'Nam

Oh, what to say about Vietnam? It was a safe place to be. Our biggest problem was the language barrier, which I heard only gets worse with China, and means I’ll be spending my night writing down Chinese terms and looking for maps of every major city we’ll be in before we port in Hong Kong tomorrow.

I travelled with Ben, Kristin, and Rolando. Ben’s dad, a veteran of the war, was stationed at one point in Hue (pronounced: “Hway”, so you can hear the “H”), and that was our deciding factor of where to go. Our plan the first night was to take an overnight train north (about halfway up the country). Five minutes after they told us everything was booked AND it was a 20 hour ride, much different than what we had originally heard, we had booked a one-way flight for the next morning at 6 am. With more time to kill, we spent the day in the market, where I bought a fantastic North Face backpack for $8 (I hear the son of the CEO of North Face is on the ship, and his father is not too happy with all of the purchases made in Vietnam) and the boys spent the better half of two hours bartering prices to get suits made.

 We walked past a restaurant later that afternoon and immediately turned in, attracted, like children, by the swings hanging from the ceiling. Here we were introduced to Pho (pronounced like the first half of the f-bomb, “Fuh”), a chicken noodle type soup, and delicious Vietnamese ice cream.

We spent the night wandering the brightly lit streets of Ho Chi Minh City, also known as Saigon, riding elevators up to the rooftops of shiny buildings, trying weird foods, and talking to American-loving Vietnamese people who wanted to practice their English with us. As we wandered, we walked past groups of kids our age hanging out in parks, some holding skateboards, some just staring as we walked by, some shouting “Hello!”, which seemed to be the most widely known English word among people on the streets. They were just so excited to be able to say anything, and it was really cool.

At one point while we walked, after trying cuttlefish (street food, not the best thing I’ve ever tasted) we were kind of caught by some bouncers and ushered through a dark, down-sloping hallway, past stands that I’m sure, during the day, belonged to owners trying to sell fake sunglasses, purses, watches, etc… The bouncer pushed an invisible button on the dirty wall 100 yards underneath this building, and a black-light elevator opened in front of us. We looked at each other before a mutual “eh, why not?” shoulder shrug, and rose three floors. When the doors opened, my hands automatically went to cover my ears. Mixed Justin Beiber songs (why is every country so obsessed with Justin Beiber?) blared from the speakers around the corner. We were ushered across a big dance floor and down an aisle to a tall table with no chairs. Looking around, it seemed a few other SASers had made it inside, and between us and a couple younger groups of Vietnamese people, there was only head-bobbing. No dancing, no talking. It was MUCH too loud to talk. I felt like I was in a swanky, wild club you see in the movies where girls’ drinks are drugged and fights over cocaine break out randomly. After five minutes of awkward head-bobbing and looking around, we decided street food sounded more appealing, and after a long search for the exit, we managed to get back outside to the now quiet-seeming streets of Saigon.

After more walking around, and a run-in I’ll write about soon for travel writing, we came across some kids fishing on the steep slope of the Saigon River. Didn’t they have homes, or mothers, or somewhere to be? It was so late! They laughed and shouted “Hello!” as we approached, and before we knew it Rolando was sliding down the face of the slope towards the water, fishing net in one hand, arm being tugged to safety by three Vietnamese kids, the rest of us laughing and cracking jokes in our own languages that the others didn’t understand.

I woke up at 3:22 am, after a mini fight at 1:45 am with the girls I share a wall with, who had come in drunk and boisterous. I got ready and met my traveling companions in the gangway, where we ventured out to cut a deal with a taxi driver, $20 to the airport. We were tired, and $5 apiece wasn’t that big of a deal. His car conveniently “stalled” outside of the entrance to the airport, where you had to pay a fee to get in. Three of us paid with five singles, and Ben paid with a $5 bill. As he walked around the car and I pulled my backpack out, the driver said “Excuse me! Not $20!” I recounted and noticed, to my disgust and his embarrassment, that he had taken out Ben’s $5 bill, thinking we would pay more. I yelled at him, telling him we weren’t stupid and I knew he was stealing from us. If my brain had been on (it was 4 am by this time) I would have taken $5 more out of the pile and said “You take $5 out, I take $5 out” and walked away. It bothers me that people in every country have raised prices in taxis and autorickshaws and broken deals because they think we’re stupid Americans. It’s disrespectful, and the next person that does it will get a lot less patience from me than they deserve. I will try to be as nice as possible though. I promise!

