The dawn I arrived in the port of Cape Town, I felt a strong sense of homecoming—a bit perplexing, since I have never been there! But the oldest human remains found to date came from South Africa, so perhaps some sense of ancestry floats in the dim recesses of consciousness… I know with certainty that I must return, as I have known since childhood I needed to get here.
Now the moment I have been waiting for… I did a three-hour elephant back safari at dawn in a game reserve. I got to ride the lead elephant, Jabulani (Rejoice!), who was rescued from a pit as an infant and carefully nurtured back to health over a year-long special care program. My guide was a man from Zimbabwe, Emmanuel. Emmanuel asked me if we had big parks like this in California and I told him about Yosemite and Sequoia and the animals there. He asked me what bears sound like and I replied that they roar. “Roar?” he asked. So I did a bear roar, creating much general arousal amongst guides and elephants alike. Later in the day I saw Jabulani and Emmanuel at shouting distance and asked Emmanuel how a bear sounds. “RRRRooooarrr!”
A walking ground crew with rifles led those of us on elephant back because it is a natural game park, including lions and leopards. Walking along for the ride were three baby elephants, one of them so young he could not yet coordinate his trunk, but rushed and/or mounted the other two enthusiastically at every opportunity. I have a great sequence of photos in which the moms are watching the play get increasingly rambunctious, then you see the trunks begin to reach out, the little one is swept up entirely by his mom, and the other two get gentle but definite trunks laid over them to pull them back and tuck them up to mother. At one point, I dropped my quart water bottle and Jabulani picked it up, he started to hand it back to me over the top of his head, then decided he was thirsty, put it in his mouth and crunched it, drinking the water. He gave me back the squished and empty bottle. These elephants were well trained but not perfectly obedient, not having had their spirits broken; they were happy, cooperative, and willful enough to maintain some dignity.
On that one ride I saw giraffes, zebras, Cape buffalo, warthogs, crocodiles, wildebeest, and monkeys. At the end of the ride, I bought the DVD that included African music I’d somehow missed on the safari. And, when I returned to the ship, I heard some strange ethereal music playing over the ship sound system. I thought it strange that they were playing Asian music between South Africa and Mauritius. Then I learned that I was listening to “The Elephant Orchestra.” Yes, real elephants making elephant music with giant xylophones, improvising. This treat was shared by our ethno-musicologist, Joe Moreno, who is making me a copy.
The life of animals that I saw, the number of species, the large size of the herds, the naturalness of the environment, the family groupings, the interspecies cooperation: all amazed me and delighted me. Giraffes and zebras and warthogs are typically seen together, all grazing in the same place. If only I can get some photos up, I can share some of this amazing world… a rhinoceros in the water with just a bit of head and back above water line, giving a lift to a turtle who rode on his back, and, of course, the equivalent of cow birds, happily grazing on the insects living on the happily grazing herds. I saw a family of elephants do a dust bath, close up enough to have a face full of dust. I saw a giraffe baby wobbling along with his daddy, looking around in complete wonderment, and often hiding within daddy’s long legs, his umbilical cord still hanging from his belly. I was so close to an alpha male lion that I could have reached out and touched him; instead I tucked up and took a photo as he walked past me! Of course, these lions hunt, and so do the leopards, but the overarching sense of the natural world is that it is the garden where the animals live in essential harmony, a garden we not only left but also have largely destroyed. It is sad and I felt a longing for that garden, but also the hope that we can continue to create places in which to learn our place anew.
And yesterday I read on the BBC that South Africa has approved an elephant cull, heartbreaking news to my eyes. The PETA folk say, “How much like humans do they have to be before you call it murder?” And it brings home to me that we are in dire need of an entirely new model of ethics, one that honors life while respecting the necessity of death—for all of us. In the real circle of life, yes, the impala dies, the lion dies, and the man dies, too, all having loved their lives dearly.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
P.S. with tears
BBC reports today that white students at a South African University forced elderly black service employees to drink alcohol, go to an athletic field to demonstrate their 'animal' abilities, and then eat urine soaked food--all for their video. Of course, there is outrage at this expression of the palpable sentiment I felt during my visit. Perhaps the outrage will create some real change.
