Finally Coming Up for Air

To begin with a very obvious statement: I have not updated since India, which is now very far behind in mind and proximity. For that, I apologize. However, I did predict this tardiness happening even before I was trampled by the rapid acceleration of time in the brief stops in several other countries, and even briefer stops back on the boat between these destinations during which hours were lost every night. Even I am surprised by how long it has taken me to find a free moment to write again. I must also confess that the earlier blogs were written at the expense school work, which was more or less neglected so I could continue to entertain you all out there in world wide web land. But something had to be done, as my time here is quickly vanishing and the list of work to be done is swelling. To your relief, I have very little work left to do now, which means more time devoted to you, dear readers, all of those outside of the hours spent sleeping (an unhealthy number) and eating (often sacrificed for more sleeping hours).

So where are we now. Today is Friday, November 21st. I have doubled my list of visited countries since I last spoke with you, and in half the time. That should give you a good idea of how the momentum has surged. Until now, I have had very little time to sleep—five days to try seeing everything there is to see in Malaysia, two days to catch up on work on the ship while battling unruly bowels, five days in Viet Nam for six-am wake up calls and twenty temple visits, then two days on the ship to relearn how to sit and type papers on a computer, five days in port dragging my sick, fatigued body around four Chinese airports and up and down the Great Wall, two days on the ship trying to recover from China's noxious air condition and a great loss incurred by everyone, five family-filled days in Japan to show everyone everything I used to love in every city I'd ever visited, all while translating in a language I hadn't spoken in months, which brings me here, to November 21st, the first time I have sat in bed with nothing to do, or at least nothing to be done immediately.

It may take me a while to provide you with sufficient entries of all five countries, but I will work as fast as I can, and as with the last India entry, I will probably be pulling some content from papers written from school. Yes, I have more time now, but I still think it unrealistic to carry myself back to where I left off. It's much too much.

So I will begin with Malaysia in the next entry, separating each country thereafter to give this blog a little structure—just to prevent you from feeling overwhelmed with everything at once.

The 8-Fold Path to Loving India

Some over-generalizations about India, as counseled by veterans (inter-port students, professors, citizens):

1. Everything that can be said about India, the opposite is also true.
2. You either love it or hate it; really, it's true.
3. It will shock all five senses, with immediacy and unapologetic force.

Now that this has been said, I can say that I wholeheartedly agree with every statement. To begin with the first, yes, a traveler in India will be in a relatively consistent perplexed state. Vast homeless populations set in front of prodigious homes; a culture technologically advanced and capable but unable to stabilize simple electrical power, which is shaky everywhere; impressive synergy of race and religion in the South, devastating chasm in the North, Hindus versus Muslims versus Christians, etc. Any country with twenty-two official languages will come with its share of incongruities. As for the second, from what I've gathered from the shipboard's responses, the majority hated it, while I (and Kristin) really, really loved it. More on that later. And the third, the shock factor, also much more on that later; however, I can now very blandly vouch for its indelible air (having caught constituents of all the senses) that planted itself in our sinuses as turmeric smoke, stained our clothes a loud red and yellow and followed us onto the ship.

India is crazy!

Now onto the action:

[The following will detail my visit to Dakshina Chitra for a yoga/meditation retreat. And given the classes I have been taking on the ship (namely Zen), I will frequently refer to Buddhism or aspects of it in other terms, but creative writing has also been dominating so much of my time and energy that I find it impossible to elude this distracting, flowery language.]

Days One and Two and Three:

Six hours in a stale bus with brief twenty minute vacations in the stifling humidity; heavy, constraining denim and canvas to hide offensive knees and shoulders; the only shade found trapped inside doll-sized, open-air display cases with space enough for Vishnu, Ganesh, or Shiva alone: this is my first day in India, and already I am beginning to understand why Buddhism may have developed in such a country. For me, at least, the suffering is relentless—sweating and sticking to myself, the bus chair, the foul air, an impending sense of future digestive disaster, the unabated fear that malaria is already swimming through my blood, or if not that, dysentery hidden and packed away in my Aquafina. When my thirst level reaches parched, I begin to resent the fact that everything so commonly within my grasp is now unattainable. But I am just a tourist, and everyone else seems to be weathering the challenges without a sweat.
By nightfall, the bus makes its final stop at Dakshina Chitra, a community encompassing all of Tamil Nadu, Kerala, Andhra Pradesh and Karnataka within a few buildings as a means to promote the amity between those diverse Indian cities. We are released into the hands of strangers, cruel strangers who feed us bountiful trays of zesty bartha and chapatti late into the night before telling us the days start at 6 and we will have only a few hours to rest before the first yoga instruction. Are these the ascetics the Jainists advocated?
I suffer all night, choking on the thick turmeric-saturated air mixed with bug repellent outlining my body like chalk. I am steeping in my own sweat and cannot, cannot sleep. Eventually it becomes morning, and I slide dazedly down to the kitchen for what was listed on the schedule as "coco," which I interpret as "coffee." But it is coco, and coco only that I am being served in lieu of my usual two coffees, so I take what I am allotted and sit down with the rest of the group in plastic chairs against the wall. "No coffee," I grumble. My neighbor is suffering, too, and adds a few more banned substances to the list—caffeine, nicotine, drugs of any kind—and I feel like I am being subjected to the bodhisattva precepts, though I am just here for yoga. Although lying, killing and stealing were never mentioned, I have been raised well enough in my own country to know they are, at least, ubiquitously frowned upon.
The steps which much be taken to successfully practice yoga and meditation are beyond my power to execute. Straw mats, thin and hard and abrasive against my bones; pillows whose cases have spent years soaking in the soupy Indian air; raucous ceiling fans cutting through the rising heat; and of course, mosquitoes, are among the few adverse distractions in the room. The instructor is a petite woman whose face is like a rich redwood carving with deep wrinkles etched under every sac of skin and two dark knots for eyes. She sits herself down in a plastic chair at the front of the room and silently holds a microphone in her hand. So far, she seems to be a victim to sloth and torpor, and while that sort of attitude would normally suit me, I know that enlightenment—or at least serenity—will not spring from a lazy mind.
"Day one will consist of three separate yoga sessions, as will the next two days," she begins. "By the time you leave, you will be familiar with The Art of Living, but it will not be natural until you make the effort to apply it to your lives back at home, or on the ship, which is the hardest part. Help each other," she instructs.
Stage one of morning yoga is Pranayama, or three-stage breathing. I have done gymnastics all my life and consider myself to be athletically capable, but I have never been well acquainted with breathing. I am often oppressive in regards to respiration; air does not flow easily through me, but is customarily locked in my lungs during movement and quickly expelled afterwards. Though Pranayama follows anyone's habitual breathing pattern, it requires immense effort on my part—four seconds breathing in, four seconds to hold, six seconds slowly releasing the breath, then hold again for two at the bottom, all with our arms configured different ways—hands at our hips, hands under our armpits, elbows folded in towards the head with hands on our shoulder blades–to maximize stamina. Meanwhile, my knees and ankles, bearing the weight of my whole body, are throbbing and splitting at the joints as they take on the pattern of the woven straw. I wonder how whole societies—Indian, Chinese, Japanese, etc.—can withstand this posture through meals, ceremonies, and I reason that they are unquestionably superior. I must tell Professor Groner that he was mistaken—Buddha nature is not within everyone.
Next, I am instructed to sit Indian style with my hands on my knees, palms facing up so as to create a sort of energy absorption panel, lightly touching my thumb and forefinger to form a continuous circle. "I'm sure you've all seen Om chanting before," the instructor speculates, which I have, but only in movies. She initiates the first "ooooooooommm" and I follow, but as I do, I feel as if I am making a mockery of the whole practice, like om-ing is something only seasoned meditators are invited to do, and I can't even sit on my knees yet.
The following exercise is done lying down, which is a relief. Savasana, or complete rest—our time to meditate on anything we think relaxes us, be it a tree, a flower, or a stream. The instructor suggests a coconut tree, so I begin with that, but I grow quickly flustered when I am unable to create the image in my mind. My thoughts dart between irises, what lunch will be, oak trees, people on the boat, people at home, my sleeping foot, the potential swarm of mosquitoes over my face, another oak tree. I have a bad case of "monkey mind," and the only way to make it stop is by falling asleep, which I do unintentionally. Caffeine deprivation and little sleep will do that to a person. A positive course of action, I suppose, would be cutting off my eyelids like Bodhidharma himself, but that would be assuming I have reached the level at which such adjustments are necessary, kind of like om-chanting is only for veterans.
We break for an hour lunch and the staff has broken out the silverware, so I eat mindlessly. When we return for yoga, the instructor splits the thirty of us into five groups, then tells us to discuss a life-changing and deeply personal moment in our lives. The people here are all faces I've seen, but have never, and might not ever, speak to. Beyond that, I have never been one to divulge my own sob stories to even the best of friends; that's what my mother is for. But as I begin, I remind myself that it is a mandatory exercise, that I am not seeking pity, and I am simply following the rules. I catch myself laughing through the saddest parts, unable to maintain eye contact with my audience who is listening in earnest, and as I finish, other groups are crying and hugging each other and I wish that I could detach myself from my deleterious pride, but it is too sturdy. America is not conducive to such openness, unless it is aired on daytime talk shows in which case suffering Americans may vicariously purge themselves of grief.
The groups disperse and form into two lines, each Indian style and facing the other. "Now I want you to look at the person across from you and find the humanity within them," she instructs. My partner is a boy who has flirtingly teased me since I met him, with no success, and both of us find it impossible to gather the humility it requires to gaze into each other's eyes, so we laugh and scan the room. The next partner is someone I have never seen before this trip, and we have yet to introduce ourselves, so we do not laugh or smile once, just appreciate the other's existence until we switch again.
My final stop is across from the instructor, and when she looks at me, she grips my hands and shifts her face around ever so slightly, her eyes drooping and sad while her brows are raised at attention. She is speaking to me. Her mouth is still but some strange power is coursing from her eyes to mine, trying to tell me something like, "we are both people, you know? We are on this earth together; isn't that amazing?" The compassion I feel towards her is unlike any I have felt for a person; to love a stranger just for their being alive, the only connection between you found in the air which encircles the whole earth, the ground that spreads between countries, and a heart we all share, the same heart with the same simple desires, to feel love, joy and acceptance. I don't feel silly for crying, and won't until I return to my life on the ship with people who have not yet looked into the eyes of ren.
Tonight, I can finally breathe, and the mosquitoes don't bother my sleep.
Day three without coffee: We begin the Pranayama breathing which is less straining now, then ease into "five sheaths meditation"; that is, visualizing levels of self and the environment from the outside in, then back again. The first level is Annamaya kosha, the environment, during which I sit silently, eyes shut, locating every sound around me to define my place in the world. Pranamayakosha is next, and in this step I assess the various sensations in my body—sleeping limbs, an ache in my lower back, an itch behind my ear. We then progress to Manomayakosha, an evaluation of the conscious mind and determining its relation to a single self (I) and surrounding forces (everything else). By this point, my body has reached optimum relaxation and the border between myself and the world is dissolving. Vijnanamayakosha is the fourth sheath; referred to in my common tongue as "intuition emotion," it concerns itself with intellect and the five senses and "my" perception of "everything else." During this step, the instructor stresses this kosha's impermanence in that our perceptions are ever-changing and fleeting, and also incapable of perceiving anything objectively, which I find to be true, as the formerly objectionable cumin aroma sailing into the room grows increasingly appealing in conjunction with my hunger. And finally, Anandamayakosha creeps into my sleeping body and quells my cramping knees, carrying me into a state of bliss, as ananda is defined. My mind is awake and my body is buzzing, and I have complete confidence that supine meditation will serve to lift me closer to enlightenment, as opposed to a deep sleep.
Twenty minutes later, I open my eyes and everyone is sitting up again; I fell asleep. But I accept my defeat and still feel as if I have accomplished something beyond my average ability. During the course of Panchakosha meditation, I recognize a relationship between these Hindu sheaths and the five aggregates particular to Buddhism—material shape and Annamaya, feelings/sensations and Pranayama, cognition/perception and Manomaya, discriminative consciousness and Vijnanamaya, and discriminative consciousness with Anandamaya. Though the last two are disputable—or perhaps they all are—it is impossible to miss the shared perspective and arrangement of phenomena among them all, and I must say, it feels rewarding to finally see a class lecture executed in real life.
Our departure is preceded by one final discussion, the most pivotal of all. My fellow yogis seem to have progressed at the same pace, as the people who were once so inhibited on the ship, including myself, are suddenly willing to bare their souls, responding to a series of pertinent, yet neglected questions: What do you want in your life? When will you be happy? How long do you propose to stay on this planet? What have you done to bring out divine qualities in other people? Questions I would have—and probably already have—laughed at due to their gravity I am now examining with others. I am benefiting sentient beings by making myself vulnerable and accepting others who are just as afraid; I am promoting good by participating in a worthwhile conversation; I am divining the morality within strangers and friends. I like to think that this awareness is wisdom, though I am not so bold as to declare myself wise just yet. And now three days back on the boat, I already feel myself backsliding; perhaps it is all the coffee I've been drinking.

Now I must make a confession. The past few (hundred) paragraphs were extracted from a sort-of essay for Zen Buddhism, so I hope it wasn't too painful for anyone. Are you guys still reading? Please comment if y'are.