The day was extra long since we were off and running in Hue by 7:30 am. We had a little run-in with what we decided were undercover National Geographic photographers, but they wouldn’t admit it. Their National Geographic bags and clothes kind of gave them away. Those liars. Took a taxi into town, where we ate, and then made our way to the Forbidden City, or Purple City, via bikes with little carriages on the front. Stories say it’s what the Forbidden City in China was modeled for. The men who drove us in their carriages spoke little English, but would point to a grassy field and say “bomb”, or stop at pagodas and temples as we made our way to the main attraction.  Some parts were run-down, while some buildings seemed to have been rebuilt. Across the street you could see an old fort topped with a massive Vietnam flag, blowing in the wind. The walls of the buildings were made of tiles, like broken teacups pieced together in an artistic way. The area inside the city seemed more humid, if possible, than the land outside. Sculptures and statues of dragons and ancient un-readable writings covered walls and doorways. I’m not sure how to describe the Forbidden City. I guess it was kind of what I expected. What pictures showed me. Cool, but another touristy thing to seem.

That night, we took a train to Da Nang, East of Hue, on the coast. The next morning, we made our way to Marble Mountain, where statues and temples could be seen perched on the mountain’s cliffs from down below. As we walked the road outside, a woman came up to us. “Where are you from?” she asked. “America”, we all answered in unison, something we had said many times before. “To-tally Aw-some!” She exclaimed. We laughed as she waved goodbye, turning the other direction. A few seconds later another woman approached us, same question, same answer, same response. Who had come through and taught all of these people to say “To-tally Aw-some!” It was cute. It was funny. This woman followed us around, telling us about the mountain, showing us where to eat, asking us to stop by her shop on our way back.

Marble mountain had enough Buddha statues for all of Vietnam. They were huge. They were built into the mountains, carved into the caves, where rays of light shown down on them from holes in the rock face above. It was eerily quiet, except for the squeaking of bats and unpredictable flapping of wings. Raggedy men ushered us around, acting as unwanted tour guides, stressing us out, and then asking for money as we exited the mountain. We explored the forgotten sidewalks and stairs of mountains nearby, climbing and climbing, winding our way to the top for the view we knew would be worth it. At the top of the mountain it was less humid. It smelled clean and fresh and the air was crisp. A good place to relax and rest, and a place that had me realizing I was more of a hiker than a statue-see-er.

We took an overnight train that night to Nha Trang, the touristy beach town, with full intensions of making it a spa day. And spa day it was. We got full massages, including steam room, sauna, and tip, for $8. It was weird when they told us no clothes. We walked around in towels to cover up, not used to the culture of baring it all. The massages were a mixture of pain and pleasure. I wasn’t expecting such strong hands from a girl who only came up to my chin, and she had to hold herself down with the ceiling to make my back crack when she walked on it. The hardest part was communicating to her that my knee didn’t bend the way she was pushing it as she stretched my make-shift ACL into unnatural positions. All I could do was point to the scar, but she was so terrified she almost stopped completely when I showed her. Funny things happen when you don’t speak another’s language.

Later we attempted mani-pedis, advertised in a brochure for $1. Their version of manicure is much different than ours, and the pedicure part must’ve been a typo, because they seemed appalled when we picked out nail polish colors for our toes. $1 is never wasted though; it’s only an experience. My fingers look squeaky clean now.

Food was our main hobby and pastime when we didn’t know what to do. I lived of pho and banana pancakes, and I can’t wait to look up the recipes for both when I get real internet again. Ben ordered pho with every meal, while Rolo ordered a coke with every meal, even breakfast. The banana pancakes were more like crepes, but they were cooked and fried and crispy and perfect. I miss them as much as I miss the chai tea from the Him-ah-lias.

Crossing the street in all of Vietnam was an adventure in itself, so much that I videoed many of our attempts. Cross walks exist, but are more of a reference point. The whole ordeal is really a trusting, understanding, and intimate moment between you and 40 motobike/car drivers/complete strangers coming at you without slowing down. There is no break in traffic. You put your foot into the road, and don’t break stride until you reach the curb on the other side of the street. Walking slowly is key. Running is bad. Stopping is bad. I’d say it’s the equivalent of the old woman in Mulan who covers her eyes and walks across the road. If I covered my eyes and walked slowly across the road, I would have the same outcome. It was mad. I’m crossing my fingers I’ll be able to get a video up to show everyone.

