eating, drinking, smoking, and sex in daylight. Only when it’s dark can they eat. So it was weird to see most restaurants closed! We had a gross box lunch with our tour, and I felt bad eating it in front of our tour guide, Najat. She was so cute—kept on saying.. You want to hear a joke?
Some of Najat’s jokes: A man incessantly referred to his wife as “mother of six.” Not honey, baby, sweetie, like all the other husbands, but “mother of six, let’s go to the market.” And “mother of six, you forgot to get eggs!” So one night at a cocktail party, in front of all their friends, the husband says “mother of six, are you ready to go home?” She replies, “Only if you are, father of four.”
Another one. A man and a lady were waiting at a bus stop. The bus arrives, and the man says to the lady, “After you.” “No please,” she replies, “after you.”
“I insist, ladies first.”
“Gentlemen first.”
They carried on like that until the bus driver, not a polite man, got fed up and drove away. The man turns to the lady and says, “You are polite, I’m polite, let’s get married.” So they do. 9 months later, her due date passes. Then another month goes by. Two months. The doctors start to worry and when they get close to her stomach, they hear quiet murmurs from deep within the women. They put their ear to her swollen belly and hear, “After you!” “No after you!!” “Please I insist.” Twins.
When we entered the mosque, we took off our shoes and carried them with us in a little plastic bag. The marble floors were covered with soft rugs because of Ramadan. The Muslims are called to prayer 5 times a day, the time depending on the lunar calendar. Right now its 4 am, 8 am, 12 noon, 4 pm, and 9pm. They have to absolve themselves before praying, usually done with water. There’s a certain way of washing the face, ears, wrists, arms, feet, and hands. If water isn’t available, they can have dry absolutions with sand or rock. They have large absolution rooms in the mosque—blue and green tiled mosaic for the men, pink and yellow for the women. People gather around large communal fountains shaped like flowers and wash their face 3 times, hands to the wrist 3 times, hands to the elbow 3 times, feet 3 times, and ears 3 times. You must always pray facing the east, to Mecca, and at night the mosque has a green laser pointing east from its tower. 90 % of the people in Morocco are Muslim. We had to cover our shoulders before we entered, and most of us put a scarf over our head too. It’s more respectful and you don’t get unwanted attention. Even walking down street, a scarf on the head is a signal to men here that you are respectable and do not want to be bothered. After the mosque we went to a wonderful craftsmen shop where we saw men hammering into gold plates, producing intricate scenes of camels, men, and deserts. There were beautiful Moroccan pottery, rugs, leather purses of camel hide and goat, and Aragon oil, their cure-all. They say Aragon oil has anti-aging properties, and it’s very good for lowering cholesterol. People wash their face and hair with it, put it on their salads, and L’Oreal, Claiborne, and other cosmetic companies use it in their products. I didn’t buy anything because I heard you can bargain and get better deals at the souks (markets). We then went to a food market, where we saw gorgeous flowers, bags and barrels of spices, fresh produce, men chopping up pigs and other mysterious-looking meat (I heard a horse rumor), and lots of seafood. The Moroccans looked at us like we were crazy, coming in the market to do nothing but take pictures and ogle. I would be annoyed too. We couldn’t buy anything anyway because we can’t take it on the ship! Security’s insane.
Returned to the ship, watched Aladdin with a new appreciation, and set off with Ashley (NYC), Eric (Arizona/Jackson Hole), Becky (Jersey), Allie (CA), Rebecca (kind of looks French), Katie (Ohio, kinda speaks French). Really great group. We just spontaneously formed—we all wanted to go see the city at night. I love that about SAS. You can always find someone willing to have an adventure. We found a cool Moroccan/French place—Les Fleurs—and had bierre de Casablanca (a very light and American-tasting beer—like it a lot) and couscous de poulet (couscous with chicken, carrots, sweet potatoes, zucchini, and other vegetables). The couscous came first, plain, and we got our meat and veggies in a pewter pan of stew--very French provincial/Arabic blend. Also the famous hot mint tea is excellent. Very sweet, very good. Before women had right (recently acquired divorce and others), they would never dare to tell a man yes or no outright for a marriage proposal. The would retreat to the kitchen, make a pot of tea, and return to serve it to him. If the tea was much too sweet—yes was their answer. If the tea was only so-so, that meant maybe, give me time. And if no sugar—they turned down the proposal. We decided all our waiters wanted to marry us. Saawweeeettt.