The final (two) days in India were equally fun, though less stimulating. They consisted of a mall visit, vegetarian curries, coffee shops, walks and explorations. Sadly, we were two soldiers down—weak-stomached Billsteins and their dysenteric difficulties. I, luckily, made it out of India alive (without any fiery stomach syndrome), so I was able to stroll the streets and race rickshaws in my free time. (A side note regarding India's streets: NEVER DRIVE IN INDIA. Unless you are capable of transforming your image of cars and cows and motorbikes passing at breakneck speed into a simulated video game, which I was forced to do on many occasions, or if you are prone to heart trouble, THIS ADVICE IS FOR YOU!) Though I am without rickshaw-or-other-vehicle-related injury, I managed to leave with my own slew of issues, which I will expound for you below, as we are all family here, and families share important news such as this, for health and ego purposes:

After returning from yoga, while writing the above essay for Zen class, as it happens, I noticed a strange glare flaring up around each letter on the screen and surmised that something must be terribly wrong, so I initiated a series of tests to arrive at a very basic conclusion: my eyes suck. In the history of my life, my eyes have been equals, living in perfect marital bliss. Now, my right eye is beginning to deteriorate, and without the support of the left. They are forced to complement the other for the time being, but my sight is stronger with the left only, so I have been considering an eyeball replacement, or perhaps an eye patch, though the doctors warned me not to wear an eye patch near the captain as he will mistake me for a pirate and destroy me, as he has been taught to do.

So we have my degenerating right eye, and to add to that—also plaguing the right side by sheer coincidence—we have my right leg (and right arm, on occasion), with a constant throbbing pain akin to that of a growing child's joints. What can be done about this? I will refrain from seeking too much pity from you all, my family, as that can only go so far.

Beyond these harmless ailments—which may result in blindness, paralysis, amputation, or even death—I am fine. Don't cry for me yet. I have no complaints about India besides the brevity of our stay there, and I hope to return at some point in the future, as I have never felt fuller than I have there, just sitting and breathing in the air. I can't compare it to any other countries—as I did with Salvador, Namibia, Africa, etc.—so I apologize if I didn't provide a clear visual for you all, but you must go there and see for yourself. I demand it. And hopefully you will love it, as the minority did. (But please keep in mind that the pool consists of highly sheltered and privileged white children—not to say I am not privileged, because I know very well that I am—but if you saw these kids—oh man!—you would really understand, these are one-spot-of-dirt shower people, touched-by-a-stranger shower people, let's-butcher-the-language! people, let's-buy-saris-and-wear-them-so-our-bellies-show! girls, let's-get-so-drunk-we-fall-out-of-our-rickshaw! boys, and so on).

And now, I am in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, in a ritzy hotel, searching for internet before going out on the town. Please don't judge me.

P.S. Please say hello! (in the form of a kind, flattering comment on this blog. I will use it for recommendations later). Love everyone! Stay tuned for news from Malaysia.

Rainbow Nation?

First and foremost, I apologize to my dear reader(s) for keeping you in the dark for so long. South Africa sunk its teeth into me and maintained its fierce grip from sunup to sundown, and sometimes late into the night, if that's what the monster wanted. It dragged me into cars, along streets, into bars, up mountains. It shook me until the change fell from my pockets and rolled down the street into the hands of begging children and their hungry parents, or just disappeared under tall white towers of accented South African men, their dainty seafood forks waving through the air as they shooed the blacks away. When the monster turned left, I saw poverty; to the right, immense wealth. There were countless shacks (literally countless, they have never been counted because it would be an impossible task) composed of collected dumpster material scraps only five miles from the majestic wharf serving hundred dollar plates of seafood and curry to men in suits and ties.

In the middle is Long Street, a fairly even blend of both sides; here, we have some respectable stores, busy restaurants and loud bars where blacks and whites live in harmony-or coexist, rather-as blacks serve and whites buy. Apartheid having ended only a little over a decade ago, I suppose it's positive to see everyone sharing the same space, if nothing more. America is still struggling and we've had over half a decade to acclimate to desegregation laws.

Despite the partition of South Africa into black and white areas, the nation as a whole is so rich and colorful, so energetic, and really, really beautiful. From the second I stepped off the ship, I was bound by its scenery, seized by some aesthetic force to go! explore! make it yours! And so I did just that, running down the ship's stairs to embrace the city, say hello to the ever-napping trio of seals docked on the pier, and make the city mine (by buying things, of course. How else?)

But that was not before a very long South African authors reading on the ship which included two women-one white, one colored-and one black man who managed-by some great stroke of luck, I would guess-to get his work published. One woman knew how to use words, I'll admit, but I can hardly say anything in defense of the other two. Their "author" status was thanks to nothing more than fortune, being one in a million people walking along as a good story was dropped from the sky like bird shit. I give them props for trying, especially in a place where reading isn't the most popular pastime (nor is it in America), but I just couldn't get past the Dick & Jane narratives when the stories had such great potential.

As it turns out, novel writing is not the most revered profession in South Africa, and the population of readers is dismally low, so competition is scant and most who try succeed. Remind me to move here before I resort to intra-family loans, bank loans, theft, unemployment benefits, or welfare.

Back to Cape Town.

Yes, Cape Town. Nothing the ship staff said could have prepared me for this place-mostly because the staff's pre-port comments are dependably ignorant and bigoted, harsh and unwarranted. Not to worry, a lot of the teachers are great and knowledgeable and the like, but the few responsible for filling our heads with fear before every port need to check themselves. On the other hand, perhaps I am lucky to have a staff so willing to sacrifice its own prestige, offending students, other faculty, and visitors from future ports, just so that we may dismiss them and their comments as we create our own. Thank you, faculty.

First debunked anti-Cape Town remark: Cab drivers

Keep in mind, this is following Namibia where I grew quite skeptical of cab drivers and was willing to believe everything Semester at Sea had to say against taxis for the remainder. But as they were wrong about Namibia-low crime level, certainly not a place you have to worry about being ripped off or driven around by a drunk cabbie, no sir-they were just as wrong about Cape Town. Unlike Namibia and Salvador, our dear Cape Town cabbies were willing to talk about anything and everything, from love to politics, which made for some really delightful road tours. One divulged his romantic love of Oprah Winfrey and explained how he would, someday, go to Chicago and profess his love; another openly discussed the recent presidential swap in South Africa and continued to comment on America's upcoming election, about which he had some very strong opinions, and surprisingly extensive knowledge; others convinced me of South Africans' immense strength through apartheid and the following years of desperation and death. Had I followed Semester at Sea's advice and avoided cabs, I would have missed out on all of this intimacy and left with a very flat image of the city.

Second debunked anti-Cape Town remark: Theft

The pre-port talk had me anticipating Salvador, Revisited (+zombies, bazookas and bombs), but what I saw was more on the level of Pleasantville (+color), Canada (+the Jeffersons), or Cheers bar (where everyone knows your name, and actually wants to see you).