Out of Africa
What contrasts in Africa! As soon as we got clearance in the port of Cape Town, I gathered up twenty students to visit the offices of the Tutu Peace Centre offices.
Nomfundo Walaza, whom I know from UNCSW work, and who is now the CEO of the Peace Centre, met us there. It was a hot afternoon, the air conditioner was down, the PowerPoint wouldn’t work; we sat together in a stuffy room for three hours, and it was a powerful experience of conversation.
Nomfundo is a trauma psychologist who has worked throughout the post-apartheid years, and who worked with the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. One point she made about that work was that very few white South Africans participated, explaining that it was too hard for them to hear the horrors that people told. And she told us enough of those horrors to feel the reality of it. She described being twelve years old and tear-gassed and shot at walking home from school, seeing the leader of the group gunned down and fearing that she would be an easy target because of her height....
No sooner did I get that group back to the ship and change clothes than it was time to get up (3:30 a.m.) to lead another group on a four-day safari. It soon became clear that amongst my group of 64 students were some of the most grossly entitled, demanding....
I cannot do any description justice, but they pushed my every button, buttons long dormant… especially because of having listened to Nomfundo the day before. I kept trying to find the teachable moments and may have been wiser to look for the teachable persons!
Racism is alive and well—or more honestly, alive and sick—in South Africa. White people fill the good jobs. Black African women hold the lowest jobs. Our safari lodge was beautiful with great thatched meeting rooms, lovely dining rooms, exquisite food, and a beautiful pool. Each group was assigned to a (white) ranger and his/her jeep for the duration, with a black African tracker to sit on the front of the jeep. The rangers dined with us, the trackers did not. In the entire operation, capable of housing a hundred people, there was one black man in a non-service role. The maids wore black dresses in the heat, and carried beds up and down stairs on their heads. Many of the students’ bar bills for a night was more than a maid’s salary for a week. And these older women bowed and served entitled students who assumed it was appropriate because, of course, they were paying customers. There was also a contingent of lovely caring students with a high level of awareness—the group of us agreed to putting tip money directly into the hands of the maids—otherwise it would have been distributed disproportionately in the direction of the more highly paid white staff. I had several truly wonderful conversations with the black African women. They encouraged me to work for them at the UN, they patted me and hugged and tearfully thanked me for putting the tip money into their hands. They thanked me for learning their names and speaking to them as human beings.
You know when someone wants your money, and you also know when something deeper and more genuine is happening; I have deep and genuine and black memories of mother Africa!
When I finally got back to the ship after four very long days, I was exhausted, but I also felt sullied, dirtied, by what I’d seen and been part of. I woke up desperate to go to church and found myself at St. George Cathedral, Bishop Tutu’s “People’s Church” on the 160th anniversary of the Anglican presence here. It was a high mass, Palestrina’s Missa Brevis, with lots of smells and bells, and with a brilliant sermon. Between feeling the need to go to church and getting there, I met up with Doc Brown, our wonderful ship physician, Terri, and Linda. So we all went to church, though I was the only Anglican, and I ‘came out’ as an ordinand to them. I was so proud of my church that day in that place, the place where people found the strength to make a stand, a long stand, reminding me of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s church in Georgia. I met Lavinia, Bishop Tutu’s assistant, when I randomly selected her to ask if I might make a donation in exchange for the well-worn prayer book I’d used. Not only did I get the prayer book, but she offered to send me an autographed photo of Bishop Tutu to keep in it....
My friends from the ship and I went to tea near the Parliament buildings and then, for a real contrast, on to the pan-African green market, like a huge swap meet of goods from all over Africa. I bought a painting and a drum and a wooden bowl. (I have been part of a drumming group on the ship and I am finally learning to play....)