After dinner we walked to Ricks Café, the famous bar from the movie Casablanca. It’s reservation only for the bar and restaurant, so we couldn’t get in. Made reservations for Sunday night.
Found a hookah bar—and so did everyone else. 6 tables, each one filled with SASers. Didn’t see anybody all night, convinced we were the only brave ones, and they’ve just been smoking hookah the whole time. Of course. Seriously, about 60 of us in this tiny little colorful (literally and figuratively) joint. The waiter was running around like a chicken with his head cut off, but we finally got set up with a big hookah pipe and flavor of the house (apple). Straight out of the caterpillar scene from Alice and Wonderland—long, slinky cord connected to a translucent, brightly colored lamp. Hot coals heat the foil-covered herb at the top, and when you suck the pipe the water at the base bubbles and you exhale a fragrant delicious smoke. That’s when you have an ah-ha moment. I’m smokin’ hookah in Morocco. What the hell?
9/11 Friday
Headed now on a pre-sale trip—3 day camel riding in the Palm Groves. 4 hour bus ride to Marrakech. The farther south we drove from Casablanca, the drier the land becomes. Sheppards wave at us as they herd goats and sheep over the overpass above us. Where ARE we??
Went to this wonderful Moroccan lunch at this fortress thing right outside the city—mosaic tiles, intricate carving, low seating, angular brass lantern, red-dominate china pattern. Beautiful place. Served us typical Moroccan fare—cooked eggplant (wonderful), carrots, stewed zucchini, cucumber, and other side dishes. For the main course had what I had the first night—couscous with cooked veggies and chicken. Then shortbread-like cookies and hot mint tea.
We then went to the Berber village (the natives here are mostly Berber) which looked African. Red clay houses with doors with varying quality, from tin to wood. The place they took us had only cushions on the floor and fed into a small courtyard. We were serenaded by three local men on the bongo and two other weird instruments as we had more mint tea and cookies.
After chilling out with the Berbers we hoped on a camel and took off for town. Well, inched off I guess is more like it... my train got passed by all the others. How slow are you when you’re passed by 30 camels? But it was fine with me because I got the crazy loud camel that kept on acting up, and my “saddle” was sideways on him. I was basically riding his right side the whole time. I say saddle; it was a big pad that had a wire loop in the front and back that you held on to. Very comfortable had mine not had a crooked hump. The camels were tied by the bridle to the one in front of them in a train, so they would get up and down in a ripple, trot in a ripple, and freak out in a ripple. About a 30 minute ride. Sam Smith (short for Samantha), my cute blonde friend from SMU, was behind me and being hilarious. Camel ride, check.
Checked into our hotel (L’Opera) and had a nice nap before dinner. We found an awesome night club—the Rose bar—so nice. Open air, white drapes covering the ceiling and framing the columns, white couches lining the outside of the pavilion, bar in the middle, oriental rugs strewn over the wood floor, lots of candles. I guess I thought it was a little too nice. What I thought was the prince of Morocco turned out to be the band. Bummer. We basically had the place to ourselves minus these guys decked out in fancy Moroccan robes and little square hats that seated themselves with such authority at the front of the room I just knew they were Somebody. Then they pulled microphones out of nowhere. Shoot.
Our group was fun. SASSY. Two black girls, Brittany and Carolina from NYC Queens and Boston, Lily (small but little ball of dynamite, best friends with those two), Sam (my SMU friend... mouth like a sailor), and three people that traveled independently and met up with us—Kelly (in my group project for Op. Mgmt, very on-top-of-it intense and put together, but cool, I like her), her boyfriend Bert (most chill, laid back dude, they balance each other well), and Annie (adorable, very sweet). Kelly and Bert have the coolest relationship. You’d never know they were dating. Hardly ever sit by each other, give each other high fives instead of gushy hugs and smooches, and not even flirty. Bert was sitting by me and Kelly across the table. I felt like I could have a conversation with him and Kelly wouldn’t freak out. Other SASers there—a few being really loud and drunk—grated on Sam’s nerves. Hates it when people give American a bad name, especially if they’re with our bunch. A guy and girl form CA were dancing around the bar, tripping over Moroccan people, and she (Sam) asked them politely to be careful. The guy cussed her out. He’s on her lack list the rest of the semester. Bad move. Love her, but ya don’t want to be on her bad list.
