Google Paradise

Ah, Mauritius. An island of rainforest green and crystal blue water. Of fresh, humid air that hangs long after a morning shower (and by shower, I mean downpour). Of French and Creole tongue, dark skin, little traffic. 75% of the tourism in Mauritius is honeymooners. The other 25% is families, now families probably because of the honeymoon. We loaded on the bus this morning to sprinkles, which turned into raindrops, which turned into rather large droplets, but clouds always burn off by noon.

I spent the day on a SAS-hosted trip, an FDP suggested for my oceanography class. The description said we would go to the Isle de Deux Cocos, or Island of the Two Turtles. We would snorkel and ride on glass-bottom boats. Lunch was included. What we didn’t realize was that we were being taken to an island frequently rented out for honeymooners, white sand beaches littered with shells and protected by black volcanic rocks. This island went for 2,000 Euros a night. Included in the tab was a 15-person staff all to yourself, all-inclusive food and beverages, and warm, tropical waters 15 steps from the porch of your Indian-themed vacation home away from home. Not too shabby.

When we got there, we were rushed under villas as the rain fell on our lowered heads and necks. But the rain didn’t stop the island staff. We were brought grape juice in wine glasses and sat on big red cushions with matching pillows while we waited. When the rain let up we explored the shoreline, Sanibel-stooping to save new shells for our collections. In small groups, we were given snorkeling gear and driven out to a reef maybe 100 yards off shore. Others took glass-bottom rides, drifting over staghorn corals and parrot fish, easily visible in the shallow waters of the Indian Ocean. Offshore, massive waves broke against the fringing reef, the one place they told us we couldn’t swim, although we were all very content within the limits of our playground anyways.

Lunch was served buffet style, with five different sections of Mauritian foods. When I sat down at the table, already decorated with napkins, glasses, and silverware, my plate was piled high. Mustard colored chicken, a red-seasoned tuna, a crispy yellow-seasoned tuna, lamb, shrimp and pineapple kabobs, and lobster tail, and that’s just from the grill. Baked potatoes, hot and cold pastas, salad, and rolls. I felt like there was a little subliminal advertising going on here. (Come back to Mauritius for your honeymoon. You know you can’t resist! Seconds proved them right.). After our feast, it was time for more snorkeling, exploring the island, and relaxing in hammocks. When 3:30 rolled around and it was time to leave, Ray and I were dragging our toes through the crisp, clean water at the end of the dock, swinging our legs back and forth, like the ending of a movie. The clouds never came back after their morning parade, and I would tell them to their face that I wasn’t sorry to see them go in the first place.

By way of other students, everyone who was anyone spent their day on a “booze cruise”, a catamaran ride around the island on a boat stocked with alcohol. I’m not sure how so many drunk people ended up on the ship without docktime, or how one kid, after drinking himself into oblivion, ended up in the hospital (last I heard he was in stable condition but unresponsive). All I know is that I wouldn’t have picked any other way to spend my day in Mauritius.

South Africa, Part II

Robben Island sits right of the shoreline to Cape Town, a thirty-minute boat ride. It is home to the prison where Nelson Mandela spent his time locked up with the many other politically outspoken of the time. The island was barren, small bushes shot up every once in a while, but the wildlife consisted of flies and seagulls. The buildings were faded, made of cement. This was not a welcoming place. When we got to the island, we got on a bus that drove our 11 am group around the island before stopping at our last stop, the prison. We were greeted by a former inmate, who told us what it was like to be locked up here for five years of his life. I assumed everyone would be depressed, some would go crazy, like the stories of Alcatraz. Instead, he told us of the confidence and power it gave those who were locked up. I guess it makes sense. Why would you lock up a whole bunch of men who believed in equality of the government? So they could continue to plot and talk about freedom? Good thinking. We walked down the hallway and saw Mandela’s cell, still exactly how he left it, pillow and blanket folded over a scratchy, gray mat on the floor, serving as a bed. A small stand with a single drawer and a bucket lined the wall of the cement floor, and bars covered the window that looked out over a small dusty courtyard. I admire the strength these men had to stand up for what they believed in. Mandela went without seeing his wife for 14 years before they would let her visit. And when she finally did, they were allowed one short hug, and then a large table where they sat on opposite ends of each other was their best form of connection.

When my alarm went off at 4 am Monday morning, I didn’t even think it was mine. Having gone to bed just two hours before, I was very confused, until I realized this was the day I had been waiting for. I shot out of bed, brushed my teeth, and picked up my pre-packed backpack for our morning of cage diving with great white sharks. No way were we about to do this. It’s what you see on shark week. It doesn’t actually happen to real people. And here we were, Jenn and I meeting a group of 10 others at the gangway, marching down the steps and out to a bus that was waiting for us at the port entrance. The two hour drive gave us all a little more time to catch up on sleep before we stopped in a quiet beachside town, mist still hanging on to the thick kelp washed up on the shell-scattered sand. An old squat woman welcomed us as we stepped into the small house, and a breakfast we weren’t expecting filled the kitchen table. Eggs, toast, cereal, fruit, yogurt, muffins. It was perfect. After we filled up (which was a bad idea for some), we walked down the road to the dock, where the Barracuda, our vessel for the day, sat rocking against the buoy. We climbed to the top of the boat, and were instructed to always be holding on with one hand as we pulled away. Soon we knew why. I guess I had forgotten our ship spent a day hovering out at sea, waiting for the waves to calm down. Now we were banging through them with speed, flying up in the air like a speedboat, being thrown around like a little raft.  Our anchoring point was off of Seal Island, the place with the biggest great white shark population in the world, the one plastered all over Shark Week on the Discovery Channel. Unfortunately, our videographer Johan told us, there were only 300 sharks left here, and only 1000 left in the world. They were being killed and sold on the black market for their fins and jaws, going for upwards of $100,000. He said we were lucky to see them now, because soon they would be gone.
As they pushed the cage in and chummed the water around our boat, we struggled to put on our full-body wetsuits and booties. Johan explained that our boat was now a giant floating dead fish, and we were the predators who had killed it. The shark was more afraid of us than angry or annoyed. Nonetheless, we would be taken out of the cage if we touched the off-limits orange rope or stuck our limbs past the vicinity of the metal bars. No petting. Good news to report: no arms were lost in the making of our adventure.

