A Thanksgiving Day Reflection: Obrigado

Exactly seven months ago, I was walking with my several of my friends through the plazas in Salvador, Brazil. Seven months ago, a teenage boy named Rodrigo approached me and tied a white ribbon around my right wrist as he asked for money to buy some food. Startled that he had already finished knotting the ribbon tightly three times around my hand, I (in that true American way) robotically apologized, saying that I had nothing to offer him. The truth is, I could have easily walked with him around the corner and bought him a sandwich. I could have easily taken out some spare money that I, the well-off traveler, needed far less than he. But instead, I followed the custom and made my silent wish on my ribbon that Rodrigo would no longer be hungry.

Every day since that boy tied the ribbon to me, and every time that I have glanced at my wrist in passing, I think of Rodrigo. I think of how I should have responded differently, with more thought and respect, and how there is nothing I can do about it now except wait for my ribbon to fall off. (The superstition is that if you take the ribbon off yourself, your wish will not come true.)

Well, today, on Thanksgiving Day, I noticed that my white, tattered string was no longer on my body. I felt a sense of loss at first, as if with this one realization, all of my memories of Semester at Sea would disappear forever. But after the reality sank in, I understood that my time on the MV Explorer will always be in my heart, with or without physical reminders.

As the day went on, I found myself reflecting on how different my life has been since returning to the States, and yet how little my day to day activities have actually changed. I still spend every day going to class after class, coming home to study for hours, and then socializing about meaningless pop-culture references. And there, I feel unfulfilled. Why can’t every day be an adventure like it was last spring? Why don’t I go to sleep each night feeling like I have learned something about myself or the wider world? Why have I been once again sucked into the Y Generation culture of cell phones, facebook, texting, and immediately google-ing any question I might have? Why can’t I walk outside and have the world at my fingertips every single day?

I haven’t yet figured out a solution to all of these issues, but I did step back and think about just how thankful I am to have had the experience of a semester at sea. I am thankful for all of the beautiful people I have come into contact with over the past year, both American and foreign alike. I am thankful for my parents who are always there to hear me vent my frustrations and then comfort me. I will always be thankful for simple, sweet humanity and our innate need to help one another. And of course, I am thankful that supposedly, now Rodrigo is happy, successful, and will never be hungry again.

Coming Home

I know I never wrote about Brazil. I don’t think I will, either. It’s May 3rd and at this point, I will be home so soon that I can tell all of you (whoever you all are) directly about my wonderful time in Salvador and Boipeba. For now, I think I’d rather try to describe the strange sensation I feel when I think about being back in the United States so soon.

It’s eerie walking around the ship now that exams are over, and all that is left to do is pack up our cabins and exchange contact information with friends. I’m scrambling to copy photos from friends I traveled with over these last four months, and I’m realizing I don't really need to add to my collection of thousands of pictures. Today is supposed to be “Reflection and Re-entry Day,” but really it’s just another unstructured aspect to this long, ten-day good-bye.

One of the most fascinating aspects of Semester at Sea compared to any other study abroad program is that we spend half of our time on land, experiencing local culture, and the rest of our time taking classes on a ship. And this ship is kind of like a frozen-in-time version of America. We all speak English to each other, eat American food, dress (usually) like we would back home, and are still listening to the top 40 hits from January. (Has Lady Gaga come out with anything since Bad Romance? And are you all still singing “Tonight’s gonna be a good, good night”? ‘Cause we are.) In between immersing ourselves in cultures around the world, we revert back to our normal tendencies. So I want to know, how different will it really be to be back in the States?

I know I will come back to tons of questions and requests to see pictures, but I wonder how many photos or stories it will take for my friends and family to get bored or start rolling their eyes. And I wonder how frustrated I will get, knowing that telling people about my experiences just isn’t nearly the same as living though them in the moment. And I wonder how incredibly pretentious I will sound starting my sentences with “Well when I was trying to cross the street in Vietnam…” or “In India they wear the brightest colors…,” when really I’m just trying to add to conversations like anyone else. I’m going to miss how normal it is, here in my shipboard community, to say “I like that dress! Where’d you get it?” and be told nonchalantly, “Oh, Ghana.”