After Vietnam, I realize we were spoiled terribly by the Himalayas. Vietnam was amazing. I liked talking to people and eating and dealing with traffic and sightseeing. But I loved being in India where no one else was going, where there were no tourists, where the path was less traveled. I’ve found I love exploring nature, hiking mountains, seeing caves. I love the scenery. Statues are cool, shrines are neat. But they’re something I can see in 10 minutes and be done with. I can never get enough of the breathtaking views of the Himalayas. The scene when you hike is always changing. It’s not that the Himalayas had more things to do or see, it’s just that it more suited my personality.

If China plans work out, I’ll be getting a dose of both, and a lot more mountains and nature than Vietnam. Cross your fingers! I can’t wait.

One funny thing I liked in Vietnam was that, unlike us, they can’t tell the difference between English-speaking accents. We can tell if someone is from Australia or Great Britain or the U.S. If I talk to someone in the market, they ask “Are you from Australia?” All they know is that I speak English. They can’t identify where I’m from. I feel like we speak so slowly, like we’re so easy to understand, but that’s not the case. It’s very interesting.

A strange and kind of disturbing part of Vietnam we noticed was inside war museums. We visited two while in the country, and both had the same feel. It was cool to see the pictures and big planes and helicopters and tanks that sat in front of the buildings, but when I began reading the descriptions of everything, I noticed a biased outlook on the war. Some pictures would read “This is where Vietnamese captured x number of pilots” or a tank, or a plane, or a group of soldiers. However, when it was us who did the capturing, the signs read “This is a photo of American soldiers beating, torturing, killing, shooting, bombing, fill in the blank”. If I’m not mistaken, the war was brutal on both sides, maybe even more-so for us, but anyone learning about it through the museum would see Americans as terrible and barbaric. Pictures of the after effects of napalm bombs and other weapons and methods of torture took up entire exhibits, but it was all things the Americans had done to the Vietnamese. It was a very interesting and depressing outlook on the war. In the real world and current times, Vietnamese people had forgotten about the war completely. They really do think we’re “to-tally aw-some”, and we like them too.

If I’m writing tomorrow it means I had a fever when I tried to get off the ship in Hong Kong. You walk through an electronic sensory heat detector image thing. IF you’re sick, you get back on the ship. Maybe I’ll take an ibuprofen just to be safe!

Seas are the roughest they’ve been yet. The ship hits waves and sounds like it could very well break in half. Last night at dinner, we hit an especially big wave, and as a result everone’s plates and cups and food went spilling off the table. A moment of friendship among everyone in the dining room. Some made new friends when they accidentally fell into them.

This morning I ate breakfast and put a sea sickness patch on for the first time all voyage. I was sitting in classroom 8, directly next to the union at the bow of the ship, except set up to face backwards of the direction the ship is going. 15 minutes into class I was laying on the floor, supporting my head. 30 minutes later I had decided it might be best to go downstairs and lay in my bed, the place with the least motion. As soon as I stood up to leave, by body said “What? You’re going to the bathroom now? GREAT!” That’s as much detail as I’ll go into. Let me add that I had soup and three brownies for lunch. Hopefully there will be pudding for dinner. The general consensus on the ship is that we’re all very excited to hit land tomorrow.

Life is Like a Box of Chocolates

Vietnam tomorrow (Saturday) until Wednesday! Not much is known about plans, but that’s the way we like it. I know there will most likely be a train involved, and a massage will most certainly come into play.

Also, for future reference in this post and the next, Vietnam is pronounced Forrest Gump style. For example, “Vietnam” will rhyme with both “candied yam” and “I hate spam”.

Savvy?

Clearly You've Never Been to Singapore

Someone name that movie!

Happy St. Patrick’s Day to all you Irishmen (and everyone else, too)! Thanks to my mommy, I’ll never eat green pancakes and milk again. She scarred me for life.

Singapore was like New York City, but greener, cleaner, and more sophisticated. They have these outrageous laws with hefty fines, or even jail time, like no jaywalking, no spitting gum out, and no durians on the subway. The people dress very high class, in collared shirts and dress slacks or dark jeans for the gentlemen, and cute dresses, pencil skirts, and blouses for the ladies. Flip-flops are the favorite for feet, along with very, very high heels. Bummer for me, because I wore sandals and a dress to fit in, but did enough walking to be wearing waterproof cargo shorts and nice, insole-ated hiking boots.