The cage, attached to the side of the boat, was split into six sections, with bars on top to hold and a bar beneath to kneel on. We swam across, equipped with masks and weight belts, to our spots. A rope tied with tuna heads was thrown in front of the cage, and as a dark shadow would come up from the deep, Johan would yell “Down divers!”, to which we would take a deep breath and force ourselves underwater. Scanning the world underneath was eerie. Much quieter than the surface, the green tint gave a visibility of only one or two meters. My eyes would quickly dart around until suddenly, close enough to touch (but not ACTUALLY touch) was a great white shark. It cruised by, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, depending on its curiosity. I heard the jaws music in my head. “Down divers!” Again and again I plunged underwater, using the bar to hold myself down. And shark after shark swam by. They said we saw at least six or seven on the day. The water was freezing, my wetsuit was rebelling, but I could’ve stayed in the water all day, jumping from boat to boat and into cage after cage. We ended out morning with a light lunch. Hot soup, rolls, more fruit, juices. We met the famous “Sharkman”, Mr. Michael Rutzen, who is also plastered all over Shark Week. After thanking everyone a thousand times, we loaded back onto the bus, and away from an experience I could check off my bucket list. Maybe I’ll put it on there again, just for kicks.

On our last day, I went to Two Oceans Aquarium with Travis, Eric, and Rolando. It’s kind of funny, because the ratio of girls to guys on this ship is so big, and somehow I ended up traveling with three bodyguards, and in a place where I would feel safe to run by myself, too! The aquarium was fantastic. Separated into the Indian and Atlantic Oceans, because Cape Point is the line, or meeting of the waters, there were many animals I had never seen before. There were glass walls separating us from sharks, stingrays, and turtles. There were black lights illuminating box jellies and moon jellies and upside down jellyfish. There were paintings and facts on the walls that brightened the whole room and made everything colorful. While we were there, our RA, Kelly, went diving in the shark tank, and we got to watch from the other side of the glass. The best part of the aquarium was that my friends were just as interested as me to see everything. I figured it would be like at home, where everyone waits for me. But no! We all had a blast. Educational AND fun. That’s my style. Plus, I got to touch shark skin. Did you know they’re trying to make swimsuits out of a material resembling shark skin now? See? Educational.

Our nightlife consisted of not drinking, dancing, and climbing trees and the giant lego man in the middle of port. We stayed out pretty late, but had a blast exploring, testing the policemen (there were so many of them on the streets of Cape Town). Turns out they don’t care if you climb statues. I hope that means they’re interested in catching thieves instead. During the day, it was easy to see the preparations that had been made for the world cup last summer. The buildings were painted fresh, the streets were clean, everything was orderly and laid out. Victoria Wharf, where out ship was ported in Cape Town, reminded me of a cross between Baltimore and Traverse City. It was a populated, but not overcrowded, beach town. Lines of little shops painted in pastels lined the waterfront, restaurants with outside seating were around every turn. The air was fresh here. Not at all humid, and breezy. It smelled clean, or sometimes like a food that’s pleasant aromas wafted all at once in our direction. We were tempted by gelato from San Marco’s and plain vanilla ice cream cones and cheeseburgers topped with some kind of bar-b-que/french dressing  mixture from Steers, the local fast food joint. The ice cream tasted like frosting. It was 40 cents. Needless to say, I ate more than I should’ve. Long Street was a half-hour walk we made most every day. By day it was a huge market, similar to what we saw in Manaus, except with less harassment. By night the streets lit up and tourists and locals alike came to the bars, which occupied every space along the road. Loud music and strobe lights emitted from some windows, the Purple Elephant gay bar stood on the street corner, surrounded by transvestites and flamboyanteers, and laid back bars spilled their patio chairs onto the sidewalks for people to sit. It was quite the sight to see.

And the end of our five days, it was easy for me to say my feet had never hurt more. But every step was worth it. Once again, I was traveling with new people, doing things I never thought I would do, and experiencing things I couldn’t imagine. I took over 500 pictures in South Africa, and I tried my best to load some before I gave up and skyped instead. Someday there will be a visual of what I’m talking about. For now, I guess, you’ll just have to take my word for it.

P.S. Congrats to my little brother for being accepted to Flagler College in St. Augustine! Maybe Mom and Dad will come visit more now that the self-proclaimed “Golden Child” has left the nest. Yeesh.

Sea Lions, Hitchhiking, and Climbing Lego Man. Welcome to South Africa.

When we finally pulled into port a day and a half late, we were very over the idea of going through immigration individually and waiting for the ship to get cleared so we could venture into the fresh, dry air of Cape Town. When the go-ahead was finally given, we marched off the gangway, ready to take on another country.

Table Mountain, named for its flat top, challenged us, even from a distance. If it had a face, “Let’s see what you’re made of” was stamped very clearly across its forehead. Our taxi weaved through the city and halfway up the mountain before dropping us at the head of Platteklip Gorge Trail, which our driver said was the best to climb. Even from the start of the trail we could see the city, tiny colorful buildings in the distance, bound by the bright blue waters of the Atlantic Ocean, and spotted with the greens of trees and bushes and blues of pools and ponds below. As we began to hike, we passed and were passed by tourists and SASers of all ages, but as we clambered over the rocks and steps of the mountainside, the stragglers were left behind, and soon it was just the five of us, staggered in line and breathing heavily.