9/12 Sat.
Next morning early tour. 9-5 cultural run around of Marrakech, which we’ve concluded is so much cooler than Casablanca. Saw the diplomatic palace, where the king receives honored guests—never seen so many tiles in your life. Long-winded tour though. Then saw the catacombs and had another typical Moroccan meal—same side dish appetizers but the main course was stewed beef and fantastic olives. I’ve also had a ton of olives over here. Every meal. Very good flavor. Took us to this extremely touristy shop of tacky trolls and silver horses—I bought a leather belt because my pants had been falling down all day. Made a huge difference. Awesome purchase. I knew I wanted to wait until the souks—huge, hot, crowded, crazy Arabic markets—to buy something authentic and barter. I love to barter. Although I’m pretty sure my belt is camel hide... has a very distinct smell. So I came away from the touristy place with authenticity, in some respect. But in the souks you see the real Moroccan people at their best. Morocco is a country of contrasts; you have modern women who embrace the Western way of dressing and don’t feel they have to cover up, and then women in full garb—all you can see are their eyes. They say directions on how Muslim women dress are not in the Koran explicitly, but women who wear the coverings do so because they don’t like the way men look at them when they don’t wear it. I think there’s something to the head scarf. I found men didn’t look at me as much too when I had mine on. Yet I don’t like the full garb either. Creepy looking. There’s toning down your sexuality and being modest, and then there’s asexuality. A little demeaning, I think. Then adding to the contrast, you have a deepening chasm between wealthy and poor here. You will either get run over by a donkey or a Mercedes in Morocco.
We followed our guide deep into the souks, clutching our purses and weaving in and out of the tight booths laden with scarves, jewelry, pointy shoes, leather satchels, tunics, knick knacks, and food. No sense of direction or clue where we were destined. He made a sharp turn down an alley into a Moroccan “pharmacy”—place they made all kinds of creams, oils, spices for cooking and healing, and perfumes. We smelled and sampled everything in a room filled with jars of dried spices while a charismatic pharmacist expertly told us the healing properties of each spice, oil, or cream. He then, of course, wanted to sell everything. I bought a wonderful lemony oil that you rub on your temples when you’re stressed or have a headache and a jasmine-citronella perfume that smells wonderful and keeps mosquitoes away. 110 Durham ($14 for both). I’ll let you know if they work.
Then they released us in the souks. I bought a beautiful colorful pashmina for 100 Durham (wanted me to pay 300—I talked him down.) He said it was a present to me—he couldn’t believe he was doing it and he paid more for it…yeah. Wore it out with jeans that night.
Went to a show with everyone—served us more mint tea and red wine as we watched men do tricks on horses, belly dancers, fire-breathers, and bedazzled camels. The men on horseback carried these long sticks which I though kinda pointless until they fired them suddenly and without warning, and of course, I spooked. Alas, I still had my red wine in my hand. And curses of curses, a lady in white pants was sitting next to me. All. Over. Her. White. Pants. Ruined. I was so embarrassed and ran to get her club soda and a rag, but all they had was sprite so she spent the rest of the show sopping and scrubbing sprite in and wine out. By the end it was better, but I’m glad I’ll never see her again.
9/13 Sun.
Came back to Casablanca at 1230. So tired. Went out with another small group for a couple of beers, and then went back to the colorful hookah bar. As we looked up at the green light streaking toward the east, the eerie sound of a chatting Muslim wafted on the breeze, guiding the people in their prayers via mosque loud speaker. The sound carries strangely well all over the city.
9/14 Mon.
Coca-cola plant tour today, all day for an FDP. Pretty dry, but cool to see a bottling factory and hear about Moroccan business. Departed from Casablanca at 2000, destination, Accra, Ghana. Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.