But mostly, I’m scared of reverting back to my old ways. I scared of being so caught up with the social gossip right in front of me, that there isn’t room on my plate to care about the problems in the rest of the world. Everyone has been saying that it won’t happen, but how can I be absolutely positive? And how can I, after forming relationships with people all over the globe, make sure that I will make a difference in their world. I want so badly to help in any little way possible, but I’m finding myself in the same difficult place that I was in January: there are so many issues to be resolved that I just don’t know where to start. What I do know now, though, is that it is possible to help. Helping people on a local level really does make the hugest of differences, even if it might not look or sound so impressive. If I have learned anything on this voyage around the world, it’s that "it’s all about the people." We all live in this world together. We make it the place it is, and we need to make it into the place we want and need for it to be.

The Center of The World

Considering in about an hour I will be docking in Salvador, I should probably recap at least something from Ghana before I get to Brazil! These 6 days at sea have really been packed with schoolwork and projects, and trying to soak up the most from our days, since I hate to say it, but we only have fifteen left.

On April 11 (forever ago, right?) we docked in Ghana. We all thought we would be in Accra, the capital city, but the main harbor is in the industrial sister city, Tema. So Semester at Sea arranged for a (shoddy) shuttle system to go back and forth on the hour. This was the first port city I have been to so far where I was more curious about what I would see than I was excited. I had watched The Lion King the night before, and of course I knew Accra wouldn’t look like that. But what would it look like?

Apparently, it looks like almost every other small-scale city I have been to so far! There were a few main streets connecting the major sites, along which street vendors crowded the sidewalks. The streets were dusty and the buildings in “downtown” didn’t rise above two stories. Cars and taxis weaved through the lanes, but much more tamely than I’ve seen in Shanghai or Chennai. I would say the only major difference between Accra and say, Ho Chi Minh City, was that 90% of the people in Accra we carrying things on their heads! I wasn’t surprised that people did it- I was more shocked by the sheer weight of the things they carried. You name it, they balanced it: bowls of fruit, baskets of flip-flops, trays of jewelry or snacks, chairs, groceries!

Even though I was only in Ghana for a short four days, I think I really maximized my time by seeing all of central Accra, the Castles and Slave Dungeons in Cape Coast, the OSU Children’s orphanage, and the Makola Market. I think my experience in the market was my most “real” day, spending time with local vendors rather than reading plaques on the sides of buildings. I found my way into the heart of the market, where tourists rarely venture into. Through 2 foot wide pathways, I weaved through the maze of stalls selling spoons, cd’s, and dresses, until I reached the fabric section. Stall after stall was covered with yards of brightly printed fabrics, and I couldn’t help but stop to look at the patterns. As soon as I paused for a moment there, a woman popped out of nowhere, from her resting place under the cool fabrics. After lots of back and forth, I agreed to buy 2 yards of fabric to have a skirt made. Behind me, a row of seamstresses sat at their sewing machines, deftly creating traditional skirt and top outfits. The women said to come back at 2:30 to pick up my finished garment.

I tried to find my way out of the market by a different route than I used coming in. Big mistake! I managed to get completely lost in the food section of the market, when all I wanted was to find my way out! In no real hurry, I passed stalls of spices, dried tilapia, live crabs, pigs’ feet, corn, and flour. It smelled… interesting. All the while, I had to constantly step aside so girls with 50 pounds of fruit or fish or soda on her head could squeeze by me in the tiny corridor.