I can’t recall exactly how what happened next happened, but somehow we made a friend. A guy our age had caught up to us during one of the many water breaks we took up the mountain, and as I brought up the rear of our group at the time, I was the first to meet him. His name was Vince, a 22 year old from Holland who had dropped out of college and become a professional poker player. He was in South Africa because he had opened a map and placed a finger on a place he would like to visit. He just got up and went. He said he would be in town for three or four months, and had spent his first ten days looking for an apartment to rent while he was here. Vince got along with all of us. We talked and laughed and told jokes and made fun of each other. And when we got to the top one hour and forty-five minutes later, we shared a view we’ll never forget. A sweeping sight of the city, fogged by clouds every once in a while, but gorgeous nonetheless.  The rocky cliffs fell straight down, jagged, black, and gray with green spurts of grass speckling the sides from where we were standing. The top of Table Mountain was desolate, barren. After taking our fill of pictures we relaxed at the quaint café. Tours of sightseers passed us and I realized this was the first place we had really seen tourists other than ourselves. Many Europeans were here; maybe this was the place to go on vacation? Some of us bought drinks and snacks, foreign beers, sodas, chips (thank you Vince for the chips!) before heading to the cable car. We were NOT about to hike down a path that steep. My kneecaps would have been displaced by the bottom. The ride down was smooth, quick, and another great view. We parted ways with Vince at the bottom, exchanged emails and hoped to meet up another night to hang out. Unfortunately, no one has perfected their communication skills without a phone yet, so coordinating was near impossible. We still felt lucky to have made a new friend on our first adventure.

The next day, Jenn, Isaac, and I caught a taxi to a train to a bus to Simonstown. Let me tell you, that train took us along the East coast of the peninsula, and it was beautiful. The ocean waves crashed over rocks on the coastline and bright blue manmade pools, where locals stopped their splashing to turn around and wave at us. Our hour long, $1 ride brought us a short walk away from Boulders Beach, home to the African Penguins. When we got there, we decided not to pay the entrance fee and ended up at the nesting ground of the penguins a short walk down the beach. As we watched them hop from rock to rock and get knocked over by the waves, a man told us it would be a 250 Rand taxi to get to Cape Point, the southernmost point of South Africa, and our next wish list stop. After much debate, Jenn stuck her head inside of a tour van, and the next thing we knew we were accompanying a family from Singapore to our destination. Another hike awaited us after the entrance gate, so up we climbed to a lighthouse on top of wave-beaten cliffs that looked like something out of The Chronicles of Narnia. In the middle of the walkway stood many signs pointing in different directions, graffiti scribbled into the post that held them steady. “New York City- 12,641 km”. These were signs that told the distance from this spot to major cities around the world, and man were we far from home. The last train out of the station that night would be at 7pm, and as 5pm drew closer, we decided it would be a good idea to get there on time. We then realized that there were no taxis up here, unless you counted the ones that were already rented out to other tourists. We spent a good hour knocking on car windows and jumping in front of cars to ask in desperation for a lift even relatively close to town. When we had almost given up and called a taxi, which wouldn’t have come in time to make the train back home, two guys about our age were walking in our direction. This was one of those moments you see in the movies, where Jenn and I had a quick, whispered, comical argument where I repeated “Let’s just do it! What do we have to lose? We’ll never see them again anyways.” And she whispered back “No! What if it doesn’t work? They won’t help! They look scary!”  As the moment came to ask, Jenn just kind of threw the words up. “Heydoyouguyshaveataxi?” They stopped, looked at each other, and said “No.” We sighed. All that build up for nothing. “We took our car here. Do you need a lift?” They probably thought we were crazy when we started jumping around and yelling for Isaac. They were headed for Cape Town and we didn’t even need to take the train back. It always works out.

Jeremy drove an old red Toyota, and Matthew navigated back via a Garmen and a good sense of direction. The two of them had grown up together in Durbin, 16 hours from the city, and now attended the University of Cape Town. We talked with them as they drove us this time up the West coast of the Peninsula, past white sand beaches, tiny pastel-colored towns, and old lighthouses. We rounded the corner to a small town with no name, and all of a sudden Jeremy was shouting “Cassy! Sis! Sis!” Small world for them, Jeremy’s sister was getting out of the car with her husband and a friend on their way into the bar to watch the first game of rugby season. They pulled in to talk, and soon realized the game they thought was at 7 pm was actually a half hour in and had started at 5. With nowhere to be, we agreed to go in and watch with them for a while. We ordered a pizza and I sat next to Matthew, who answered question after question about rugby from me. It was basically American football with a different scoring system, a non-stopping 90 minutes, and a lot less sissies. At the end of the game, the Sharks came out victorious over the Cheetahs, and we drove the rest of the way back to port with two happy Sharks fans as our chauffeurs. After a quick stop for Jeremy to “Feed his addiction” of cigarettes, we were back at the Wharf. We offered to pay them, and in the end they took only 50 Rand (about $7) out of our pile of money. Enough to buy two packages of cigarettes. We exchanged facebook names and emails again in hopes to meet up sometime before we left, but again failed in the communication department. At the end of the day, it was the people we met that made what we did an adventure. Hitchhiking across South Africa, no big deal.

I'm going to take South Africa in shifts this time, so tomorrow I'll post the rest :)

Turn of Events

Just thought I would give an update from my cozy bed at 2 am. We are at sea. Still. We never ported today because the water was too rough! The ship has been rolling constantly, which we turned into games. People get creative when they're trapped on a ship for 7 days with a promise for land on day 6.

Students around the ship today ate, took naps, played cards, watched movies, ate, hung out, and ate. Some went a little crazy. By nighttime, they had scheduled two movies, Salt and Toy Story 3, to play in the Union, followed by an open mic night. It is unreal how many talented people there are on this ship. Singing, playing guitar and piano, acting, writing their own songs. Some sang a capella, some accompanied themselves, all were so perfect and so unique. Some of my friends performed, and I never would have known they could sing. It's cool to find things out about people like that. Also, I'm a sucker for musical self-expression.

We're all crossing our fingers to magically be in port when we wake up in the morning. No one wants to lose another day. There's so much to do in Cape Town, and the fact that we keep sailing past it back and forth just makes it seem like South Africa is taunting us. Tonight a group dressed in their traditional Ghana shirts and pants purchased in the last port, sang Madonna's Like A Prayer, and dedicated their performance to Mother Nature in hopes that she could help us out with the rough seas.

Pray for us.

At's aFrican Experience!