The main pastime of Singaporeans and tourists alike is eating, and boy did we eat. They have indoor pavilions called Hawkers, which I guess you could compare to a mall food court on steroids. Stands upon stands lined isles with numbered tables. The idea is to walk up to whatever stand you want, tell the people what you want to try (by peeking around their display… there are no counters for ordering), and then tell them the table you’re sitting at. They bring you the food when it’s ready. Noodles, rice, seafood, meats, soups, juices, ice cream, you name it, it’s there to try. Between the three of us who traveled together, Rolando, Eric, and myself, we had

1) fruit juices- pineapple-banana-milk, pear-banana-milk, dragon fruit-milk, durian-milk (I’ll go into detail about this one. YIKES), and mango-kiwi

2) meats- curried chicken, lemon fried chicken, sweet and sour chicken

3) seafood- I tried an oyster omelet, because we ran into my travel writing teacher and he made me. It was more fried than egg, and the oysters were squishy. Nice to try, but not something I would make a “usual” at Sunday brunch. Eric tried octopus balls. Open the bread ball covered in onions and what looked like drizzled frosting to find, surprise!, a fourth of an octopus arm, tentacles and all.

4) rice and noodles- classics, and a reliable choice

5) soups- Eric and Rolo warned me the soup at lunch had a kick to it, so I braced myself, but still ended up coughing and crying out of one eye. Not spicy, maybe more like I had swallowed a crab and it was now hanging from the uvula in the back of my throat. The soup I had for dinner was called solang and meatball. I don’t know what solang is (if you do, and it’s gross, please keep it to yourself), but I guess it tasted kind of fishy. Maybe. But so did the meatballs. Questionable. But good.

6) ice cream- my flavors were green tea, bubble tea, and mint. Green tea tasted just like green tea, but I was overwhelmed and nauseated by the end of eating that scoop, and therefore bubble tea tasted like green tea also. Other flavors included strawberry, mango, and something along the lines of peppercorn. Not my favorite.

Durian is a fruit in Asia that is banned from the subways. There aren’t allowed to sell it in Hawker markets as just the fruit. You’d think people would’ve been warned off by the spikes that cover its outside, but apparently not. Durian happens to be the most disgusting fruit I’ve ever smelled. Jenn and I just came to the decision that it smelled like rotten, moldy, wet food mixed with dry cow manure. Eric bought one in the form of juice, and we all tried it. Once. Eric played hero and wouldn’t waste his money, so he drank the WHOLE THING. We got it on video. He gagged quite a few times. This morning he said he could still smell it, and I believe him. It was a traumatic experience. Just another way to experience Asia! Once, but never again.

The central city of Singapore had sections like Little India, Chinatown, Orchard Road, and the Botanical Gardens. Orchard Road, as they described it to us on the ship, is the Rodeo Drive of Singapore. A girl in my travel writing class dropped more than $300 (yes, that’s American money) on three things there. We stayed for about 10 minutes. Then went to eat some more.

The coolest building in Singapore was one we joked was the MV Explorer caught in a tsunami.  High above three twin skyscrapers was propped what looked like a very long, luxurious cruise ship. We didn’t go in, but later found out it was a casino that charged $20 just to get in. Oh, the life of luxury. I think I’m satisfied on my ship.

I don’t think I said so earlier, but if you haven’t heard, Japan was cancelled right before coming into Singapore. Tonight the announcement was made that our alternative port will be Taiwan. All I know about Taiwan is that they make a lot of the things I have in my house in the United States, and there are cool forests there. Research will be tricky, as we don’t have any Taiwan guidebooks on the ship.  Four days, one less than Japan. After losing a day in South Africa and losing four more before we even got on the ship, we’re all crossing our fingers to get an extra day in Hawaii or China, but it’s not likely on account of cost.

Life is getting interesting! Or, at least, more interesting than the usual interesting when you’re sailing around the world.

Off the Beaten Path

This could've been done earlier if my computer and I had not gotten into a fight this morning. I was almost done, and then it was all gone. But how can you complain when you're on a ship? So here is another Travel Writing piece...

       “No one is going to understand what we just did,” Ben said somberly as the automatic doors to the Chennai airport slid open, releasing a wall of humidity and noise we had gladly gone without for the last five days of our trip. The smell of rotten bonfires and body odor greeted us ruthlessly as we stepped into the open air, and the stares of locals had me clutching my bag a little tighter than usual, wishing to be back in the comfortable mountain village we had unwillingly left early this morning.