Eventually, with a little (a lot) of help, I found a main street. Along every street in Accra, between the pavement and the sidewalk, runs an open sewer of varying depth. Concrete planks connect the two surfaces to avoid any, say, accidents. As I was walking down the street with my friend, we were approached by a man selling big African-print shirts. I decided to play the bargaining game (yay for getting one for $6 instead of $25!) and as I stepped forward to choose a shirt from his selection, FWOOM. My right leg had sunken 18 inches into the grimiest sewer I had seen the entire trip. The trash and muck kept me down like quicksand as the shirt-man and my traveling buddy tried to yank me out of the depths. I was too grossed out to cry, so of course, I laughed. As did the other 30 people on the street who got a week’s worth of amusement out of my fall! (Always happy to help.) Lucky for me, a woman selling sodas about 10 feet away came to my rescue with a bucket of water and she generously helped me wash my leg, foot, and shoe. She then gladly took a photo with me.

So that’s my sewer story. Don’t try this at home. I suppose that’s why the sewers in the US are generally actually underground. I found my way back to my seamstresses and chaatted while they finished my skirt. Foustina, the woman who sold me the fabric, and her 18 year old daughter, Priscilla, on holiday from school, were especially friendly and hospitable, as 2:30 turned into 3:30, into 4:30. When my skirt was finally finished I couldn’t have been more satisfied. It looks just like the ones they wear there! I will gladly model when I come home.

Now, onto Brasil!

Kaapstaad, South Africa, aka Cape Town

There is so much to say about my 5 days in Cape Town that I honestly do not know where to begin. I’ll start with some observations.

1)      For the first time in ten weeks, being white didn’t automatically give away my foreign-ness

2)      For the first time in two months I shopped in an honest-to-goodness supermarket

3)      The weather was sunny, breezy, and 70 degrees no matter what. (Breeze is an understatement… this was WIND)

4)      Xhosa has 3 different clicking sounds and I still haven’t a clue how to make a single one of them

5)      Table Mountain gives Cape Town the most incredible skyline I have ever seen. Google it!

 

During my all too short stay in South Africa, I was able to volunteer with Habitat for Humanity, attend the International Jazz Festival, spend a day tasting wine in wine country, see the Big 5 on a safari,  and not hike Table Mountain (due to THE WIND. Which also stalled our departure for oh, 21 hours? Hah.) Out of all of these incredible activities, I think the one most worth while blogging about is my day spent in the townships volunteering with Habitat for Humanity.

 

I worked with the organization once before, on a USY mission to New Orleans after my junior year in high school. What a different experience this was. As we drove out of the bright, clean, and colonial style downtown, the homes lining the highway got progressively more impoverished. The townships sprung up in the distance like I expect the dandelions are doing right now in your front yard. Shack homes made from nailed together scrap metal and wood balanced precariously on their soil foundations. These shacks weren’t just sporadically placed in the horizon- hundreds of thousands of sheds formed a sprawling suburbia like I’ve never seen before.

 

After about twenty minutes, we entered the township in which Habitat is currently building houses. We were pretty obvious in our big coach bus, taking up the entire width of the neighborhood roads. As we drove through, children in the streets stared at us through our tinted windows, and when I waved at them, the biggest smiles I have ever seen broke upon their faces. We soon reached to construction site, and were mobbed by the most adorable children… and when I say mobbed I mean they were grabbing our hands and feet, climbing on our backs, our waists. It was the most arduous fifteen paces I have ever walked!

 

We were shown the ropes by a few Habitat workers, given hard hats, and split up into groups- the inside, outside, and roof. We worked together to set up scaffolding, finish the roof, clean up rubble, mix concrete, and finish laying the cinderblocks to form the exterior of the house. Unfortunately, the construction site was severely under supplied. For the twenty of us there was one set of scaffolding, two hammers, four shovels, and no ladders or work gloves. We did the best we could to either be productive, or stay out of the way.