Cadiz, Spain

2009-09-09T06:30:00.000-07:00

This doesn't look real, does it? Promise it was... Ok, i rented them. Only 30 euro!

The bullfight, before I was tramatised for life. So glad we had those fans. SOOO hot in Spain!

Paella!

First port

Sept. 5
Landed in Spain at 0800 this morning! We’re about to go on our first trip, an FCP (faculty directed practica) with Dr. Vaughn (non-profit leadership). Saw the churches of Cadiz. 1000-1330. I’m integrated into military time now. I’m supposed to find the role the churches play as a non-profit… but the Spanish people in the presentation on Spain said themselves that most people don’t go to church, even though they consider themselves Catholic. They might believe, but only 50% of believers go to church. So what is the role of the actual physical building now? Has it become just an architectural and historical monument and tourist site? What does the empty building mean to the people? Do they feel identity with it, or is it history to them as well? Our cute Spanish tour guide, Dori, says she believes my hypothesis is right; churches and cathedrals are a lot different from the American churches. She used the word monument as well. The tour was a tour of the city as well. At 1330 we ended and got lunch at a restaurant with a big group of SAS kids. We invaded Cadiz… 500 college students everywhere. Stuck out like a sore thumb. But we loved seeing each other on the streets. Increased comradery in a foreign land. For lunch I ate paella (pa-aye-ya) with Sam, this kid from Indiana. His mannerisms remind me of Zachary Davis. Very sweet, clumsy, and studying to be a mortician. Says he had a job as a greeter and liked it. Wants to bring a more liberal view of death to Americans. He’s traveling and studying how other cultures deal with death—traditions and rites. An odd subject, but a worthy one. I’ve always loved the old New Orleans funeral with big marching bands and umbrellas—a celebration of their life, rather than a mourning of their death.

Anyway, the paella was delicious. It’s rice that’s mixed with this wonderful yellow cream, kind of giving it the feel of risotto. Mixed in is whatever you want—we had four big prawn shrimp, mussels, calamari, y jamon (Spanish ham is supposedly the best.) The Spaniards in the boat went on and on about the ham. It was very good. Bobby Lee got churios, which was egg, cheddar, sausage, and slivers of hashbrown. Best breakfast casserole you’ve ever had.

After lunch Bobby Lee, Leigh Anne, Gio, Steven, Laurel, Peter, and I walked around a little, but Bobby Lee was throwing a fit to go shopping, so I took her to Zara. She kept on going in these terrible European fashion stores and I had to pull her along.. I knew she’d like Zara so much more. Yep, I was right. I accidently spent a lot too. Woops. Good deals though! Made our way back to the boat about 5.. dog tired.

A quick shower later and we were ready for our FDP, Flamenco night. It was amazing. 30 minute bus ride outside Cadiz to this little remote area. As we got off the bus, we were greeted by flamenco dancers with trays of white and brown sherry. STRONG. We then proceeded up to the tiny arena—only SAS people at this thing, so it felt very authentic to me—and were entertained by the dancers, horses, and a bull fight. The dancers came out, clad in a black and white vests, tight curve-hugging skirts with ruffles at the bottom, and slicked hair that was secured at the nape of their neck. But what made them believable, more than their garb, was their confidence. The way they confronted what they were dealing with dead on, with pride. With chest out, energy bursting form their finger tips, and an arrogant cock of the head, they danced with more passion and conviction than I had thought possible. The man in control of a gorgeous, huge, jet-black stallion controlled him with skilled signals from the reins he held as he walked beside the horse’s hindquarters. The stallion’s head dramatically curved in a beautiful but painful arch, muzzle grazing the muscles of his chest. He took no steps; everything was an exaggerated prance. I’ve never seen anyone control a horse by walking behind it, but the Spaniard made it look natural, as though any other way would be ludicrous. I loved when the flamenco dancers “danced” with the stallion, challenging it and being challenged back. Twists of the wrists in exchange for a graceful dressage. They would move into the horse’s space, as close as possible without touching it, affronting and daring. It was beautiful.

Then the Spaniard came out again—riding, this time—on a great white horse, who could do all sorts of wonderful tricks. He goose-stepped, he grapevined across the arena in diagonals, and he finaled with a prolonged stand on his hind legs.

After the dancers and horses, a little 14 year old boy clad in a plain but tight gray matador suit ran out with a pink cape in his hand. Out trots the cutest little baby bull you’ve ever seen (I think there was an audible awww from the crowd). At first the boy chased the bull for a while, trying to wave the cape in front of its face, and the whole thing was quite comical. Then the bull began a few timid charges. The boy’s stance was obviously newly learned, but he looked beautiful. Chest out, body tight and alert, he looked like a proud rooster. Sometimes the cape would be too close to him and he’d get gored or even mowed over, but every time he chased after the bull, pride and determination driving him hard. The fight is a desire to prove oneself to the crowd, and to have dominance over the bull. One must be the fool in this game, and neither’s pride will allow himself to be jested. The boy then exchanged his pink cape for a red one, which the bull immediately noticed. The game heated up as the bull grew angrier. I, along with everyone in the stands, began to get seriously nervous for our young matador. The bull furiously pawed the ground, savoring the anticipation before the charge. The he exploded through the cape, barreling into the thighs of the matador and throwing him to the dirt. The boy scrambled up and immediately, foolishly, challenged him right back before he was ready and got gored again. And again. Then something changed in our young boy. With our fervent, sherry-induced “oles!” his chest grew higher and he swished the cape with ease over the charging bull’s neck. The he did it again. His challenging and arrogant stare became more determined, and he was not gored again. He finished the fight amidst criers and claps from the crowd and was hoisted to the shoulders of his proud brother. Glorious thing, the pride of a Spaniard.