        Ben and I had decided on a whim, as all great adventures are made, to skip the regular Taj Mahal, Ganges tourist destinations of India. Somewhere unexpected, somewhere out of the ordinary, we thought. Ben’s finger landed on the Himalayas, or “Him-ah-lias” as Indians pronounced it, and that was the final decision. Now the obstacle was getting there. As the nature of chaotic trip planning goes, we recruited two friends, Will and Travis, along the way. Four days before our scheduled arrival, we nixed the plan for an overnight train and bought plane tickets even farther north than originally intended.

        I swung my bag onto the small conveyor belt behind Will’s and watched it disappear through the rubber flaps of the airport’s x-ray machine as I walked under the metal detector labeled “Ladies”. A different country, a different airport ritual, I thought to myself as a young, uptight Indian woman dressed in a puce military-looking uniform gestured me towards her. She led me into a small cubicle framed with curtains, a sort of special privacy. She spun quickly to face me after jerking the curtains closed, and relaxed. “Where are you from?” she asked nosily as I held up my arms for a pat down. “America,” I responded. “Oh!” Her eyes lit up. “And where are you going?” “To the Himalayas.” Her eyebrows rose above her hazel eyes, a look of confusion. I tried again. “Him-ah-lias.” Understanding flooded her face. “My three friends and I are going hiking,” She peaked out of the curtain and back to the metal detector I had walked through, searching for the girls I was traveling with. “But where are they then, your travel companions?” “I’m traveling with three guys,” I explained. Her smile dropped. A look of shock. I tiptoed to see over the wall and pointed. “There. That’s Will. He wants to do yoga on top of a mountain and ride yaks.” She giggled. “Over there is Ben. He’s a photographer and wants to take pictures of the mountains. And Travis,” I moved my finger to the direction of the metal detector. Travis was in the process of being frisked, rolling his eyes while he emptied his pockets of spare coins and papers. “He thinks he’s going to go skinny dipping in a lake.” Whoops. Her surprised look had me backtracking. Even though I dressed for the culture of India this morning, in long pants and a long sleeved shirt, I was still forgetting the small things, like paying with my right hand and keeping my craving for a cheeseburger to myself. “Why are you here, then?” she asked before I had to explain. Huh, “I really like mountains.” Was that really all I could think of? Surely there was some underlying reason in the back of my mind. “I guess I hadn’t thought about it,” I finished slowly. “Well, good luck,” she said with a smile as she stamped my ticket twice, waving it in the air and blowing on it gently before handing it back to me. “Thanks.”

        I opened the curtain to see Travis, Ben, and Will standing on the other side, holding their things and mine, obviously torn at whether there was a need to jump in for the rescue or wait it out. They paused expectantly for an explanation as I waved goodbye and picked up my bag. “What was that all about?” Travis asked. “Oh, you know, just making friends.”

        I awoke next to my head banging against the foggy propeller plane window. Turbulence. My eyes adjusted to the bright morning sun, which I soon realized was the partial reflection off of the snowcapped peaks of the Himalayas. Our plane landed in Kullu, a small town north of Delhi, at the base of the mountain range. We had touched down in a green valley. Cliffs decorated with tiny terrace homes rose on either side of us, and to north, mountains sprinkled in white met the clouds above. We climbed down the steps of the plane and walked out into the middle of the runway, letting the cold, crisp, mountain air overtake our lungs. A taxi driver with minimal grasp of the English language drove us through the narrow roads, susceptible to rock and land slides, higher and higher into the mountains to the small village of Manali. This was a different kind of India.

        The biggest building in town was our hotel, the Kunzam. The biggest restaurant, fittingly, was inside the hotel, and occupied the large glass face at the front of the building, a view of the small shops and mountain peaks from inside at what we had dubbed our usual table. My stomach was virgin to the spicy cuisine of India, but I stood proud at the end of our trip, Pepto Bismol packed in its original spot, never seeing the light of day. The biggest obstacle overcome on the trip, even if just barely, was Will’s deathly allergy to nuts, including anything cooked in peanut oil. “I’ve got about five minutes to live after I swallow a nut,” he would say, “I haven’t got my epi pen with me, by the way.” He wasn’t living in fear, of course, because we were doing it for him.

