Seasickness

(Pictured: Ship, berthed in Salvador, and me, dwarfed)

My mind and my body are in a peculiar state of turbulence; my body thinks it's 8 am, my body is sick, my body wants nothing to do with waking hours unless they are immediately followed by more sleep; my mind knows it's 10 am, my mind does not stop moving, my mind needs to be productive and strain itself. By Friday, at this time, it will be 12 pm, and I would guess by that point my mind and body will have grown furious with each other and divorced. For now, they are both only slightly miffed.

To catch you all up from Tuesday, (today is Sunday; I've left you all out for so long) the night out was pretty good fun, though I wouldn't say it ever surpassed one dim highlight which was only lasted a couple seconds: having a beer stolen by a quick and thirsty criminal over my shoulder. I don't think I've ever had anything stolen from me before, much less stolen from me so crudely. If I saw the thief now, I'd give him a high five for his style.

The following day was Wednesday—same day sequence here, folks—which called for a visit to Sacatar, an international artists community in—as luck would have it—Itaparica. For all of you who read, or skimmed, my last entry, you may have caught mention of Itaparica, and that would be because I went there, on Monday, and having carelessly read the description for Sacatar, I ended up there again two days later. The crowd was different and I'm thankful for that, and there was a greater variety of food, but the scenery was basically the same, and I was put on the same ferry, and I ultimately walked the same loop as the first day—a long loop of house after house in the heat on the hot ground suffocating under dry air. But it was fine.

The establishment itself was wonderful; the artists' lodgings were immaculate, especially in comparison to the surrounding buildings, the scenery was greener and fresher and even housed peacocks, and the people who lived there, artists and owners, were incredibly friendly, for artists and for people in general. Rahula the flautist from Bangladesh gave us a private show in his studio and proved his lung power through a conch shell that resounded through the room for three minutes plus when he blew into it. He then presented me with a paper flower, in return for my inquisitiveness, if I had to guess why. It reminded me of a short story I read last year called 'Paper Garden,' and though I can't recall the author's name and have mostly forgotten the details of it, I do remember loving the story. It entails a young boy and an older, broken female teacher who construct a paper garden together in their sadly awkward student-teacher relationship; that's something I've been intrigued by for a while in terms of boundaries, distinction between self and other of differing ages and mindsets, and on and on. Anyway. The flower is now sailing with me to Namibia, having settled into a comfortable nook against the window.

I found the 'artists' community' interesting given its basis, to provide artists with two months of quiet space in which to work, and maybe with each other. I appreciate that mostly for the fact that it's interdisciplinary and acknowledges that artists, no matter the field, are after somewhat of the same thing that can't be born from one medium or mind. That's also, though, what seemed to be a small flaw; not that I got an all extensive view of the goings-on in the house, but it looked to me as if each person was only contributing his own established ideas rather than really getting weird and uncomfortable. It seems like a really safe program to me, too much of a haven that's too much like home—but I may be wrong.

On the way home, I read Wells Towers' 'Everything Ravaged, Everything Burned' and wished this ship was less peace corps, more wild mutiny. There are rumors of pirates between Cape Town and India; if they're slacking, I'll take up the task of making things a little more interesting.
(I understand that schools do not tolerate violence or violent threats, but please note: I am without sword, knife, or other sharp object, without gun or likewise destructive weapons, without army or any similarly supportive mass or crew, and I lack the gusto to fully execute any plan, no matter how bored I am).

That night I considered going to Brazilian BBQ with a group of folks from Sacatar, but opted for grilled cheese and pizza in the cafeteria instead. (Parents, you may be thinking I made the unhealthy decision here, but if you only knew what constituted as dinner on a regular night, you would realize that pizza and grilled cheese is a step up. I also saved you 40 real).

Despite it being my last night in Salvador, Kristin and I watched 13 Going on 30 in the room and passed out early.

Having been unable to sleep in for days, I awoke at 7 and dragged Kristin, who would sleep all day were it not for life happening, to el super mercardo via taxi. We picked up a straggler from the ship who had nothing to do, too, and he (Brian, from Santa Cruz) ended up saving our asses with his polished Spanish. Then Kristin and I naturally fell into what we usually do together; in other words, we slept until we were abruptly awaken (by Eilis and Jen who came to bang on our door as a hello-we're-back-from-the-amazon!) We got our last acaí in the upper city together before retiring to the boat until dinner time, which I had been looking forward to all week. Cheeseburgers!!! Though I did two-time my dear cheeseburgers with a hot dog, which turned out to be much better, though I would never say that out of these peculiar circumstances.

The following day (which would, at this point, be Friday?) I woke up with an oddly sore throat, unlike that which plagued me days before, and I lay for a few minutes considering what to do about it, as I thought I had been healed. Eventually, Kristin woke up and it struck me then that no voice accompanied the air flow and oral movements I was directing at her, so I continued to speak, clear my throat, speak, and nothing. It so happens that, coincidentally, that same morning my body decided to reject all stored and incoming fuel, then more fuel, until my body was a vessel full of dry, heavy pipes. I didn't eat for fear that it would be rejected so I went to class hungry, and left early and still hungry, then I class two was substituted with a six hour nap, as was class three. Dinner food was openly welcomed into my body, then ejected soon after like a slap in a smiling face. This is still a prevalent issue today, though it is under constant supervision.

Today, Sunday, I am feeling much better, though still being cautious (save for the two helpings of thai curry, which could not be refused, even in death). Nothing interesting ever happens on the ship so I'll leave you with the thai curry; it's the best I've got.