After the fight we went inside a quaint little farmhouse for sangria, tapas, and more flamenco dancing. As the liquid courage increased in our fanny-packing group, so did the arduous “Oles!” The wonderful arrogance of the dance gave us inspiration, and we were all dancing by the end of the night. Granted, it was the Macarena.

Upon our return to Cadiz, we geared up for a night out (starting at 1230). Caught a taxi to the strip of bars along the beach and partied with SAS people until early morning. Highlight—dancing to MJ’s “black or white” with Marcus (a black guy). Love him. He’s a bad ass.

Sun. 9/6
Headed to Sevilla today, the flamboyant city of Carmen and Don Juan, where bullfighting is still politically correct and little girls still dream of growing up to be flamenco dancers. (description courtesy of Rick Steves). Had plans to get off at 8.. knew that wasn’t going to happen. Ended up taking the 3 pm bus because it took a little while to get the boys moving. Our group was put together by Leigh Anne, and it turned out to be very… interesting. Peter (grew up in Palestine, nice enough guy), Bryan and David (ridiculous. Acted like 5th graders the whole time. All they wanted to talk about was sex. Sat down to dinner and David made a comment about his penis. Not impressed by them.), Laurel (tall, skinny, so sweet, quirky to the 9th), and Leigh Anne (my roommate, extremely uptight. I think I’m good for her, haha.). One hour 45 min bus ride to Sevilla. Checked into hostel Samay and went to a real bullfight. Gruesome, horrifying, and provocative. The moment the bull trots out in the arena, his fate is sealed. The matadors get him riled up with their capes before a man on horseback trots out with a long spear to the sound of Spanish trumpets. The horse, thank goodness, is blindfolded and has long armor on, because the bull butts and gores him almost off his feet when the man is stabbing the bull. Essentially the bull is stabbed so many times by matadors that it bleeds to death. Only 20% of Spaniards still go to bull fights now. I think the Americans there were the only ones that were clapping for the bull. Yet they do eat the bull when they’ve finished him off, it’s just that it’s torturing the bull for entertainment instead of a quick, humane death. Heart-wrenching, seeing its sides heave with strained breath and blood slowly replace the back sheen of its coat. I will never go again, but I’m glad I saw it. I think what the 14 year old boy did was a lot more heroic—when you don’t have a way of defending yourself and you face the bull is when courage (or insanity, depending on who you’re talking to) kicks in.

After the bull fight we showered and found a very expensive restaurant right on the plaza of a beautiful cathedral. We ate al fresco (“outside,” I think). Wonderfully romantic spot. It was spoiled by the 5th graders we had in tow… the penis comments wafting across the table were hard to block out, but I succeeded. In salute to the fight, I had bull’s tail for dinner, which was very tender and very good.

Following dinner we walked around Sevilla and found a very swanky outdoors bar by the river—secluded by trees and drapes. Low white couches, cool candles, not crowed. We walked by through an empty town, the prettiest I’ve ever seen. Allies might be narrow, but they were clean, and the soft light from street lamps touched almost everywhere and everything. Prettier than Florence, I think.

Mon 9/7
The next morning we set off to meander. Had a good baguette sandwich with prosciutto (very thin bacon-like slice) and olive oil, had a beautiful turquoise ring made on the street for only 5 euro (talked him down from 10), and saw SAS people all day. Didn’t go in the big cathedral—didn’t have my student ID so couldn’t get a discount. Enough cathedrals anyway. Had some fresh-squeezed orange juice and mulled around, looking in lots of shoe stores. That’s what they love in Spain… shoes and ham.

Once back in Cadiz, we had a siesta and a shower, both sorely needed. Slept on the boat.

Tues 9/8
Today had a light lunch on the boat (free) and met up with some people (Sam and Caroline) to go to a park and use the wifi. But it was 6 AM at home, so no one to Skype with except mary chandler, who was in Granada (another little Spanish town). Oh well. Then went to the beach where found a group of SASers and laid out the rest of the day. I loved Spain. I like Italy more though because the people are nicer and more willing to help. I tried to speak Spanish everywhere, but they got frustrated so easily! For the most part people were nice though. But they DON’T know English. It’s totally on you to speak Spanish or no communicado for you. All in all, Spain was a wonderful first port. Get our feet wet in Europe before we dive head-first in Morocco!