I promised contrasts, but in this post, have spoken more of the challenges. Tomorrow I will write of the beauty and joys I was part of for my few days in Africa, kind of like saving dessert for after dinner!
Nomfundo Walaza, whom I know from UNCSW work, and who is now the CEO of the Peace Centre, met us there. It was a hot afternoon, the air conditioner was down, the PowerPoint wouldn’t work; we sat together in a stuffy room for three hours, and it was a powerful experience of conversation.
Nomfundo is a trauma psychologist who has worked throughout the post-apartheid years, and who worked with the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. One point she made about that work was that very few white South Africans participated, explaining that it was too hard for them to hear the horrors that people told. And she told us enough of those horrors to feel the reality of it. She described being twelve years old and tear-gassed and shot at walking home from school, seeing the leader of the group gunned down and fearing that she would be an easy target because of her height....
No sooner did I get that group back to the ship and change clothes than it was time to get up (3:30 a.m.) to lead another group on a four-day safari. It soon became clear that amongst my group of 64 students were some of the most grossly entitled, demanding....
I cannot do any description justice, but they pushed my every button, buttons long dormant… especially because of having listened to Nomfundo the day before. I kept trying to find the teachable moments and may have been wiser to look for the teachable persons!
Racism is alive and well—or more honestly, alive and sick—in South Africa. White people fill the good jobs. Black African women hold the lowest jobs. Our safari lodge was beautiful with great thatched meeting rooms, lovely dining rooms, exquisite food, and a beautiful pool. Each group was assigned to a (white) ranger and his/her jeep for the duration, with a black African tracker to sit on the front of the jeep. The rangers dined with us, the trackers did not. In the entire operation, capable of housing a hundred people, there was one black man in a non-service role. The maids wore black dresses in the heat, and carried beds up and down stairs on their heads. Many of the students’ bar bills for a night was more than a maid’s salary for a week. And these older women bowed and served entitled students who assumed it was appropriate because, of course, they were paying customers. There was also a contingent of lovely caring students with a high level of awareness—the group of us agreed to putting tip money directly into the hands of the maids—otherwise it would have been distributed disproportionately in the direction of the more highly paid white staff. I had several truly wonderful conversations with the black African women. They encouraged me to work for them at the UN, they patted me and hugged and tearfully thanked me for putting the tip money into their hands. They thanked me for learning their names and speaking to them as human beings.
You know when someone wants your money, and you also know when something deeper and more genuine is happening; I have deep and genuine and black memories of mother Africa!
When I finally got back to the ship after four very long days, I was exhausted, but I also felt sullied, dirtied, by what I’d seen and been part of. I woke up desperate to go to church and found myself at St. George Cathedral, Bishop Tutu’s “People’s Church” on the 160th anniversary of the Anglican presence here. It was a high mass, Palestrina’s Missa Brevis, with lots of smells and bells, and with a brilliant sermon. Between feeling the need to go to church and getting there, I met up with Doc Brown, our wonderful ship physician, Terri, and Linda. So we all went to church, though I was the only Anglican, and I ‘came out’ as an ordinand to them. I was so proud of my church that day in that place, the place where people found the strength to make a stand, a long stand, reminding me of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s church in Georgia. I met Lavinia, Bishop Tutu’s assistant, when I randomly selected her to ask if I might make a donation in exchange for the well-worn prayer book I’d used. Not only did I get the prayer book, but she offered to send me an autographed photo of Bishop Tutu to keep in it....
My friends from the ship and I went to tea near the Parliament buildings and then, for a real contrast, on to the pan-African green market, like a huge swap meet of goods from all over Africa. I bought a painting and a drum and a wooden bowl. (I have been part of a drumming group on the ship and I am finally learning to play....)