"Uncle Don asked if you wanted to come to lunch with us today while he's in town. I told him you were in Africa."-- Ryan

At least I was hoping we'd be in Africa. We were supposed to port this morning at 7 am. It's now 7:10 am and we're cruising through the ocean without land in sight. Captain Jeremy must've been busy having lunch with students and forgot to stop!

The safari we were trying to plan didn't work out, but it's okay. There are so many things to see and do in Cape Town, none of us feel like we need to leave. If we ever find the port, we wanted to take the day and go to Boulders Beach (where the penguins are), Cape Poin,t and the rest of the beaches on the peninsula. Plans were originally to hike Table Mountain today, but gail force winds have closed the cable car system and trails. Don't worry. It's very sunny.

My roommate and I are showing the South African diplomats around the ship today after their presentation. We feel so important.

Sparkling Water and a Spotlight Lunch

So here I am, minding my own business, getting my lunch in the 5th deck dining room as usual on A days with my friend Ashley. We always come in, choose an empty table, park our books down to save our seats, and get in line with our fellow hungry classmates.

Today is fish and chips. I squirt a side of ketchup next to my fries, and spoon a wad of peanut butter next to that for my apple. I turn to go up the ramp, headed in the direction of our table, when all of a sudden one of the waiters is wrestling my plate out of my hand. Back and forth, back and forth, I’m confused and giggling, wondering what he’s doing. His eyes are big. He looks a little frazzled but is also smiling as politely as possible. When I start listening to what he’s saying to me, I realize he’s under some pressure right now. He’s kidnapping my plate and hoping I will follow as he sets it at the long “reserved” table in front of the big window at the back of the ship. I follow his quick movement with my eyes, still planted to the spot next to the condiments as he speed walks away to put my plate, I can’t believe it, next to the Captain.

After going back to get my books and watching Ashley flee the scene of what she thinks is the most horrific thing she’s experienced on the voyage thus far, I walk over and have my chair pulled out for me by one of the staff. This is weird. I’m wearing jean shorts and sandals, and feeling underdressed for what seems to be a fancy occasion. I look up at the faces around me as I hand my books off to another waiter. I feel like we’re all wearing the same expression. Looking around wide-eyed, unsure of what to say or do, smiling nervously. A napkin is thrust into my lap by yet another waiter as Captain Jeremy’s food, an artistic arrangement of mozzarella and roma tomatoes sprinkled with basil, arrives in front of him. We drink water out of wine glasses; he drinks Perrier.

The first line of the conversation is quickly interrupted before it can expand by something I have been waiting to see since our first day on the water. Kids are climbing over each other, running to the windows, surrounding our table with pointed fingers and “Oh! Look!” exclamations. A pod of at least 50 dolphins is swimming alongside our ship. They jump out of the water spontaneously, just like on the Discovery Channel. As we pass and eventually leave them behind in our wake, they continue to play, shrinking and finally disappearing in the whitecaps.

As attention turns back to our table, we begin asking questions about the ship, ports, food and waste disposal, rumors of the ship, etc. We learn a little about each other, but the conversation is mostly interrogative.

Over the course of the next 45 minutes, I learn legitimately interesting things I had never even really thought about. The girl sitting across from me is asking most of the questions, while her friend to her right keeps the conversation flowing. I think the rest of us are okay with this, and although I chime in sporadically with curiosities of my own, I am content to sit, learn, and listen through my meal. Besides, I’m battling internally with how I can eat the apple sitting in front of me without being rude. I don’t really do fancy meals. I ended up cutting it, which still involves the use of my fingers, but I figure it is better than winding up and taking a huge bite out of it.

Captain Jeremy ends our meal with a little smile and his British accent perfect for narrating documentaries on third-world countries or wildlife, take your pick. “Well! Now that we’ve all gotten to know each other we can speak more around the ship!” We nod in genuine agreement, and as our small group disperses out of the dining room, I make a mental note to sign up for a bridge tour. I know this happens almost every day with other unsuspecting diners, but today it was me, us. I feel important, although I may have to start dressing up a little more for class in case this happens again. At least I didn’t wear my fuzzy blue slippers. That could’ve been awkward.

A Brush With Accomplishment

Today when I walked into Travel Writing, my teacher wasn’t there. Instead, his wife stood at the podium, gripping the sides and swaying back and forth, fighting the rocking of the ship. She told us her name was Pamela Holly, and then proceeded to talk about the accident our usual teacher had had last night. He slipped, or tripped, or fell over, or passed out, create your own story here. The main idea was that he hit his head pretty hard and was, during class time, down in the medical clinic. She said he was fine, but they wanted to watch him for a while. “He wasn’t going to let you get away without having class!” So there she stood.

I’ve been wanting to write about each of my teachers, and after someone asked Ms. Pamela Holly to tell us a little about herself, she shared about both her life and her husband’s. I figured it was good to write while the information was still fresh in my mind.
P.F. Kluge’s real first name is Fred. He goes by P.F. though, like any serious/indy travel writer might. He bares to me a strong resemblance with Anthony Bourdain, who has a show, No Reservations, on the Travel Channel. He speaks how he writes, which always leaves me pondering his words and analyzing their meanings. Sometimes I’m not sure what he says at all, but the Life Long Learners in the back of the class laugh, so I laugh too. He’s written for everything from The Wallstreet Journal to TV Guide to National Geographic to Rolling Stone to Playboy. He’s authored eight novels, and has another coming out soon (I’ve never heard of any of them). He wrote an article that was discovered by a screenwriter and eventually turned into a movie I have heard of, however, entitled Dog Day Afternoon. He speaks of his residency with the Peace Corps and his time in Micronesia often, but it wasn’t until today when his wife said something that we really realized his involvement. He is the “father” of a country. He formed Micronesia. He wrote the preamble in 20 minutes on his typewriter. I feel like I still don’t know who this guy actually is, but he seems like a crazy man. My favorite thing he’s said in class is “What? Office hours? I don’t have office hours. If you need to meet with me for some reason, I’d be more than happy to chat on the smoker’s deck, where you can find me after every meal.”