CLASSES.

2009-09-04T16:38:00.000-07:00

Thank you for the best 21 ever... I miss ya'll!!

What's the cheesiest thing I can say... oh. you guys are my heart.

Coolest cake, neal ann and bon. I've been bragging about it a little on the boat, not gonna lie.

WARNING: POSSIBLITY FOR YAWNS AND SIGNS. SORT OF DRY. STOP IMMEDIATE USE AND CONSULTE PHYSICIAN IF SYMPTOMS WORSEN TO SCRATCHY EYES, SLUMPING, OR DEPARTURE FROM CHAIR TO FLOOR WITH HEAVY THUD. my apologies.

Sept. 1

I love how integrated service is on this voyage. I feel as if they have catered this trip specifically for me. I had decided at the end of last year that I must do something in social responsibility or non-profit or I wasn’t doing marketing. Every class thus far and many lectures outside of class have been focused on service. The wonderful part about it is the level of involvement the students want to have in service. These people aren’t just a bunch of rich kids looking for a booze cruise and another outlet to spend daddy’s money; they truly have a social conscience, are super down to earth, and easy to talk to. Everyone is just as awestruck, grateful, and excited as me. Today in Bus., Govt., and Society, the zany Dr. Strenecky talked with us about his brainchild “The $100 Solution” which began at his home University of Kentucky Western U. It’s a rotary club project (he’s a big Rotarian) that solves a big problem with just $100, despite the project estimate. He solved one problem at an orphanage abroad, where the sister/mother superior told him the children had never had a hot shower. The estimate of a new water system was about $9000. They did some research and were able to cut down distribution prices and bought a hot water heater for $100. The children now have a hot shower every day. That simple thing made a huge difference.
He told a wonderful story about his view of service. It can be daunting and overwhelming when you contemplate the world’s problems; how could you, one person, possibly change the world? You can’t. It’s too big, too many bad people, why waste your time and energy? Here’s the story.
Two brothers were walking along a beach. Suddenly a huge wave crashes upon them, drenching them and almost pulling them out to sea. When it recedes, millions of starfish are left on the sand, suffocating and left for death. The older brother heads back home to dry off, and turns around when he finds his younger brother no longer alongside him. He looked back to find his younger brother tossing starfish into the ocean, one by one. The older brother yells back to him, “What in the world are you doing? Stop! You aren’t going to make a difference. There are a million starfish out here.” The younger looks at his brother, points to the sea, and says, “I may not get all these guys, but I can tell you it made a hell of a difference to that starfish.”

Sept. 2
Got malaria pills this afternoon… apparently everyone’s getting them so didn’t want to miss that boat. Went to a cool seminar tonight, photography 101 by the young ship photographer Steven Cawman. Some tips… rule of thirds. Do off-centered placement; if it’s people, have them to the side instead of smack dab in the middle. Look for geometric shapes or architectural details. Don’t shoot straight on. Check out patterns found in nature. Look for humor. Depth of field.. focus one thing and leave the rest fuzzy (I love this but my camera doesn’t zoom enough to do it). Use black and white or colors to set the mood. The best or “magical” time is right before sunrise or right after sunset. Get cool long shadows. Get CLOSE to details. Take lots of pictures of doors. If taking a horizon shot, put it in either top third or bottom third. Do you want more sky or land/sea in the shot? I am aspiring to my geniuses of photography friends, Mad dog, Seckdaddy, Henry, and Knoxy. If only. I don’t anticipate their touch or eye, but I reference their work with awe and draw inspiration. Thank you, you artsy folksy people you.