Theft is everywhere, including my own quiet town of Monterey, (I will give them that), but in comparison to Salvador (where children walked the streets with switch blades waiting for you to say something wrong, men stared at you while they peed in the street, and vendors chased you down to sell you something then refused to give you enough change) and Namibia (where taxi drivers charged 100 ND to drive you to the wrong place and 100 more to make the correction, dark men followed you from store to store to see how much money you had, and everyone warned you against everyone else until you couldn't trust anybody), Cape Town was a relaxing little beach stroll, an umbrella, a coconut and a straw. I never once felt threatened, nor did I hear of any crimes committed against Semester at Sea students (unlike in Salvador and Namibia). What I saw were a bunch of happy, smiling South Africans wanting to talk and exchange stories, to drink and to dance, and to be safe and clean just as we wish to be safe and clean.

And Schoppa, really? Theft on Table Mountain? You've got to be kidding.

Third debunked anti-Cape Town remark: Violence

This has already been touched upon in relation to theft, and again, as theft, Semester at Sea explained how being in public, especially late at night, equals violence, death, and all other potentially horrible things. Sure, Cape Town children asked for change, but begging was never followed by a blade to your throat. Denied children would kindly walk away or accept a hug and a picture in lieu of a coin. Hungry adult roamers were equally polite, and some even went out of their way to help us when we wouldn't help them. The only complaint I heard from students had nothing to do with theft or violence or other discomforts, but that we all wished we could have stayed longer, as a week wasn't nearly enough to swallow such a rich city.

I have been paying far too much attention thus far focusing on the negative aspects of this visit (ship logistics) so I'll tell you all a little bit more about what I actually did, without wasting too much more of your precious time.

After watching the authors read, I headed to a 400+ store mall with Kristin and Eilis where I stopped in maybe 200 and bought one measly sweater. The mall was really no different than any I could find in America, so I don't think I'll waste my time with shopping malls any longer. Afterwards, I went to a Thai restaurant, and while it may be true that those, too, may be found in America, I don't care. I have gone far too long without Thai food, and as long as we're not stopping in Thailand, I have every right to seek it out in every country I visit. In any case, it was delicious and I would have gone back there every night had it not been for my conscious telling me I should try more authentic cuisine. And because no one else would go with me.

The second through fourth days were spent in Kwazulu Natal Game Reserve two hours outside of Durban, which is on the opposite side of South Africa and a two hour plane ride from Cape Town International Airport. I am pleased to say that British Airways treated us well, not to say the food was great, but at least there was food, which is essential, (especially on airplanes) and there were complimentary beverages, and even free wine on the return flight, which was nice after three exhausting days with Kobus (pronounced Quibbis), our deranged safari guide. From the airport, Kristin and I were immediately acquainted with our dear guide who introduced himself as "your worst nightmare," which everyone found quite endearing coming from a rather small and stout blonde fellow. He reminded me of Nigel from the Wild Thornberries (a reference for you mid-90s Nickelodeon devotees) given his rough Aussie-type accent and extensive knowledge of the wild, and also his meek demeanor, how his elfin face fluttered about as he joked and pointed out rhinos and buffalo on the side of the road. In stature, he reminded me very much of Ben Stiller in Heavyweights, but less serious. He made threats in slapstick manner but followed through only slightly and very clumsily, and his arrogance was similarly exhibited even though he was small in size, like Stiller.

I can easily say that if it weren't for this particular guide, I would be very upset with my safari. We didn't see much (of the big 5-rhino, elephant, lion, leopard, buffalo-we saw only two while other groups saw four or all), we froze (having slept in tents with thin sleeping bags, no lights and little protection from prowlers while others stayed in four star hotels with golf courses, multiple pools and high speed internet) and we endured a horribly cramped two hour bus ride between the airport and the reserve (while others were delivered swiftly to their hotels in sleek limousines-not really). But, while others may have pictures of lions licking each other, buffalo eating impala and the like, we had the most startling experiences that will remain dung fresh in our minds for years to come-hyenas stalking our tents, impala and nyala droppings shooting over the campfire, traditional (AND delicious) meals prepared by Mama Cook herself. And the final evening, after two days of parenting a rotting egg, we sat around a campfire and were victims in a brutal social experiment in which everyone ultimately threw their eggs at others to save themselves, and no one got out clean. I still don't know exactly what Kobus was getting at with that-though he touched on something about the circle of life and how life is scarily dispensable and quick and not every game has to have a point as long as you actually remember the life you engage in-but I surely won't forget those three days as easily as those with their three hundred pictures of impala in their iPhoto libraries will forget theirs.

Upon return, we sought out civilization and found it in the form of an Irish pub where a Bon Jovi look-and-sound-alike solo guitarist-singer played early 90s hits. I think the music summoned all of the Semester at Sea students scattered along Long Street, all dancing their ways inside as they distracted themselves with cheap beer and high fives. Being lost in this group is fun, at times, but gets tiresome very quickly.

The following day, Kristin and I branched off and followed a long strip of highway to the Khayelitsha Township, a muddled collection of temporary houses-box-shaped scrap metal mosaics housing three to seven family members-each one anonymous and lost in a morass of colors and shapes that extended miles in every direction. As our awkwardly clean and large bus pulled in, the men stooped on the curb waiting for any work they could get lifted their heads, children ran after us waving and screaming hello! hello visitors! and their parents let them run without calling after them.

Stepping off the bus, we were greeted by these children begging to be hugged and held by Americans, as Americans equal gifts, which some asked for almost immediately. They received crayons and coloring books, paper airplanes and rubber balloons, and seeing how happy these kids were to have just one balloon to run around with, I thought of kids back home who would ask, where's the helium? I then considered those commercials we see back home from some Christian foundation asking for five cents a day, that's all these kids need. I felt guilty for ignoring those gaunt girls in braids and the bald man who had the compassion to hold them and ask for money. But there were so many of them, so many that you'd have to choose favorites, and then what about the rest? Our tour guide warned us about giving out money, because if you give to one, they'll all come swarming after you asking for more; I saw that happen with Smarties, and it was brutal. I'd hate to see what kind of savagery would surface when the coins come out.

I am most afraid that the image of those kids and their energy will dissipate as the boat sails farther away. The girl who was so slight she felt like a papier mâché doll; the little boy covered in scabs who loved to be lifted over the preschool fence so his feet dangled over the other side; the boy who just wanted to be held, and cradled, and loved; I hope they never leave me. And even though I can't help them all, I hope they still see me, or Americans, as good people.

Not sure how to follow that experience, I went shopping. I know, I'm horrible. In my favor, it had already been planned, and I limited my purchases to one hand-painted t-shirt of a giraffe which, in turn, supported the community, I think. In any case, it is a wonderful t-shirt, you would love it.

Enough of these minute by minute accounts.

That night was fun, we went out and successfully avoided the overwhelming American crowd by ducking into a place called Zula where the music was still American, but the people weren't. We even ran across the closest human construction of Papa Smurf, a pale and delicate figure with glorious white hair, thick and sprouting from all the right places in his head to complete the guise. Oddly enough, he sported a Rutgers sweatshirt, which gave Eilis hope that he was a New Yorker as she is, but he was not. New Yorker or not, he was a delightful fellow and a wonderful entertainer, and we will miss him, Papa Smurf, wherever you are.