I promised contrasts, but in this post, have spoken more of the challenges. Tomorrow I will write of the beauty and joys I was part of for my few days in Africa, kind of like saving dessert for after dinner!
Monday, February 18, 2008
Cape Town
Rocking gently in the snug harbor beneath Table Mountain; our little tug boat has done its dawn duty. This is a place of new bird calls and amazing beauty, sparkling hillsides, dark silhouette of
peaks, pastel wash of morning sky.
Now we will have some hours in which the port authorities record our passports and approve us for land. I will spend that time packing for my safari which has been changed to a 4 a.m. departure tomorrow.
peaks, pastel wash of morning sky.
Now we will have some hours in which the port authorities record our passports and approve us for land. I will spend that time packing for my safari which has been changed to a 4 a.m. departure tomorrow.
Afrika!
In the morning we port at Cape Town. There is such excitement on the ship, after 9 days at sea we set foot on land and not just any land!
I will be taking students to the Tutu Peace Centre in the afternoon and then will be footloose in evening (during gay pride week in Cape Town!), but with the reality check of leading a safari to Kapama River Lodge in Kruger the next morning at 7 a.m. I will be out in the bush for four days, then back Saturday night. Sunday is a free day and I have intentions of visiting the penguin colony at Boulder Bay and a winery before getting back on the ship Sunday evening.
There have been tropical cyclones (Ivan and Nicholas) of magnitude moving across the southern hemisphere; Ivan has hit Madagascar, and is predicted to create torrential rains and ocean swells for our departure from Cape Town. Looks like I may get more storm at sea than I bargained for... (don't forget you can track our voyage on the SAS website). But first a safari!
I will be taking students to the Tutu Peace Centre in the afternoon and then will be footloose in evening (during gay pride week in Cape Town!), but with the reality check of leading a safari to Kapama River Lodge in Kruger the next morning at 7 a.m. I will be out in the bush for four days, then back Saturday night. Sunday is a free day and I have intentions of visiting the penguin colony at Boulder Bay and a winery before getting back on the ship Sunday evening.
There have been tropical cyclones (Ivan and Nicholas) of magnitude moving across the southern hemisphere; Ivan has hit Madagascar, and is predicted to create torrential rains and ocean swells for our departure from Cape Town. Looks like I may get more storm at sea than I bargained for... (don't forget you can track our voyage on the SAS website). But first a safari!
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Guess who will be in Africa?
The unwelcome news of the day for those of us on this ship is that GW Bush is visiting Africa at the same time that we will be there, making sure that anti-American sentiment will be high. His purposes -- 1) to make sure that the Africans appreciate all that American aid that brings with it the gift of "the highest American moral standards," referring to sexual abstinence as preventive medicine for AIDS; and 2) to secure a plan for an American military base, likely to be Liberia.
I am told that our internet access is about to get down to almost nil until we arrive in South Africa, so if you are expecting to hear from me and don't....
I am told that our internet access is about to get down to almost nil until we arrive in South Africa, so if you are expecting to hear from me and don't....
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Neptune Day on Very High Seas
I participated in Neptune Day initiations this morning... by letting them pour cold sea water over me, then jumping into the pool fully clothed, climbing out and kissing a big dead fish and then kissing King Neptune's ring. So, I am a sailor and it is a good thing because we are really rocking and rolling today. Doors open and close spontaneously, things jump off the shelves, and stacks of plates crashed to the floor in the dining room; kids squealing, all a bit on the wild side. Shiver me timbers!
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Beggars can be chosen
Coming out of a pricey restaurant, a boy of about thirteen, black with the top of his hair bleached blond, approached us to tie a 'wish ribbon' on our wrists. The idea is that you make three wishes and don't take the ribbon off till it disintegrates and your wishes will come true.