Sept. 3
CLASSES. This entry you can skip over, I’m having an extreme nerd moment where I have to indulge my inner geek. I am loving the classes. Professors of this boat are incredible. They don’t mess around about giving you work right off, but it’s not tedious work. It’s relevant.
In Operations Management, I just presented a big group project about business and operation in Spain. My part was about ethics and corruption in business, and I found it largely relates to the property market. There are huge margins to be had!! Property management, construction, and town-planning lend themselves to corruption, especially in small towns. The national Spanish government just passed several laws regarding ethical business and land management practices in response to the tons of cases regarding local authority (govt. officials and administration) that were accepting bribes, changing zoning laws, and cashing in on the booming market (2004-2006). The laws right after in 2006 and 2007. Dr. Duran has been in the field for 20 years and is very passionate about the subject. He’s Mexican, talks a million miles an hour, and is nothing but energy and go-go-go. Operations mgmt has the potential to be awful if you had a droning professor, stuck in a classroom learning stats. I’ve always found that I really learn and enjoy it when I consider is relevant, and if there’s a possibility I could use the information later.
The next class I have is Non-profit Leadership, which I love. Professor Vaughn, UVA, lives in Charlottesville, VA. Looks like a typical Southern gentleman. Always wears a polo and striped ribbon belt. Very tan. Nice looking older man. I’m going to meet with him about my thesis for the Honors College that I need to be working on right now. I think I’ve got a great idea!! Today in Non-profit Leadership we talked about the organic makeup of nonprofits and what the most important aspect of them is—service, expressiveness, advocacy, building community, or values. He broke us up into those 6 groups and told us to make the case that ours was the most important. My group argued that expression was the most important because without participating in and experiencing ballets, operas, art, music, sports, churches and religious organizations, and other forms of culture, how would they find and discover their interests, and therein determine what group/non-profit they want to join and give to/serve? Non-profit sports are usually a big part of children’s lives; they learn fair play, sportsmanship, competiveness, and working on a team—skills invaluable to people in the work force. Opera, ballet, and music links people culturally, exchanging tastes of alternate cultures and breeding greater culture understanding and acceptance. Religious organizations usually foster some sort of spirit of service within its members, whether it is he golden rule, inner peace, or a respect for all creatures (incarnation). The underlying pulse of religion is to better yourself, which produces better and more conscientious citizens. It even teaches obedience, which aids the success of Government (to an extent), which prevents humanity from spiraling into chaos. People come to know themselves through expression (verbal, physical, emotional), and others come to know them as well. Preserving the individual and his thoughts contribute to the greater goal of a more diverse, rounded, and successful collaboration of service. Yet we all decided, of course, that all factors work together to produce an effective body of service, but it was fun to debate about which came first. Sort of the chicken or the egg deal. Which it was the chicken. If you believe in evolution, an organism has to be evolved into what it is going to be before it can reproduce another thing like it. Or divine creation, God put the little guys down here, but how much fun would it be to just make an egg? Think He made an embryo sack before Eve? Or fish eggs. That’s not fun. As for me, I believe in both. Still not sure where the dinosaurs fit in yet. How did A and E not get eaten by the big T. Rex? Mystery unsolved. What a load of BS.

Global Studies is very cool, just lots of new factoids and lecturers. Lots of info on countries we visit and general goodness about the world. Sustainability lectures, ecological economics, flat world of technology, etc. General exciting stuff. We're reading The World Is Flat by Friedman, which we read freshman year for Honors, so I'm just hanging out, which is awesome.

Think I've got my thesis idea!!! Deals with a new approach to corporate philanthropy, a more integrated and strategic approach that benefits the genre of business and society. But I'll spare you. Hope noone's asleep.... :)

We land in Cadiz, Spain tom at 8:00!! I’m SO excited. Anticipation nation on the boat. Cabin fever. We’re there Saturday-Tuesday, then we sail one day and we’re in Morocco!! So I might not post for a while, but I’ll try to post after Spain. Hope all’s well! Don’t get swine flu! Thank you for my emails Bonney, Parker, Kate, Margaret, and Knox! Getting email is like getting mail at camp. HUGE deal. It’s cake to a fat kid at fat camp. blvarner@semesteratsea.net, if you feel so inclined.

2009-08-29T20:14:00.000-07:00

(Center): My new roommate, Leigh Anne Gilbert from Biringham, AL. Goes to UVA, junior.

(Left): First restaurant in Halifax when we got in. Mussels look cool though, right? Oh well. Lots of experimental food this trip! Not that mussels are all that exotic, but I'd never had them.

(Right): Pier 23 and top of the MV Explorer. I'll get a better pic later.

and we're off...

2009-08-29T19:34:00.000-07:00

Aug. 26
Wow, this is finally happening. We set sail for Cadiz, Spain, leaving the coastal town of Halifax behind us. I thought Halifax was really quaint and clean; lots of cool pubs and English influence on menus and architecture. Mary Chandler and I met each other after customs at the airport and shared a taxi to Halifax, about 30 min. away. The British-accented cabby insisted on giving us a history of Halifax, which was interesting.. After checking into the Sheraton, we set out to find a local brew and some grub. We landed (at the concierge’s suggestion) at some place called Electric Shoeshine or something along the likes of that.. cool pub though. I got a good pale ale and mussels, which were less than tantalizing. (Never had ‘em, glad I tried them. Blech. Not a huge fan.)