Pamela Holly introduced herself as being “not nearly as smart as P.F.” She, too, was a journal writer. She grew up in Kansas, where her father was instrumental in the Brown vs. Brown case, and she was in the middle. One year, she said, she was in an all-black school. The next she was shoved into an all-white school. She works now in Asia, as a correspondent for Bill Gates. A self-labeled Fundraiser, she “has been teaching Bill how to give his money away, because he has no idea.” In other words, she helps him decide what organizations and foundations he can contribute to. Spend his money wisely, I guess you could say. It doesn’t seem to me like her intelligence level is anywhere beneath her husband’s.

By looking, they don’t seem like a couple. P.F. walks like he’s wading through water, his face red from years of sun and hair white from years of life.  Pamela is mocha-skinned, white, short hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. Although you might not put them together at first sight, it seems hard to separate them after meeting their personalities.
Accomplishments interest me.

The Dirty Details

Ghana was five hours ahead of home time, so when I began typing that last journal entry, I was sitting front and center on the floor in the Union at 1 am, watching the Packers win the superbowl! I think there were more Steelers fans there than Packers fans, but if you don’t like the Steelers you hate them. Needless to say, we probably picked up a lot of half-fans along the way.

I pretty much covered everything in my last entry, but there were minor and awesome details I left out for the sake of length (I know you’re saying “Are you joking? That was the longest blog entry I’ve ever read!” Professor Kluge wanted a 10-pager. That’s what he got). So let’s chat.

The reason the harbor smelled like elephants and vinegar was because to get to and from the ship we walked about a mile and a half. Along the way there was a massive, old, but still functioning warehouse. When we looked in the open doors you could see conveyor belts shifting and shooting a mixture of brown and ash-colored beans up the ramp like a roller coaster. This warehouse was lodging cocoa beans, one of the main exports of Ghana (the other is gold). The beans were fermented/fermenting and their stench screamed out of every hole in the wall they could find. Many construction workers and other types of laborers walked the same stretch we did in a mixture of really nice business suits and really not nice royal blue prison jumpsuits. The train tracks catered to a two-car train that pushed crates back and forth for a reason unknown to us. Other cargo ships were docked along the port, beat up and rusty, so the MV Explorer really stuck out.

Trotros were our main mode of transportation when traveling to Cape Coast. Very similar to a 15-passenger van back in the states, but on the brink of dilapidation.  It cost 3 cedi, about $2, for the 2 hour bus ride. There was no air conditioning, but I’m pretty sure the windows were glued open, not that I would have wanted them closed in that humidity.

On our way to Cape Coast we passed multiple neighborhoods where people stood on the side of the road with their little wooden, once painted but now chipped and faded stands. People with baskets on their heads (is this real life?) walked back and forth between towns, always wearing jeans. Everyone wore jeans. We couldn’t figure out why, but eventually just decided it was because they were used to the weather. By the end of five days we were used to it, too, although never got gutsy enough to put on pants.

There was a duty free shop right next to the ship that became known as “Club Duty Free” to the shipboard community. I think SASers had them cleaned dry of alcohol by the time we left. The first night we went to socialize and were annoyed to see Ghanaian men walking from conversation circle to circle trying to sell their paintings and bracelets. When they gave up on that, they began to mingle. I had to use a couple fake boyfriends (Ryan I love you the most!) to feel protected, especially when one guy came up behind me and started shaking my shoulders like they tell you not to shake a baby. I made an executive decision that that was my queue to leave.

The port of Takoradi had a water issue while we were there, so every night in port from 10 pm until 6 am we were waterless of all sorts. No drinking, taking showers, flushing the toilet. We got back from Accra too late Wednesday night to get the Ghana grime off, so we met at the pool with soap and shampoo and did what we needed to do to be able to sleep in bed that night without having to tell Rene, our steward, to change the sheets.

The worst and best taxi ride came in Accra when we tried to get to Art Center. Mixing the nastiest traffic in the world with police-run traffic lights and people that wanted to sell you everything you don’t need is a good experience. At one point, we were stopped and 4 arms were reaching in both sides of the car (remember: no AC, windows down). Brandon, who was sitting in the front seat, asked our driver, Samuel, to tell them to go away. Instead Samuel told us to lock our doors. I’m not sure it sounds funny in writing, but if you picture it, locked car doors do absolutely nothing to up our defensive forces when the windows are wide open. Brandon did as he was told, and spent the rest of the ride shouting “Come at me bro!” to every other person who offered him a trinket. That’s a new inside joke. Along with “Screwdriver?” and “A for apple!”.

We spent the last day on a beach lined with smooth, long, red rocks that played host to algae as the waves pounded over them. While most of our group drank at the bar, Jenn, Andy, Ben, Jen, and I walked the shore, climbing and exploring, picking up new shells as we went. We played with fish and sea urchins stuck in small holes, and when the tide went down we were able to find animals like conch, sea anemones, and crabs. We finished our trip with lunch and a raid of the grocery store before heading back to our enclosed, tilting space again for the next six days. Now on to South Africa!

One Love

Another long one. Another Travel Writing piece. Can't wait to share more details. Again, pardon the length.

We walked down the gangway to what we later decided was the bitter odor of elephants and vinegar. The air was thick and humid, and the smell of pollution hung in the deep layer of smog, protecting our skin like an unhealthy version of spray-on Coppertone.
After nine days without land, it was nice to be back on firm ground. But there was little time to enjoy the sights of colorful shipping crates and rusty, old mechanical cranes before the hassling by Ghanaian men and women began. Most carried string bracelets in colors resembling the country’s flag, customizable to say whatever you were in the mood for. A Rastafarian dressed in tattered jeans and a once-white baggy shirt approached me. From what little I could interpret of his quick and choppy English, I soon realized he wanted me to write my name down on the notepad he waved in front of my face. “Welcome to our country! You just write now, I will have ready for you when you come back. Just for you!” By our fifth day in port, most of these locals learned the definition of “No, thank you”, but for the time being, I was the one training this man, and he didn’t catch on very quickly.