 

After about four hours, we took a lunch break and took a walk around the township. Hair salons, public phones, and general stores were set up in trailers along the street. Little kids yelled out a word at us, which we were later told meant “white,” while they followed us around. When we returned to our building site, the kids all started singing and dancing, and I joined them along with a few other students. They taught us their songs, and we sang things like “Ring around the Rosy” and “Hakuna Matata” which they happily sang and danced along to. One boy latched on to me for the rest of the afternoon, wearing my hard hat and playing clapping games with me as other little boys vied for my attention. At one point, 6 of them broke into dance, doing the best Michael Jackson impression I’ve ever seen. Most of the kids didn’t speak a word of English, but I was able to ask one eleven year old girl what she wanted to be when she grows up. She said to me, “Miley Cyrus.” It made me wonder… does Miley Cyrus know that when she sings “Party in the USA,” little kids in townships in South Africa want to be just like her? Because I still can’t even really wrap my head around that.

 

Around 4 o’clock, we cleaned up for the day, and were given the honor of personally dedicating the partially built house to its future owner. After seven years of moving up a waiting list, his house is finally in the making, and as a carpenter, he is making his own door. So there was no need to hand over the keys! Between the children, the workers, and this wonderful man whose house will soon become his home, my entire day was filled with unforgettable experiences, highlighted by bright smiles which I will treasure forever. 

Cabin 2014

What you are about to read is something I just wrote down in my journal about 10 minutes ago. It is pure emotion and I have no idea if it makes any sense, but if you were wondering what was going through my head at 0023 hours on April 8, 2010, read on.

I still need to write about my time in Cape Town, but in the mean time, it is the third day of shipboard life between South Africa and Ghana. Yesterday I had no class and felt like spending the day in my room. I had Kelli in there with me most of the day, but I really had no desire to go out and “be” with people. I had forgotten how easy it is to have privacy at Pitt or at home, but on the ship you are always running into someone to talk to. I usually love that, but I needed a day off. So I slept in, watched TV and movies, read a lot of my book, and only ventured out of my room for a 20 minute lunch and a hot dog at 10 pm. It was much needed down time.

Today was back to normal- I ate all 3 meals in the dining hall, went to my 3 classes, even studied for my quiz in public, and went to the film festival put on by the students in the evening. Which was mostly really good. I wish I could put my observations and thoughts and experiences into videos like those—I really wish I could present my ideas in that format. It’s such an effective way to say and literally show so much in only 3 minutes. But my mind just doesn’t work that way.

Right now, I’m really missing my friends from home and school. Everyone on the ship is so incredible, but I wish everyone I care about was here with me going through everything. Mostly because they all deserve it just as much as I do, but also because I know telling people about the things I’ve done and showing pictures will never do any of it justice. And that legitimately makes me sad.

Some of the things I’m feeling feel so profound that I can’t bear to feel them without my best friends of mother or sister feeling them right there beside me. I’m scared to go back home because I know in reality, there is no going back. I will go home but it won’t look like the same home I left in January: I won’t see it through the same lens. I know that isn’t a bad thing and that whatever has changed inside of me is for the better, but a part of me is sad that I never got to say a proper goodbye to that part of my life- the part of me that was so wrapped up in my own little microcosm. I never formally parted with the side of me which didn’t know or understand the other parts of the world.

I know that spending five days in a culture doesn’t allow me to understand it, but that’s all I’ve got and I’m doing the best that I can. I know that when I go home, people will ask me how I’ve changed and I don’t know what I can say to them. How do I tell people about random strangers welcoming me into the intimate details of their lives? Showing me where they eat and telling me where their families are? How do I convey the inescapable and overwhelming atmosphere of a foreign culture which is foreign only to me because I am the one who does not belong? How do I tell people about the warmth and sunshine which radiates from a child’s smile while he jumps and climbs on me with pure love and joy, even though we cannot pronounce each other’s names?