        The best part of every meal, and what India was famous for, was the chai tea. Quick calculations told us we averaged about ten cups a day, each. Breakfast was our biggest struggle, and we figured a red flag would go up the next time Americans ate in their hotel. I pictured the sign in front of the tin kettle and sugar bowl: Two Caps Per Person, Please. Spelling English words was their downfall in Manali, so of course an error would stick out in their caution to visitors. Perhaps another sign would be written below in an Indian language: If you can read this, have your fill! Another small shop came to mind, one overflowing with trinkets and souvenirs from Tibet. A shelf stacked with journals sat alone in a corner, and a single label read “Dairies” just below it. We justified our tea addiction, excessive amounts of milk and sugar included, with the widely known fact that “regular tea is good for you.” Of course, this was healthy.

        We raced the sun to the top of the nearest mountain each morning, dressing in layers to avoid the freezing air, shedding them as we climbed, taking less and less oxygen into our burning lungs with each meter in elevation. We left our path for temples hidden in the forest trees, obliviously disturbing Indians in prayer as we paced back and forth across the intricate building’s entrance, snapping pictures as the sun’s red reflection turned the snow pink. Stray dogs followed us up the winding paths, some faithfully, and some for just a short while. The loyal ones were named and dubbed part of the “wolf pack”, but even they knew not to eat the street food we bought to reward them. They barked at auto rickshaws and cars, chasing them 100 yards down the road before giving up and hoping to get the next one instead. They barked at the monkeys, the Himalayan substitute for raccoons, who picked through the trash and then climbed high into the trees, taunting the mutts with hisses and shaking tree branches.

        The nights were spent trying cheap fruit-flavored wines and bad beer around a small table, huddled next to space heaters and dressed like we were still outside. We played Euchre, a northern U.S. card game that quickly became addictive, while engulfed in good conversation. Amidst the sudden shouts of defeat and unnecessary curse words, we bonded. Maybe not the friends-forever, I-can’t-live-without-you bond, but this experience was something we all knew no one else would be able to talk about. It was a personal experience we shared together, something “no one would understand.”

        And that was it. What I had been looking for. I hadn’t been able to choose a favorite between other countries I had previously visited. Brazil, Ghana, South Africa. They were nice, but this was out of the ordinary. I watched the snowy mountains touch the sky above as we took off in the small propeller plane we had arrived in five days earlier. We climbed higher and higher, but this time we were warm and breathing calmly. I watched the peaks shrink and smooth out until the world looked once again as it always had, trodden and familiar. I recognized now that there were two kinds of India. Maybe both were beautiful, maybe both could be favorites. But was I willing to give the second one a shot? I couldn’t risk it ruining my opinion.  I knew, however, that I had to come back to India. My India.

Disclaimer: My teacher, I've learned, is more about the sex, drugs, cursing, and stupid decisions of traveling. Therefore, as far as he knows, we spent the night drinking in our hotel, just to spice up the piece. The boys DID buy wine and beer, but no bottle was left empty. Let's just say the Indians should stick to chai.

More details about the trip tomorrow :)

Ghana, South Africa, and India

Into the Smog

India! India! Here I come!

Over the next few days, I'll be hiking the Himalayas (Kullu, Naggar, and Manali), seeing temples, and potentially yak skiing. I'll explain that if it actually happens. Send a big prayer our way as we battle a country of over a billion people, 100% humidity, pickpocketers, and diarrhea.

If I don't post again before the 12th, call the authorities. But don't worry, we probably just took a detour and ended up at the top of Mount Everest on accident.

Starry Night

Tonight I laid under a sky I had never seen before. Orion’s belt falling off the horizon line, the ship’s steam fogging portions of my view, where the wind blew it. I heard the stars were different on the other side of the world, like a whole new set to explore. The music of Bob Marley and Rod Stewart flowed through my headphones, drowning out the giggles and shouts of pub night as I studied the view.

At first, there were bright, twinkling stars. Big ones like what I use to identify the Big Dipper. One or two held a faint tint, a little bit of color, like sherbet ice cream. I assume they were planets, like Mars back home, or maybe satellites.

And then as I lay there for a while, I began to notice other stars appearing. Much more faint and much smaller, the sprinkles of the sky. There were so many. They were the skeletal system of Orion, his ribs and clavicle, like an x-ray, a personal, confidential view the doctors accidentally let slip. They filled in all the gaps of the bigger stars. I wondered about their age. Were they faint because their light had run out? Or because they were just emerging? As my eyes adjusted, they stood out as much as their competitors.