My friend and I coached our group not to break stride. Some fell behind and were lost in the dust, while others were rescued by a physical tug of the arm. I noticed as we power walked out of sight of the ship’s safe haven that two men were still with us. Was this how the whole trip would be? I prayed I wouldn’t find the confines of the MV Explorer more inviting than this country I knew nothing about, but at the moment it seemed the ship was pulling ahead in the race. I lowered my guard as one of the two men following us jogged to match my stride. His name was Stephen, and so was his friend’s. He stood as tall as me, if that. His short, wiry hair stood out from his clothing, which looked fresh compared to the other men we had shaken off in port. “Do you know where we can find an ATM?” I asked. If he was going to follow me around, I was going to get some useful information out of him. The Stephens walked us into town, to one of the only ATMs open on a Sunday in Ghana. As I thanked them, they mentioned something about “God’s plan”, which I soon learned was on everyone’s mind here. I realized these men were just interested. They asked questions about America and how we liked being in their country, seemingly anxious in hoping it would measure up. They beamed with pride as I told them truthfully that I thought I liked it, and even if I had already conjugated a negative opinion, I wouldn’t have shared it with them on my worst day. Ghana and I had gotten off on the wrong foot. I cleared my mind and started over.

It seemed to me that there weren’t many tourist attractions here, so my original plan was to get off the ship and meet the locals. Sure, I was proposed to three times by men I had never spoken to, but as we pulled away from our temporary port home and many dancing, genuinely happy people on the dock below, I realized this was a country where the people you met told the story. It wasn’t about what I saw that was amazing, but new friends who made it that way.

There were the taxi drivers. Outside of Takoradi, they didn’t know their way around. To their dismay, we usually attempted to pile five people into a cab, squashing four into the backseat. I watched them struggle internally, money versus authority. Money always won, but sometimes we had one of us disappear in the backseat at a traffic light regulated by the police. We requested to go to what we thought were common places, but noticed most of our cab drivers would yell out the window in their native language, to which the recipient of the question would usually point in different directions, swerving their hand like it was a car driving around a street corner. We learned the skills of bargaining for prices when they tried to charge 50 cedi for a five-minute ride. My strategy was to wander over to an official-looking local and ask how much the price should be, then rejoin my stressed out, haggling group members with money-saving information. We would make the announcement for how much we would pay, and pile into the car whose driver snagged us first.

The Cape Coast Castle and Slave Dungeons brought a variety of hustlers and helpers to the table. We toppled out of the taxi like a Honda Pilot car commercial, finally beginning to appreciate the muggy breeze after sitting on top of each other. Our taxi driver, Ben, pointed us in the direction of what looked like a little shack near the beach for a late lunch, right next to the castle. As we climbed and descended the miniature obstacle course of stairs to get there, children carrying baskets of food on their heads approached us, hands still free enough to grab ours. Two girls, each wearing stained, perhaps second-hand dresses, swung one of my arms in a playful way, as they asked my name and where I was from. They dragged us down to the beach, where an older group of boys had just finished playing soccer. All together we were three girls and two boys, and as these soccer players passed they chose one of us, like men at a bar placing claim on which woman in a group of friends would be their focus for the night.

Mine was named Chris. Sweaty, stuttery, and slightly aggressive, but in a nice way, if there was such a thing. Our conversation could have more appropriately been called an interrogation, but as he asked me questions nervously, he too mentioned God’s plan and that it was fate that we meet. As he wiped large drops of sweat from his forehead and out of his eyes, he spoke sincerely about his dream to attend the University of California. I began to realize he thought I might be his gateway to the United States, and as I wrote down my name for him to look me up on facebook, I hoped he wouldn’t ask anything too impossible.

The young girls who were so nice when we first met were now getting anxious. The one in a faded yellow dress was now pulling my arm out of it’s socket, waving around a torn piece of paper so close I had to cross my eyes to read it. On top of the paper was formally written, “Hello. My name is Rebekah. I do not have enough money to buy my books for school. It is my wish to continue my education, and I am hoping you will please donate so I can buy my books. Any money is appreciated. Thank you.” I smiled painfully as I fell for the trap. I told her we would be back out after lunch, and she could talk to me then. We assembled our troops and finally staggered up the steps and through the restaurant. Rusty nails held up knick knacks and dusty artwork in random places on the walls, and newer-looking wood showed where frames once hung, now unable to protect from dirt and sun in its absence. After chicken kabobs and refreshing, familiar cokes, we apprehensively clambered back down the stairs, bracing ourselves for the storm. The girl popped out of nowhere, again. I snatched the paper out of her hand before she could throw something else on me, scribbled down my name, where I was from, and that I was donating one cedi to her “fund”. More kids were accumulating. I thanked her quickly, pulled my friends arm, and booked it to the safety of the castle as a scene from a bad horror movie formed in my head. The lost and confused victims stumbled away, batting back zombies as they attempted to do whatever it is zombies do. We half-sprinted through the group of men barricading the castle entrance with “authentic” souvenirs, bursting past an old woman and her daughter sitting near the bathrooms, who chuckled at what they just witnessed. In the distance, I saw the little girl I had just given money to run up to what I assumed was a type of “boss”, beaming as he rewarded her for bringing back another catch.

I’m not sure if it was just the previous scene we had made outside, but the castle seemed still, quiet, eerie. We breathlessly paid the entrance fee, and walked into a rise of white walls and barred doors. Cannons lined the outermost wall, and the aqua blue ocean met the sky many miles out. The sun, still hazy from the smog, gave the dungeons a barren, desert-like feel. We walked to the wall. Down below, closest to the castle, was something you could almost refer to as a neighborhood. Houses with shaky walls and no roofs or running water stood worn and surviving. Goats nibbled at pieces of dropped food, or maybe dirt, as “clean” clothes hung on the line, swaying to air dry in the wind. Further out on the beach, hundreds of locals swam, fully clothed, in the waves, throwing beach balls, surfing pieces of cardboard, canoeing their half-sunken boats through the water. I watched quietly as some boys played futbol below, half of their field submerged underwater, thick sticks coming out of the sand for goals. Shirts versus skins, it looked like. I turned my attention back to the neighborhood below and noticed a woman pounding some type of dough in a wooden bowl with a tree branch. “Do you know what she is making?” I looked to my right to see a nicely-dressed man smiling lightly and waiting for a reply. His weathered eyes glanced back down, nodding in the direction of the women, now accompanied by a child running circles around her. “She is making foofoo, one of the traditional dishes of Ghana. It is a type of bread, mixed as you see her doing, with plantains and water.” I nodded in understanding. His name was Laurent. He was solemn in his words and actions, and I had a feeling it was because of where we were. His ancestors were held in these dungeons long ago, and, as I noticed with many other locals in the area, as we took pictures and skipped from room to room, they kept to themselves, looking out across the ocean, appreciating their freedom. We talked until my group wanted to move on. He said the beach party I was witnessing below appeared every Sunday. People gathered to celebrate the day made for God, socializing and genuinely happy. We thought these shacks they lived in were horrific, unimaginable. But they were completely satisfied, maybe even better off. It was all they knew, and their appreciation for what they had made their lives something to admire.