On days like these I cannot seem to wrap my head around the things I am going through or these so-called changes which are happening inside of me. I can’t understand how I can live and sleep and breathe on this ship as my friends and I complain about annoying people or the disorganized activities office, while we are being transported around the world and then dropped off in a country and told, “Go. See. Learn.” How do I do it??

I think I’m doing a good job so far, but is a “good job” good enough? There is still so much of this earth for me to explore and know and learn from and try my best to make an impact on, and I’m drowning in the inevitable reality that I just can’t do it all. I can’t understand how the world is changing me, and I can’t understand how I am to change the world. But I suppose with four weeks left and only two more countries to go, the best I can do is to try: try to soak up as much as I can, try to leave as much of a mark as I can, and try my hardest to keep my promises that I will come back- for longer next time- to stay and really get to know the people and their lives.

As I write, my eyes are tearing up, but they aren’t tears of sadness, I don’t think they are tears of overwhelming, I believe they are tears of happiness. I am so remarkably happy to be able to go around this planet of ours and step into other’s lives even for just a second, and with just that second, have all of humanity be confirmed to me. This world is FULL of people—all with stories and backgrounds and futures and problems and celebrations—and no matter how much we try to distance ourselves from one another, we are all in the Life together. I never want a single on of these people to leave my Life.

Maybe that is what I’m afraid of. I’m afraid of going home and simplifying my experiences down to one paragraph and diminishing people back down to the statistics they started out as. I’m afraid of these people ever leaving my life… because I know it is impossible to hold on to each one of them forever. And all I want to do is to hold on. Hold on tight and never, ever, let go. 

Passover at Sea

I knew when I applied to Semester at Sea Spring 2010 that if I was fortunate enough to attend the voyage, it would mean not only spending Passover away from home and family, but out of the country entirely, and most likely, the Passover Seder would occur on the ship. I have been so lucky to be on this voyage with so many wonderful and dedicated students, and I am thrilled that a good number of those students have decided to come together to form a Jewish student group. Ever since the first Friday at sea, we have been meeting regularly for Kabbalat Shabbat and eating a Shabbat meal together. It has been sporadic at times, especially when we were going through the Asian countries like they were candy! Nevertheless, we have formed a great community on the ship, and every week, anywhere between 20-35 students and faculty come together to celebrate the Sabbath together. We have spent time learning about Jewish communities (or lack thereof) in the cities we have visited so far, and I think we are in for a treat in Cape Town.

 

Anyway, ever since the voyage began, we have talked about the Passover Seder like it would be years away, and I can’t believe it has finally arrived. Weeks of planning and plenty of emails from worried parents later, we were able to pull it off! We had a sign up sheet before we arrived in Mauritius, and were ecstatic when we had to cap attendance at 120! We compiled a Haggadah from various sources, and put in food requests to the kitchen so we would have as close to a Seder meal as we could on limited resources. Last Friday, we decorated Matzah covers together and I felt like I was in 2^nd grade again, with a rainbow of Crayola markers smeared all over my fingers.

 

Tonight was the big event. People from all kinds of backgrounds came: there were the Friday Regulars, the students who came just to tell their parents they celebrated Passover like a good Jewish kid, and the students who were not Jewish, but were simply interested in attending a Seder. All things considered, I think it went pretty well! There were enough Matzah balls to go around, everyone got at least 4 cups of grape juice (think melted freeze pop), and we had two adorable kids sing the four questions. And the afikomen- oh boy- just picture 30+ twenty-somethings (and a couple of real children) searching on their hands and knees around the Deck 5 Dining Room for 20 minutes looking for a big cracker wrapped in a napkin. And the prize? 30 South African Rand… roughly four bucks. Not bad!

 

Before I knew it, the Seder was over (it was the short version) and we all left with our bellies full and ready to watch the Crew Talent Show (I’ve been looking forward to this the whole voyage)!  Who would have thought that a year ago I should have been saying “Next Year in Cape Town”?

 

Chag Pesach Sameach!