Aug. 27
The next day we tooled around Halifax and spend money needlessly.. bought Season One of Flight of the Concords (2 New Zealand comics come to NYC.. dry funny humor). Also bought some black low-top Chucks (a.k.a. Converses) that I need to scruff up and break in.. Not the most comfortable right now. We went to a brewery and sat on the deck sampling beer and watched a massive massive cruise ship called the Caribbean Princess take off. It’s sheer volume and size overwhelms everything else, and it’s snaillike pace matched it’s bulk. Compared to that fat princess, the MV Explorer (SAS’s ship) is a little pip-squeak, but FAST. They say it’s the fastest commercial passenger ship in the world. We checked the facebook group when we got back at the hotel and discovered everyone was meeting up at the Westin from SAS, so we decided to do that. Little nervous, but we figured it would be nice to meet at few folks before we sail. So glad we did. We ended up going with this group of 30 to a pub called Henry.. something.. promise I’ll start paying attention to add a little more flavor to this. Mary C knew Anne, a girl that goes to Furman and studies abroad a lot, so she sat at our table, along with Randall, a cute girl from Boston that goes to U Penn in Philly. The girl that got the group together is from Birmingham, and goes to UVA, Leigh Anne Gilbert. She buzzed around a lot at the tables, very outgoing and cute, introducing herself. Everyone on the ship is for the most part extremely extroverted, which makes it easier. And Leigh Ann ended up being my roommate! I think we’re going to get along great.

Aug. 28
Check-in day! MC’s check-in was at 8, so I checked in at her time so we could share a taxi to the boat. I had 2 rolling duffels, a backpack, and a satchel, and I was pretty average compared to the other students. Light packing compared to other girls, heavy compared to guys, I guess. But ya’ll know me, I’m low maintenance almost to a fault (although not as bad as Katie-Chloe). My cabin is preeeeettty small, but we surprisingly have a lot of storage! I was able to completely unpack everything and slide my suitcases under my bed. Which thank goodness, those duffels are miserable! I was ready to throw them down and start kicking them.. They had a mind of their own when it comes to rolling. But definitely the best way to go.. packs so much and compressible! Only have to get through the flight with those suckers. I met the girls beside me in the cabin, Carley (KY) and Bobby Lee (TN), (both go to Kentucky State U), and we went to find breakfast. Wandered down the board walk until we were hit with an incredible aroma of something.. which ended up being crepes. Phenomenal. Egg, tomato, sausage, cheddar, onion, and parsley in a buckwheat crepe. And a nutella one for dessert. YES. Why do people bother with peanut butter when there’s nutella?? I really like Carley and Bobby Lee. Bobby Lee freaked out when she heard I was a Chi O.. she’s one at KSU. We came back to the boat and had an interesting drill where we had to wear long pants, long sleeve, closed toe shoes, and a lovely orange life vest. We all shuffled out to the deck and had to be completely silent for 20 minutes. I could only see the roof of Pier 23, which was covered in bird poop. It was actually kinda artistic and cool looking. I wanted a picture. Oh, those Picasso birds of Halifax. I’ll miss them. We pulled out and I immediately felt the rocking.. weird feeling. Very weird. I thought it would make me sick, but just a little dizzy at first. It rocks you to sleep and I slept like a baby.

Aug. 29
Meetings and orientation allll day today. Nothing of note to report except I think our professors are going to be so cool. They were crackin’ jokes out the wazoo. Start classes tomorrow!

what to pack??

2009-07-06T20:23:00.000-07:00

Ok, this is a test first blog.. I've never done it before and I'm trying to get used to it before I get on the ship. I just spent about 2 hours looking at templates.. they go on forever!! (when I have a macroeconomics test tom... woops). But I think I really like this one. Watercolors.. so pretty.

I have no idea how this packing situation is going to go.. I think I'm going to have to be very creative! They say about 5 shirts and 2 pairs of pants. Really. For 4 months. HAHA it's definitely going to be a trip. But I'm SOO excited about it! It's been all I can think about for months.. I'm highly anticipating the camel trek in casablanca and marikech.. crazy.