Thursday was reserved for sky diving, but as people hold suspicions against the truly wonderful coming to fruition in one's own life, so was the case here. We were transported the whole hour and some minutes to the jumping station, teased as we watched the trained jumpers re-load their backpacks with colorful parachutes, then told in a haughty manner by the man in charge that today was simply not our day, thanks to the wind, and we would have to go home. This put many of us in low spirits for the remainder of the day as we all went out separate ways-to Long Street, to bed, to drink. We reconvened at 5pm to watch Desmund Tutu-who I would have guessed was quite drunk, had I not known his status-speak on the ship. No one is quite sure what he was aiming at in his talk, but we all agreed he was a very delightful fellow, as we had deduced by this point that all South African men were.

That night (our last night) five of us-Drew, Kristin, Kelsey, Chris and I-wasted an hour or so at a hookah bar while everyone else hit the town hard. All we hit that night was the floor, because we were laughing uncontrollably, because Drew was dancing with the belly dancer, trying to imitate her. I wish you could have seen it.

Friday morning (our last morning) was Table Mountain morning, but only for two of us. Chris and I started climbing at 10am, without water-because we are novice climbers, and exercisers for that matter-but we made it in a speedy hour and fifteen minutes, everything burning and begging for refreshment. It was enlivening to feel that tired and cold and uncomfortable after being catered to at all times of the day, and Powerade had never tasted so good.

But as all things, even the best experiences have their negative angles, and mine was missing Dave Chappelle who was at the mountain's top at the same time but just managed to escape my vision. Another Semester at Sea student had the honor of making this known to me through a photo of himself with the comedian on his personal camera. The nerve.

And now we skip to today, our third day back at sea. Day One was a rough turn for everyone, either puking or subjected to hearing it throughout the night as the ship pushed its way over the converging Atlantic and Indian oceans. Dresser drawers flew open and shut, tvs spun, glasses and picture frames slipped and crashed to the floor and nobody slept. And those few who did sleep, well, they never woke up. They took that doggone Dramamine, and oh, is it strong. I took the "less drowsy" formula and am just now feeling like I can open my eyes.

I hope to not need it again until we leave India, as I need to be alert for my three day yoga and meditation retreat. Nine days!

Pray for no dysentery.

Oh, Sandy Africa!

Salvador is now far in the distance—though the image and stink of piss-stained streets still linger in my mind and nose—as we pass on to Africa; first stop: Namibia.

No one expected much from this obscure place, more town than country, whose whole is blown over with sand that detains the country's development, or so we thought. And as it is all desert, and it is Africa, we all assumed that winter would never drop below 70 degrees. We also envisioned it to be devoid of human life, because of all the sand, and because it is the second least densely populated country in the world (after Mongolia, which I've seen pictures of because of my father who has been there, and though I do remember there being plenty of people around in the background of those photos, I still imagined Namibia to be more deserted). We were also hoping that Namibia would fill that empty space with wild animals, like tigers, or camels, and maybe bears, though bears were unlikely. Namibia was also rumored to have very low crime, due to the lack of people, and (I hoped), because the wild animals overrunning the country cannot be charged for misconduct, considering they adhere to a separate set of rules.

But even the most ignorant and gullible of us were suspicious of any such country existing, as we would have heard about this magical place in a more striking way—like Atlantis, the Amazon, or Nimh, or on the cover of National Geographic, in Hollywood movies, from Darwin himself. But it was Semester at Sea that introduced us to this anonymous African country which, sorry, we know nothing about, and where none of us (if I may say so) extensive travelers, who have the earth's geography carved into the back of our hands, have ever been—Good luck.

What we did know for sure from riding into the country on the boat was that Namibia was (so fucking!) cold (though we failed to connect our boat-findings to our predicted on-land temperature of Namibia which, we still guessed, would be high 70s), its waves were rough and did not practice the same softness and sympathy as Salvador's had, and it is the home of one very hot Victoria's Secret Pink model, or so they told us in a pre-port presentation in hopes that we would recognize Namibia as an active country in the world. This factoid may have sold a good percentage of the Pink-wearing females and model-loving males, but oh, apparently 20% of Namibians have AIDS—we learned that, too—and we were again scared back into ignorance.

A reflection from the fourth day (today): the urine smell that pervaded Salvador was present in a similarly acrid fish odor that slaps us as we step off the boat, but disappears as we walk a mile inland to the port gate at which point any smells are slashed by sand that rides the wind into our eyes, down our shirts, in our shoes. The part about Namibia being covered in sand is mostly true. Trains run through the area between our ship and the gate, though there is nothing to warn us of their arrival but their trudging toward us in our periphery; and the only one I've seen pass, oddly enough, stopped before crossing completely to go back the way it came and then disappear.

Beyond the port are surprisingly modern buildings—not modern, per se, just more modern than expected—organized in easy-to-navigate blocks, between streets so empty two cars would never run into each other. The drivers seem to have some reservations about co-existing with pedestrians, however; drivers, like animals, seem to work under a different set of rules which permit the hitting, running into, running over, or other maiming of pedestrians, and as it happens, pedestrians are also with the lofty understanding that their crossing is always appropriate. Red or green, car or not, they walk; this is especially true for Americans, and it is sure to end poorly for someone at some point in the future.

On Friday, few people roamed the town, and those who did warned us to hold our bags tightly to protect ourselves from those dark guys on the corner. The few times we trusted locals to show us around, another would grab us away and say, No! Don't trust that man, follow me! So much for low crime.

On Saturday and Sunday, the streets were empty. As it turns out, shops and restaurants shut down for the weekend, save for one or two in each city that my friends and I sought out, and those were filled not by locals, (and, sadly, not by tigers and bears, either) but by other Semester at Sea students.

A brief rundown of Saturday and Sunday: Saturday morning, Drew, Kristin, Chris (a small and spunky New Yorker who has, more or less, become our third roommate), Jen, Scott (already introduced) and I headed out to go kayaking, though we didn't know where to go, when to go, and neither did the cab driver. We told him to go to the lagoon and he complied, and when we got there we spotted windsurfers, dolphins, and a woody inn with tourist information; unfortunately, we could not go that day. As we'd heard of many others going to Swakopmünd, a coastal town "more German than Germany," we asked the cabbie to take us there as well, and he did, though for a much higher price than we should have paid.

Sidenote: Money is rather complicated here, considering how I am being ripped off in Namibia while I simultaneously make a killing in USD. (ex: average cab fare, according to SAS student, from Walvis Bay (where our boat is) to Swakopmünd is 20 NADs (Namibian dollars; 20 NADs = $2.48) whereas we paid 80 NADs ($9.92). For 30 km, 80 doesn't seem so bad, though it is significantly more than the average Namibian, and I suppose there is no problem with supporting Africa by letting it rip us off, right?)