 

A Heightened Sense of Adventure

I haven’t spent too much lately on self-reflection and introspection, but I can definitively say that traveling the world has had its effects on me. As I enter the second half of my voyage, I will continue trying to pin down the ways I have changed since January, and how those changes will affect the way I live in the future. One difference is easy for me to figure out. Since coming on Semester at Sea, my attraction to spontaneity and my sense of adventure have grown tremendously. I’m not about to jump out of an airplane or anything, but I’m no longer as high strung about getting to a destination on time and making sure all goes as planned. I really have embraced the idea that it is not the destination that matters, but rather the journey. This motto has applied not only to this voyage as a whole, but really to the way I live each day in port.

 

I had two goals in Mauritius: to go hiking in the volcanic mountains and to snorkel in the Indian Ocean. By the time my short two day stay was over, I had accomplished both of these things and so much more. When we arrived on Tuesday morning, the sun peeked out from the rain clouds, just itching to create a beautiful rainbow in the sky. My friend Erin and I set out with many friends in search of a good hiking route. We had planned to hit several stops and eventually hike through the Black River Gorges National Park. Things didn’t entirely go according to plan! We spent a good 2 hours navigating to public bus system and being driven around by a local man for a while. He told us we should go to what sounded to me like “Catabowl” but considering it was French, who knows what it was actually called! We hopped on a bus to this town, unsure of what to expect. At first, we saw no signs of a good hiking spot, since we were dropped off in the center of the town. Markets and bakeries lined the streets and school children were standing at bus stops waiting to go home. We had spent most of the day already exploring the island by car, and we just wanted to get out and hike! From the street, the mountains in the distance were breathtaking. The lush green trees covered the mountain ranges like a carpet and their jagged tops cut through the mist and tropical rain clouds to reach through to the heavens. I wanted so badly to be on top of one of those fantasy-land cliffs!

 

Since we were in the middle of a town filled with concrete sidewalks and pavement, I knew that goal was unlikely. Still, Erin and I decided to take a side street off the main road and try our best. We followed our instincts and walked as far uphill as we could, through several wealthy neighborhoods and tall sugar cane fields. Soon enough, a mountain was in sight. I didn’t think we would reach the base of it, but sure enough, after walking through what looked like a soccer field, we caught sight of a trail. It was still muddy from the afternoon rains, but we didn’t mind. We followed the red-brown path up and around, passing several locals who were already on their way down from their afternoon exercise. As we climbed higher and higher, even more of the impressive landscape came into view. We stopped every now and then to take in the scenery before setting off once again towards the peak. The sun was sinking low in the sky, and we had about an hour before sundown. The golden glow of the sun’s rays skimmed the leaves of grass and fanned out wide over the fields below. Suddenly, the call to prayer emanated like a siren from the mosques in the distance, floating up through the air and lingering in our ears. Even though the majority of the island’s inhabitants are Hindu and of Indian descent, they all embrace each other with a love and friendship I have seen nowhere else in my life.

 

We trekked onward, determined to reach the top as soon as we could. Lots of mud and several mosquito bites later, we found the clearing where the trail ended. It was blanketed with tall grasses and some wildflowers, and through the trees, we could see the whole island before us. Soon after we arrived, the same group of locals we had seen going the other direction showed up. One man, Sanjay, spoke to us shortly before descending again. Speaking with him again reminded us of the power of friendliness, as he wanted nothing more but to help us with directions and recommend his favorite sites so we could make the most of our time in Mauritius.

 

After a fulfilling day of exploration, Erin and I hopped on a bus bound for Port Louis. An hour and a half later, we were driving along the familiar waterfront, witnessing Mauritius’ version of Tuesday Nightlife. It was quiet and balmy, and the dark waters looked just as beautiful under the stars as they did in the daylight. After a great day, I had made it home happier than ever, relishing in the idea that Port Louis could be my home for the day, and that for the last 10 weeks, wandering the unexpected corners of the world has been my reality.