Kakum National Park brought us to Doris, a heavy-set, middle-aged woman dressed in a park ranger uniform. Her big black boots and camo-style jumpsuit gave more of a military impression, especially when she failed to greet the group she would be watching over for the next two hours. We hiked behind her up the winding path and past the rest stations, into the rainforest. Intimidated, we took a step back as she reached the top and turned around to face us next to a sign that read “Canopy Trail”. Her hard face relaxed, and a smile spread across a set of almost straight, yellow teeth. “Okay.” She said with the breath she had left. “Now that we’ve made it through the hardest part of the trek, I’d like to welcome you to Kakum National Park”. She gave us facts about the park, warning to keep an eye out for elephants (Really? In this?), mongoose, and other wildlife as we got deeper into the forest. As her hard façade faded away, a much kinder Doris emerged. She walked and laughed with us, putting up with the stereotypical class clown who verbally harassed her in a joking way, answering any questions we had. She took us to a set of seven rope bridges, strung high above the green, lush treetops. My first step onto the small wooden platform was greeted with a loud CRACK. I quickly retracted my foot and stared wide-eyed at Doris. She smiled understandingly. “These bridges will make many noises as you walk, but I assure you that no one has ever fallen to their death.” Great, Doris, very reassuring. I turned around again, inhaled, and took a step out. Strong, just as Doris had said. The fifteen-member group trekked across the treetop canopy, snapping pictures, the boys rocking the bridge back and forth violently to the sound of the girls’ screams. Doris was waiting for us when we came back around, still laughing from our lack of coordination and fascination with the forest playground. We continued past trees and bushes new to our eyes, with Doris explaining their medical remedies and everyday uses to the people of Ghana. As we finished our tour, we thanked her for her time and she thanked us for letting her come. It was actually required that she babysit us, if you will, but we enjoyed her company just as well.

One of the later days of our trip was spent taking a “tourist bus”, as the men at the bus station referred to it, four hours east to Accra. Though running on three hours of sleep from the night before, I couldn’t shut my eyes. I was fascinated with what lay beyond the bus windows. Men and women balanced everything from small bowls to giant rugs to generators on their heads. They walked in perfect rhythm and with a swaying posture showing obvious experience, some holding the hands of their children as they walked. They sold everything from bags of water to plantain chips to household items like combs and toothbrushes. We passed through many security checkpoints, where scattered and serious military men with AK47s strung over their shoulders peered through the windows at us when we stopped. We didn’t know the reason for these checkpoints, and were especially terrified of them after our first encounter. My roommate, sitting behind me, was taking pictures out the window as we crawled through security. All of a sudden, one of the soldiers was at the window, his blue-styled camo sleeve snatching at Jenn’s camera. “You are not allowed to take pictures!”, He said angrily as he snatched again. “You must ask permission to take pictures of people! It is impolite! And you may not take pictures of government buildings! It is forbidden!” The man was very worked up, and we were all terrified to say the least. After some more quarreling and a threat from the soldier to “get his master and have her beaten”, Jenn had convinced the man she had not taken any pictures and would put her camera away immediately. The driver, who had gotten out of the car to talk to another security officer, climbed back in and shut the door. We continued the next couple minutes in silence, but this was one of those stories to laugh about later.

We passed more people as we drove, some thrusting their items into the windows. “One cedi!”, they would exclaim as the bus began to drive again. Their sales pitches were quality. A rugged man with shirt made up of more holes than clothing stuck his fistful of tools into the window of our taxi, along with his very strong odor. “Screwdrivers!” was all he could muster out. Another man with long, straggly hair carrying a giant poster of the alphabet, letters assigned to pictures, shouted, “A for Apple!” How could we resist?

The best Ghanaians we met were family friends of our friends. The two men were both named Eric, and were therefore referred to as “the Erics” for the duration of our time in Accra. They were generous, negotiating with taxi drivers for us, finding us buses for transportation, telling us where we could go to eat. They found a hotel for our group to stay in that was safe and clean. At night we traded dance moves in the hotel lobby and socialized. Michael, their younger brother and a student at the University of Cape Coast, was my friend for the night. Well dressed and even better spoken, Michael had lived in England for four years earlier in his life. He told me of the ways of school, society, and life in general. He had traveled to many countries, and although I could tell almost immediately he was much better off in this country than many other families, he did not show it. His humble attitude and willingness to accept and talk to anyone gave me great respect for him. I spent forty-five minutes explaining American football to him with no progression, and we talked premiere league soccer until late in the night, when the alcoholics of the trip had finally passed out.

I learned from my time in Ghana that first impressions shouldn’t last. Terrified when first getting off the ship led to an assumption that all of Ghana was out to get us. It was when we strayed off the tourist path that we got to meet the real people. They were friendly and loving. They were as curious to learn about us as we were to learn about them. Most of all, they taught me that life could still be good with nothing. We came back covered in red dirt and grim every night to the comfort of a shower and warm, safe bed. They did what they could to get by, but understood by looking around that they could appreciate relationships with God and each other instead of the materials of life. They taught me more than just social skills and how to say “No, thank you.” We learned, as one child said to me on the street, “one love”.