Being ripped off didn't stain our ride, however, which was stunning. At points we were surrounded by sand, its surface blown by the wind to look like stretch marks running through the dunes, then we spotted the coast (pictured above)—Skeleton Coast, to be exact—on the edge of all that sand, the water rolling and glittering, unspoiled by people. As the water sunk below the line of the dunes,
houses appeared in the sand which reminded me of the Japanese concentration camps in California, those thin-walled houses made out of stables always at the mercy of nature and the camp leaders. They were boxes placed in long rows, oddly colored and stagnant. A group of dark boys played soccer outside. A few miles down, after the line of weak pastel houses finally cut off, the water became visible again, and in front of it were a number of houses, all boxes, but not like those from before. These were painted the color of sand and covered with windows like barnacles cake to rocks. They all sat skewed 15 degrees south, each facade identical to the next—same windows, garage, front door, balcony. Coming into the city of Swakopmünd some time later, more identical houses; this time, they were organized more as military housing, but strangely German. Clumped together, they looked like a Christmas tree farm with their acute triangle tops and matching blue trunks.

Being Saturday, the entire city was more or less closed to us, and so we paid 80 NADs to eat hamburgers at an Applebees-level restaurant, get threatened by a camel-colored man with a lazy lip at an outdoor market when I wouldn't buy his carved nuts, and take a brief walk on the beach that may or may not have been littered with AIDS needles as it was with abalone shells. We will be going back there today, after Kristin returns home from her airplane ride around the city, in hopes that the town won't let us down on a weekday.

Sunday was probably my most Namibian day, meaning the things I did and saw could be found nowhere but Namibia. That is not say it was an all positive experience, but it's something to write home about, at least.

In the 40 degree morning, Kristin and I dragged ourselves onto a bus which brought us to a speedboat for our little anticipated Seal and Dolphin Tour. We were tired, cold, hungry, and very grumpy, idly watching a group of six Namibian dancers in bright yellow singing and stamping their feet until we could get on the boat. We were immediately introduced to the pelicans with their heavy rubber beaks and beady cormorant eyes as the guide tossed fish to them. Five minutes in, our guide hollered wildly and a seal jumped onto the boat, over everyone's lap, then leapt onto the floor. Like a puppy, the seal lay by his master awaiting his treat, and we pet him. That seal—whose name has escaped me—stayed with us for another five minutes then slid himself back into the water, making room for another seal—this one much smaller—to come waddling on. This one was uncoordinated and sloppy, dragging water onto the laps of the passengers, bumping into the seats, and tumbling onto the floor when he jumped. Needless to say, he was much more endearing, but he, too, had to say goodbye. From that point on, no one was excited by spotting seals in the water; our new target was dolphins. The dolphins were spotted, receiving some oohs and ahs, and in the midst of them, a whale emerged from the water, its mighty back rising as a mountain climbs in the background, and from it the whale blew water like a rocket and dropped back down again. This happened a few more times before we had to start heading back to the dock, and everyone was happy. We took a different route back and passed a seal colony, absolutely packed with black seals fighting, swimming, playing, doin' their thang. Nearing the dock, the most obese seal to ever live hitched a ride with us, flopping onto the boat, his blubber spreading across the floor as he crept heavily around (think Jabba the Hut). After sitting on everyone's feet, the seal was pushed back into the water and shook the earth as he hit the water.

Following the tour and a five hour nap, a group of us departed the ship to find a restaurant, any restaurant that was open. Our taxi driver spoke little English and had just as little knowledge about the town itself, so he darted from street to street, backing up, turning around—thank god the streets were empty—until we eventually found a place to eat. Crazy Mama's was the name, and its specialty was pizza and wine. After waiting forty minutes for a table, as this was the only restaurant open, we were seated, ordered immediately, and received our food a full hour and a half later. This gave us more time to drink wine, which we did, (the cheapest on the menu), and by the end of the meal, Kristin, Julie, Emma (Julie's roommate who I don't know terribly well), Hillary (a girl I met at the circus, a tall skinny one with short short blonde hair), and Anna (was her name Anna?) were so exhausted that while everyone else continued on to a bar/club (was not yet determined which), we went home.

Or we at least tried to; outside, a taxi cab and its driver waited, asleep. We banged on the window until the driver was startled awake and asked him to take us to the port, "to the big ship, please," we said. He nodded slowly and said, "sure, sure," and we asked, "do you know where that is?" and he said, "sure, sure," so we told him "5 NADs each, that's 30 total," and his nodded and said, "okay," and we got in. It was immediately evident that he did not know where he was going, then we grew suspicious by his fluent accord with us, accepting 5 dollars while most drivers won't settle for less than 10, and by saying nothing more than "sure" in response to our questions, as most drivers either admit they're unsure or will assure us that they will deliver us to the port safely. So this man is driving, he is slithering down the roads as if the tires are bald, and he is driving in the wrong direction. We redirect him but he doesn't understand English, and he doesn't understand pointing, and eventually we end up in a sandy parking lot, without lights, without people, and he stops.

We are all quiet, including the driver who has taken his hands off the steering wheel and is staring blankly through the window, when another car pulls up to ours so that it is staring the cab in the face and its lights are bright and blaring. Men file out of the car and confidently approach the cab driver and we are all thinking drug trade? money scandal? knife fight? then there's a knock on the window and the driver hastily rolls it down. "You're overfull," the man says, and the driver replies, "what?" so the man repeats, "you're overfull, you're overfull," then seems to say it in Afrikaans, because the driver finally understands and provides a lengthier reply in Afrikaans. The man tells us to all get out of the car, so despite it being 40 degrees, we comply and stand shivering outside.

As is probably clear by this point, the men who met us in the parking lot were cops, (which was a surprise, considering we had never seen cops there before) and they confronted the cab to arrest the driver who was, as it turned out, without a driver's license, and severely inebriated, so said the cops. One cop played with his handcuffs as he put the driver in the back of his car (without handcuffing him). Another cop (in another car) let us girls wait in his car while two more cops took over the cab, and we all drove to the police station together. There, the driver of our car settled things inside as the other cops stood idly on the sidewalk smoking, listening to music, and flirting—or so it appeared—with one girl who had decided it would be a good idea to bear the cold and smoke outside with Namibian cops. I shivered in the car watching them all as the girls in my car filled my head with distressing theories: what kind of cops would smoke and listen to music while arresting someone? why do they all look sixteen? why aren't they in uniform? I resolved that the rules were simply not the same here, that sixteen year olds may take care of business better than thirty year olds, that a high stress job demands frequent smoking—as is also the case in the states, as I've seen—and two of the cops were off duty, which allowed them to go out without uniform. Simple.