Together these stars created a constellation with an intensity I had never seen. Before this, my best star gazing opportunity was on a tiny lake in Washington, on my cousins’ dock and away from the city lights. Now there were no lights for miles. No reflections, no glows, no nothing. I decided tonight to make a habit out of stargazing while we’re at sea, because I’m not sure where I can go on land to get this kind of darkness.

The stars rocked from side to side with the motion of the ship, the motion of the ocean. It was a little hypnotizing, and a lot cool. A little peace and quiet is always nice, and nature makes for a good date.

I was thinking about those little stars when my mind wandered to people. You know, those tiny flecks are just as important as the big stars. Have you heard that metaphor, the corny one about the girls at the top of the tree being “good apples”, and that guys are just too lazy to climb all the way up to the top, so they pick the “bad apples” instead? Maybe these stars are like me on the ship, or in God’s eyes. Maybe I’m a faint star, the ones you don’t notice at first. But when you really look to see what’s out there, you find they’re all as beautiful as the next one. Not the same, but unique nonetheless.

Don't overlook anyone. Sometimes the quiet people have the most to say.

The Royal Navy

I’m not really sure where to begin in this update. All I know is that usually I am napping right now, and through Global Studies, which technically just ended. However, I was not in Global Studies. Instead I was witnessing something most don’t see everyday, even on Semester at Sea.

About two hours ago (around 8 am), we entered the waters of Diego Garcia, the largest atoll in the world (shaped like a foot!), near the Maldives. This island, owned by the British Naval Air Force, is a Naval air facility and military relic of the Cold War, used more recently in the war against terrorism with Iraq and Afghanistan, and is rarely seen by anyone other than government eyes. The landing strip on the island is one of 33 emergency landing cites in the world for the space shuttle. The United States Naval Air Force rents, or shares, this island from the British, and together they occupy this pirate-infested area, attempting to keep the waters as safe as possible.

My 8 am class got out early this morning (thank you Professor Kennedy), and apart from looking out the window, we could all feel that the ship had taken a break from cruising at full speed. I sprinted up the stairs and onto the 7th deck, looking out the windows of the sheltered area as rain drops raced down the glass. A girl behind me mentioned something about a submarine that had come up at the bow of the ship, and together we raced to the teacher’s lounge, which was surrounded by a deck only one or two others were standing on, dressed in rain gear and holding the railing, leaning against the rough wind.

The submarine had gone, but there to take its place were two tug boats and at least 4 other jet black speed boats, surrounding at strategic distances from both us and each other, pushing their motors to keep up along our side. They guided us through two red buoys, rocking back and forth in the waves. It seemed like we crossed an invisible line as we slowed and stopped (as much as a ship that’s not anchored can stop) and the speedboats moved closer to the ship. This morning Captain Jeremy had come on the system…

“Good morning and sorry for the interruption. In just a little while we will be making a stop at the port of Diego Garcia, where we will be dropping off two students and a staff member who cannot receive the medical attention they need in our facilities and will need to be air lifted to a hospital with the capabilities to treat them. Please do not be alarmed at the sight of any armed soldiers walking the ship, as it is routine for them to do a sweep and secure the area. Again, I apologize for the early-morning announcement.”

“Armed soldiers” was really the only thing people heard as we sat in the dining room for breakfast.

After standing on deck in the rain for a while, fairly wet and noticing that nothing was really happening at the moment, I ran downstairs to drop my damp notebooks off and grab a pencil (I originally had every intention of going to Global Studies!) As I made my way to my cabin, I passed the gangway, conveniently located on deck 2 near my room. The small space was crowded with Royal Navy soldiers carrying big guns, the deans, and the poor sick girls waiting next to their luggage to get off the ship, small and shrinking in comparison to everyone around them. I pushed through the small crowd to my room and eventually back upstairs.

By the time I had made it back up to the top, they were lowering a platform, and had hydraulic stairs folding out of a mystery door in the ship’s side. Onlookers leaned over the railings above the gangway, watching the process as safety bars were put in place, a Navy boat lined up backwards, and soldiers filed on to our ship, along with the first tame, trained dog I had seen in a while. After what I assumed was another quick search, the sick crewmember waddled down the ramp, carrying a suitcase in each hand and dressed in street clothes (something we don’t see very often on the ship). Next was a girl in my Travel Writing class, followed by another girl strapped into a gurney. A quick job for so much build up. Please pray that they all get better and can return to the ship in Singapore.