Here today, Ghana Tomorrow

Writing quickly to tell everyone not to panic. Still alive! Ghana is chaotic and wonderful. So dirty but so inspiring. We just returned from a trip to Accra, where we went to two schools and did artwork with children. Hopefully I'll be able to get around some internet soon and upload some pictures, because you can't believe it until you see it. And I feel even with as much explanation and description as I can give, it still won't do it justice. I'll try.

The water has been shut off every night on the ship in Ghana from 10 pm until 6 am. It wasn't a problem until tonight, when we got home at 11:30 pm and there was no running water, the bar to buy water bottles was closed, and security made us dump everything we had with us to make sure we weren't smuggling alcohol on board. We changed into our bathing suits, got our soap, and went to take baths in the pool. It will do until the water comes back on in the morning. And it was funny.

I think I'll break Ghana down into the 5 senses or something, because describing this country is complicated and on the brink of impossible. Look for the first post tomorrow, probably sometime after we leave port.

A G N

We just finished the closing ceremony of the Semester at Sea Olympic games. Intense is a good adjective. Competitive, fierce, nerve racking, heartbreaking. Those work too.

It began a couple weeks ago, when Deck 2 (70-something students, self-named the “peasants” for living on the least expensive but BEST floor) free-styled a chant and marched through the ship in our navy color representing the Aegean Sea, our assigned sea, one of 8. A high-pitched “A G N” piped from the women, followed by a manly (and outnumbered) “WE WILL WIN!” Heads turned with faces of confusion as we echoed through the whole ship. Some pulled out their cameras. We were the first to “bring it on”. Intimidation factor: High.

Other seas attempted to copy our initial outburst, but the idea had already been claimed, and anything to follow was just lame.  We had, and still have, the most team spirit on the ship. Red Sea, Yellow Sea, Caribbean Sea, Arabian Sea, Baltic Sea, and Bering Sea belonged to the students. The life long learners came up with a clever “Sea Salts”, while the family members of faculty and staff chose the “Luna Sea” (get it? Lunacy?). Each sea had their own color, own cheers and chants, own personality. Some excelled in athletic ability, some in team spirit, creativeness, some just drive. Some, to be honest, didn’t excel in much of anything, but as Dr. Bill, the mc for the Olympic games, said, “If you set your standards low, you won’t be disappointed when you lose. And if you win, you’ll be pleasantly surprised. Either way, it’s like sleeping on a bed of feathers. If you push yourself too hard, you might as well be sleeping on rocks. No one wants to be a winner. Having fun and expecting loss is much better. The champions get to hold up the #1 sign in all of their pictures, but if the losers hold up two L’s with their hands, and then tilt them a little, it turns into a W anyways.” Good ol’ Dr. Bill. Always knows just what to say.

Last night the seas marched individually to the Union and to their assigned seats, chanting and showing their spirit, for the opening ceremony. After speeches from the deans and that well-presented message from Dr. Bill, each team was called up first to show their sea banner and be judged. They were given 30 seconds to explain what they had drawn.

        “The Aegean Sea is located between Greece and Turkey, as shown on our poster. Because of this, we have chosen as our mascot, the turkey greasers, appropriate because we, too, are a little gangster. The land and water were made by the handprints of every single member of our sea.  To the right you can see our graffitied sea name, and to the right, our motto, which is of course…” She pointed to us. That was our queue. “BOOM” we all replied. I know you are curious, and the answer is yes, we did shake the ceiling.

After the other seas had presented, it was time for the chanting competition. This time we were going last. The Sea Salts did a rendition of thriller and a human pyramid (we were nervous for them). The Arabian Sea brought up a Barack Obama impersonator. Connections in the AV booth gave us an edge, and as we stood at attention, Nelly’s Boom began to play and we stomped our feet to the beat as the lights faded. The judges gave us scores of 8, 9, 9, and 8. Not exactly what we had hoped for, but a good start.
Competitions today started at 1 pm with one of the most popular events, synchronized swimming. Ridiculous outfits, Britney Spears and Backstreet Boys greatest hits, and choreographed routines occupied the pool for an hour. The judges were splashed and hit on. A leopard leotard made an appearance. All in all, a strong competition. We placed 2nd. Not too shabby.

Other events throughout the day included SAS trivia, dodgeball, “HORSE” basketball, card house stacking, relay races, dress your LLC, and my shining star, crab soccer. Crab soccer is much harder than it sounds when you make it 3v3 full-court with a ball that moves according to the tilting of the ship and men with limbs twice as long as yours. The goals were lines on the court, and the yellow sea’s win over us was questionable. That’s all I have to say about that. It’s still a sensitive subject.

The points were tallied while we celebrated the day with what will probably be my favorite meal of the voyage. BBQ ribs, burgers, hot dogs, fruit, ice cream. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have more than one serving of ice cream. Worth it.

The closing ceremony was shorter that the opening, but packed the same amount of energy. Another inspiring speech by Dr. Bill and a sea of colors (many puns intended) made for a powerful summarization of the experience we’d all just shared.  I met so many people today from my deck. I had no idea I was living around such cool and individual kids. We really are so different from each other, coming from different parts of the country, growing up so far apart. And as cliché as this sounds, here we are, trapped on this ship together for the next 3 months, and loving every minute of it. I think the Sea Olympics have really brought us together as a family, which is just what I was beginning to need.  And corny as it sounds, in the end, we made a new team- the Uni-Sea. Whether it was for extra participation points or because we meant it, I’m not really sure. But the idea was cool.

Rereading this, is seems a little biased. We were legit. Legitter. The most legit. We placed a heartbreaking second place at the end of the day, to the Red Sea. We did it for Dustin, our LLC. We did it for the pictures and videos being taken of us. But most of all, we were wild and crazy for ourselves. We made our own fun today. And it wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for each other.

BOOM

Ps. Not to kill the inspirational mood, but the dean lied to us. Macauley Culkin is not on the ship. Also this kid just told me a story for the reason he is on Semester at Sea. Summary: He killed a mountain lion while mountain biking in Canada. With a knife. Using his bike as a shield. Yes, it’s true. You meet some interesting people on this ship.