Half an hour or more later, the badass cop returned to our car to drive us home. We followed a truck which belonged to the station and as we drove, our cop, his window down, yelled to an off-duty cop in the back of the truck in Afrikaans. He then turned to us and asked if we wanted to go out on the town with them, as, apparently, the girl who'd been smoking with the cops raised that wonderful idea. We all immediately said no, take us home, and two minutes later, we were safely outside of the ship. After taking a photo with the nice policemen, the fish smell chased us up the stairs to the gangway and we sped to our rooms to be warm and sleep. This ship is finally feeling like home.

Today I woke up early and ate breakfast for the first time in days. In an hour, I will be off to Swakopmünd for more adventures, assuming my cab driver is licensed and the city is open, and hopefully I'll get around to supplementing these colorless blog entries with photos.

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.

Tres Dias

It's impossible to keep up when I'm working through this shotty internet service, so I'm posting three entries at once; don't be alarmed. I suggest you take a short break between each day, give someone a hug, watch some Ellen, grab some coffee. You know, the small, good things in life.

09/05
Today is Neptune Day, which means we don't have class because we crossed over the equator, which apparently calls for extensive head-shaving, the spilling of fish guts over everyone's heads, kissing a rigor mortis fish on the lips, jumping in the ship's saltwater pool, then being knighted by the Neptune king. Though spirits were high and many impressionable students were pressured into goin' bald, I still have my hair (as do Kristin and Drew). I did partake in everything else, though, including the fish kissing, which you all know is undoubtedly the worst act there is for me to do in this world of endless possibilities. At least I contained my vomitus.

A short while afterwards it started raining, as it always does. That's an interesting thing about being on an ever-moving vessel; rain never ruins a whole day—given the storm travels slower than 20 knots or so—at the most, it's twenty minutes spent inside knowing it will cease soon enough.

And then I saw a whale! I think I was the last one to see any form of sea life off the side of the boat; Kristin saw dolphins, Drew saw flying fish, etc. I only caught a flash of its back before it leaped back in, but it was a magnificent sight.


09/08
I woke up with what is commonly referred to as "sore throat" by professionals worldwide, and it's been kicking me hard and tirelessly in the lymph nodes, upsetting my body into a fury, a 100+ degree fever, chills, sallow mucus that plays red-light-green-light in my nostrils. My ears have closed up, my eyes are tired and red, and every last friend has deserted me.

Drew and Amanda (a tall blonde lady from Jersey) are in Lencois; Eilis (eye-leash: a wonderfully spunky brunette from Long Island), Jen (a Pen State girl, a bit goofy, petite in size, much like my mother, for all of you who know her, you understand), Scott (our 6 foot something bodyguard who protects us from all things foreign and dangerous), and Julie (our wonderful, beautiful Brazilian amiga who got us around Salvador the first day) are in the Amazon, petting tigers and cutting down vines; and Kristin (my cousin, you all know her and know there exists no explanation to suffice) is at dinner, or "Bahia by Night," eating full roast pigs off sticks and drinking caipirinha [ka-i-pi-ri-nya: Brazil's national cocktail, consisting of cachaca (sugar cane rum), sugar and lime].

Since they left me, I have been mostly in bed, or seeking out makeshift beds as I attempt to stick to my former plans—pool chairs on the ship, a padded ship deck on a ferry through the Atlantic, the sand of Itaparica island—even though I would rather stay home and just sleep this fever into the ground. Kristin accompanied me on those excursions, though; it is only tonight that I am alone.

So here I sit, in my bed, on the ship, in Salvador, Brazil (the harbor of which is pictured above). I purchased some tea at the pool bar upstairs but am wary of drinking it too soon as I've burnt my palate the last two nights and have already dealt with repercussions of that—bubbling, peeling, and now, great discomfort in eating, drinking, etc. A nice girl named Aja (ay-ja, like Asia) who lives down the hall kindly gave me Sudafed, Motrin and Halls to make this night a little easier, so I hope the Sudafed will make me drowsy enough to fall soundly to sleep without waking up too many times for lack of air intake.

Tomorrow I will go to the circus and learn the way of the clown, or so I hope. I will be going in sickness and in health, as long as I am living, so let's hope my bones aren't dangerously fragile. I imagine them as igneous rocks boiling under my hot skin, just waiting to erupt.


09/09
I enter this entry with great enthusiasm as Aja's medicine worked miracles on me overnight. Sure, I woke up with a little pinkeye, but the occlusion of my nose is concentrated to one (not two) sides and my throat only hurts when I breathe through my mouth! Good news for all.

I went to the circus today and had the most wonderful time; probably the most fun to be found in all of Brazil. The group was "Piccolino," founded as a method to reduce poverty on the streets, collecting poor children found climbing street lights, getting tangled up in capoeira circles, or exhibiting similar odd talents, and this group took them in and fed them as the children were taught to walk the tight rope, do back flips or ride a unicycle. Some have been there as long as fifteen years and it is really quite impressive what they have learned or otherwise gained from this humble group, just a couple circus tents on the side of the highway. I doubt I will interact with native Brazilians as intimately and usefully as I did today—hands-on spotting and instructions, physically working through language barriers as they taught us trapeze, unicycle, tight rope, tumbling, juggling and silk rope. Everyone was impressed by my unicycling skills (as the only visitor to successfully perform as I glided across the broken floor). A few of the other girls were quite talented as well, a couple of them ex-gymnasts or otherwise acrobatically inclined, so we did a lot of interesting group work—pyramids, spotting, barreling across the floor. (I know barreling isn't the right word, but I don't know any better way to explain it).

From this jaunt I made a couple new friends, one of whom is an ex-gymnast from San Diego California, and I traveled the city with her and a few of her friends (and Kristin, of course) the rest of the day. We eventually split up as they trekked (by taxi) to a Wal-Mart owned shopping center in search of Brazilian snacks while Kristin and I walked to a marketplace nearby. I finally bought a couple things—a pair of leather tie-up sandals, a t-shirt and a pair of earrings—all pretty cheap. I am very pleased.

Brazil has been fun mostly for the fact that I can't communicate; it makes for a lot of laughs as I employ my broken Spanish en communicado con Portuguese speakers. I know a couple vital phrases in Portuguese; I will share them with you now:

Hello: Oi
Goodbye: Tchau
Thank you: Obrigado
No thank you: No Obrigado (quite easily the phrase most commonly used by foreigners)
How much: Cuanto e
Yes: Sim
No: No
Sorry: Disculpe (second most commonly used phrase)
Guarana: Guarana (A delicious drink made from a plant used in popular energy drinks, like Red Bull
Acai: Acai (A fruity sorbet-like dish served in a bowl with fruit and granola, consisting of the native Brazilian Acai plant, containing, or so I hear, five times the antioxidants of blueberries).

Anyway, Kristin and I are going to head to dinner on the boat now. Not safe to walk around in Brazil just us two after sunset. We'll be going out later though; apparently Tuesdays are big festival/party nights for Salvadorians and, as rumor has it, there'll be drummers, capoeira dancers, and even an American Bar.