The Navy men filed off of our ship and back onto their boat soon after, each clutching Semester at Sea t-shirts. As our crew began to fold back the platform and walkway, we watched and waved as they unraveled their souvenirs, holding them up to get a better view. One man snapped a couple pictures of us and the ship with a wind-up camera I haven’t seen since middle school, and we waved and cheered in appreciation for their help. “Have fun in India!” one of them shouted out with a British accent as we began to drift apart.
As our ship began to move again, our guard boats lined up in familiar fashion and accompanied us back to the imaginary line between the buoys. Rumor has it Captain Jeremy REALLY wanted to see this area, and may have talked his way into these forbidden waters, but of course there were legitimately sick people who needed medical attention.

I just read a lot of cool information on Diego Garcia on Wikipedia. At Florida Tech, we’re not allowed to cite Wiki as a source, as anyone can make changes to an article, but I’m sure a lot of the information is at least mostly true. I can’t see the pictures, but I can read the information below them, which makes me want to be able to see the pictures all the more. If you’re bored, look it up. A forbidden, mysterious place I had never heard of until this morning. You learn something new every day.

Also, if anyone has any information or connections to the U.S. Navy, specifically work in marine biology, I’d love to talk. I’ve always wanted to train dolphins and sea lions to find bombs (no, really), and seeing everything this morning made me itch for more Navy activity, maybe even in another area of interest. I don’t know much about the Navy’s marine bio programs, but the more I see, the more I love it.

Recent Happenings

Suzi requested an update on ship life nowadays. Here it is!

I get to hang out with a fun group of people nowadays, but also a lot of different people. I guess because I never got into any cliques, I’ve met a lot of different people from a lot of different groups. I also get some alone time, which is nice for doing homework and thinking, although it seems like there’s not that much time to think when you’re sailing the world. Tonight we went to belly dancing at 7, square dancing at 8, and played rugby on the basketball court for 15 minutes before hurricane force winds and sea spray chased us off when both Ray and Rolando wiped out banana-peel-slip style and someone got hit in the face with the ball. We couldn’t hear square dancing instructions, so as half the ship stood sheltered from the wind and leaping on each other’s toes, we free-style do-si-doed and swung around in circles, letting the wind whip our hair and throw us with the rocking of the ship. Jenn and I were dance partners. I was the “Adam”, as our DJ put it. We were a lost cause, but it was perfect. (This was an entry from a couple nights ago I never got to finish. I figured I’d just add to it instead!)

I cranked out some homework today, took a quiz, and ran the deck. It was raining, and the gym was overflowing with people trying to get lucky and use a machine. I don’t have a problem running in the rain, and since we’ve been powerhousing it through the ocean (read on) for a half day, we moved through the storm pretty quickly. After that was my first P90x experience. That and Insanity are the new work out videos claiming to get you in shape and help you lose weight. Just remember, if you don’t put your all into it, it probably won’t have the same affect. Watching it doesn’t burn calories, and walking through the exercises will only make you think you’re hungrier at dinner.

Like I said earlier, we’re hauling booty through the ocean right now at full speed. Did you know the MV Explorer is one of the fastest ships in the ocean, and the fastest cruise ship ever built? (That’s a whole other blog entry, thanks to my new friend Ralph.) The plan is to dock in the morning around 7:30 am in a port along the coast. I’m not sure of its name, but I’m guessing we’ll know by tomorrow. There we will be dropping off two female students, both of whom are sick and need to be airlifted to a competent hospital, and a crewmember, who is having problems with their eye (I’m guessing they’re going to the hospital too).

In my opinion, the most legitimate and awesome reason we’re truckin’ it through the Indian Ocean right now is because we’re in a “pirate zone”. I know this is no Pirates of the Caribbean, and I also know “our only weapon is our speed”. Looks like I’ll be pulling out my guns for a bare fist fight. I’ll take one for the team, no big deal. On a serious note, I heard a story about a yacht that was recently overtaken by pirates in the Indian Ocean. None survived from what I’ve been told. Is this a story back in the US?
I also heard insurance doesn’t like us traveling through this area, and there’s a rumor that we pay more in this dangerous little triangle. Money savers. My type of crew!

It’s time for bed so I can wake up and be teased by another port we’re not actually allowed to set foot in it. Darn. I’m willing to skip my 8 am class for a nice morning jog on land. Any takers?