Day One and Beyond

So far, this trip has basically been the in-your-face execution of all self-jinxing, first in missing every flight to the Bahamas, then by having to stay overnight in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida, potentially losing my bags, and sleeping, at most, ten hours in the last three nights combined. I didn't expect it to be waveless in engineering, but I will say that it was much choppier than expected, and though I had convinced myself upon waking on the 27th at 3:00 am to fly out of Monterey that everything would go horribly wrong, I do still consider myself a generally lucky individual—having been supported financially and otherwise for this trip alone—and all negative beliefs were shaded by a subtle yet stable optimism that I knew I would arrive and everything would work out.

I arrived to the modest-in-size, décor, and-everything-else Monterey Airport at 4:30am with Red Bull in hand, anticipating a zippy flight with only a couple stops before I would reach my destination: the Bahamas.

Having been dependent on my mother for everything up to this point—the tickets, documents, etc.—her eventual departure allowed for everything to go awry; the sky was still dark and the gate—one of four in the whole airport—was filled with sleep-deprived travelers who, judging from hearsay, were flying within the country, many with Phoenix as the final destination. The flight was to board at 6:30, but that passed, and then 7:00 passed, and at 7:30, the lady at the gate pulled the mic to her mouth to tell us they were waiting for a mechanic to arrive for a final check of the plane, and that was all she knew.

I have finished a second Red Bull and a bag of Chex Mix—for lack of restaurants in the airport; called my mom countless times to update her, to tell her I would miss the next flight and need a new one, to cry, to complain about airports, etc.; have discussed an alternate flight with the gate woman who told me the only option would be to go home and fly the next day—an idea to which I would absolutely not agree; slept for twenty minutes as a middle-aged man with prune-y olive skin watched; and clicked the 'get mail' button countless times to see if my boyfriend who had just flown to Germany was still alive, when they finally came in again, having disappeared for over an hour, to tell us, "at the least, it'll be an hour."

Finally, at 10:30, the gate lady re-entered the room. We would leave in approximately half an hour, she said, so we all boarded and I called my mama to check what the final route would be, and she said "Monterey, Phoenix, Philadelphia, Ft. Lauderdale, hotel." I had the baggage men re-tag my bags accordingly, and we were off.

U.S. Airlines was training a new flight attendant who happened to have a lisp and dyslexia, which was kind of enjoyable, as her muttering grabbed my attention and I think it was the first time I actually listened to the presentation. Though many were distracted and upset by the amateur interpreter, I have no complaints about the flight save for the fact that all refreshments—that includes water, sodas, alcohol [pretzels and peanuts weren't even in the equation]—cost twice as much as on land, so I drank/ate nothing.

The first thing I did upon landing was turn on my cell phone to see that my mom had left me a voicemail saying the route would be changed, again, and I would need to re-route my bags, again. So I skipped off to customer service to wait in a line consisting of everyone on my flight, all of them having missed their connections, all of them angry. Here I found that the baggage man in Monterey had looted my luggage tickets, leaving my bags virtually impossible to track, so I would have to be hopeful even though I couldn't be at that point.

It has come to my attention, after re-reading all I've written, that this is really boring stuff, so to save you, I'll just say that everything improved from that point on; though I flew backwards—from Monterey to Phoenix to Las Vegas to Ft. Lauderdale—I eventually arrived, safely, though sleep deprived, in Florida. The taxi driver may have driven in a few circles for a few extra bucks before dropping me at the door of the Rodeway Hotel at midnight, and I may have been put in a room directly next door to all-night karaoke jam time, but I slept fine for the four hours that I did and arrived at the airport the next morning two hours early, bags in hand, and feasted on a crusty ham and egg sandwich while I waited.

At the gate, I met some fellow SAS people who had had an equally troublesome time getting there—one even slept under a bench in the airport. Though I can't say I remember their names, I do recall that they were mighty affable fellows and I've since sensed an underlying hey-I-remember-you-from-the-airport,-you-were-my-first-friend connection when I see them, which is nice.

The flight was lovely; I had the wits about me to get through a few pages of reading, received a free Bahama Mama from the Bacardi Bar right around the corner from immigration, met my bags and shared a cab with the people from my flight and a few more who waited awkwardly by the luggage carousel, obviously headed to the same place.

As we were very clearly tourists, our taxi driver took the liberty of ripping everyone off. But Todd and I, the stragglers, were sure to contest the prices he insisted we pay, [even though we had reservations saying anything as our driver had what looked like a stab wound in his neck], but we ended up paying less than everyone else. The drive itself, though, was probably worth everything in my wallet just for the view—the crystal waters, lush vegetation, crayon colored landscape. Nothing I'd ever seen before.

The hotel (pictured in the background of the above picture) itself was nothing special, especially in comparison to the majestic Atlantis which towered over everything else in the city, but it, unlike the Atlantis, was all-inclusive, and there really couldn't have been anything better than that after being pressured to pay two dollars for a ginger ale and five to have my bags pulled through the airport's sliding glass doors by a lofty black man. We swam in the hotel pool and ate and drank hotel food and drink, caught up on sleep, and went to the beach during the day where we tumbled in the water, choked on salty Atlantic under the tide, nearly died, drank out of coconuts, and watched two black boys go from black to white to black as they covered themselves with sticky white sand then pushed each other back into the water again.

At night, the forty or so SAS kids there made friends with the hotel employees, sang karaoke and played volleyball with them, danced with them, then slept in preparation for the hour long line to the ship the following morning, then to our rooms, then to meander the ship in search of new friends, new spaces, new views.

The rooms are pretty small; I'm thankful to be living with Kristin, my cousin, who will quickly adjust to my way of living as I have to hers. She brought twice as much as I did, and look! I've already forgiven her. We have a lovely little window where we watch the waves roll together, though we have yet to see any impressive life leaping in and out. Apparently a whale and some dolphins have already been spotted.

Our current location is unknown [by me]. We glided through Puerto Rico yesterday afternoon, and while I found the land and buildings somewhat remarkable, most people were most excited about being in "America," as America means cell phone service. Though I prefer to gaze than to photograph, my mother kindly lent me her camera so I've been trying to use it, and have, in the Bahamas and as we passed Puerto Rico, though the pictures are really nothing special.

Some interesting observations about ship life:
These days, walking has become quite a feat. I have attempted to use this to my advantage, as I've found that people bond most easily in times of strife. It has made for some quick friendships—from bumping into people, being laughed at for being thrust into walls, bonding over the oddity of this disabling power, and anyway, stumbling everywhere is kind of fun.

Also: I would like to add that, as I [and Kristin] have observed, cruise ships foster healthy and active bowels, which I assume is from the constant undulating, though it could just as easily be from the horrible food.

That is basically all I have for now. I will get into classes later, among other things.