For the first time, I accepted a ribbon and said to him in English translated by Isabel into Portuguese, "I wish for you to become rich." Then he introduced himself, Fabiano, and said it was time for my second wish and I wished for him to have love; and for my third wish I wished happiness for him, his nearby mother, and us. He choked up a little and offered me a string of plastic beads from the many on his arm as a gift because I had spent my wishes on him. I accepted them and put them around my neck. Later, when we walked away, he followed and suggested that the beads were worthy of a donation. I started to give them back, but Isabel said not to do that because he was struggling with a conflict, that of wanting to be generous and needing to be grasping, both because it is his conditioning and his way of making a living. We compromised, giving him half of what he hoped for so that he might still honor the part of himself that wanted to make a gift, and we were all oddly satisfied with the arrangement.
Even Fabiano can afford to make a gift and his gift makes him bigger if not richer.
A very black man with shriveled legs, thin and twisted and useless, walks on his hands in sandals made for feet. He's wearing blue shorts and shirt and has a little red pack on his back. He is one of a group of physically disabled people gathered in a tourist area very near a social service agency, and he is trying to make you give him money by any means he can. He is less aggressive than the others, needless to say, but you feel the manipulation powerfully. I have to admit, I did not like his company... until his dog entered the scene. A beautiful whippet-sized white mutt with a couple of tan spots and a couple of wounds came into the plaza, saw him, and scampered tail-wagging directly for him. Reaching him she jumped and circled and wagged, then lay down and pushed her head into his hand. He petted her and got a face licking. She rolled over on her back in pleasure, he rubbed her chest, forgetting about being the most guilt inducing vision on the plaza. I took a photo (which is acceptable, not the invasion it would be in many places), knowing this might be taken as the money-making photo op. He did not notice. I took another picture and saw later that a woman of the village was stooping to put money into the pack on his back while his dog frolicked in front of him. I did not give money (I would have been instantly charged by at least a dozen beggars and it can get ugly) and I did take photos. If I had it to do over again I would find a way to give some money to this beautiful beloved set of beings who in the midst of it all, forgot it all and loved each other.
For the first time, I accepted a ribbon and said to him in English translated by Isabel into Portuguese, "I wish for you to become rich." Then he introduced himself, Fabiano, and said it was time for my second wish and I wished for him to have love; and for my third wish I wished happiness for him, his nearby mother, and us. He choked up a little and offered me a string of plastic beads from the many on his arm as a gift because I had spent my wishes on him. I accepted them and put them around my neck. Later, when we walked away, he followed and suggested that the beads were worthy of a donation. I started to give them back, but Isabel said not to do that because he was struggling with a conflict, that of wanting to be generous and needing to be grasping, both because it is his conditioning and his way of making a living. We compromised, giving him half of what he hoped for so that he might still honor the part of himself that wanted to make a gift, and we were all oddly satisfied with the arrangement.
Even Fabiano can afford to make a gift and his gift makes him bigger if not richer.
A very black man with shriveled legs, thin and twisted and useless, walks on his hands in sandals made for feet. He's wearing blue shorts and shirt and has a little red pack on his back. He is one of a group of physically disabled people gathered in a tourist area very near a social service agency, and he is trying to make you give him money by any means he can. He is less aggressive than the others, needless to say, but you feel the manipulation powerfully. I have to admit, I did not like his company... until his dog entered the scene. A beautiful whippet-sized white mutt with a couple of tan spots and a couple of wounds came into the plaza, saw him, and scampered tail-wagging directly for him. Reaching him she jumped and circled and wagged, then lay down and pushed her head into his hand. He petted her and got a face licking. She rolled over on her back in pleasure, he rubbed her chest, forgetting about being the most guilt inducing vision on the plaza. I took a photo (which is acceptable, not the invasion it would be in many places), knowing this might be taken as the money-making photo op. He did not notice. I took another picture and saw later that a woman of the village was stooping to put money into the pack on his back while his dog frolicked in front of him. I did not give money (I would have been instantly charged by at least a dozen beggars and it can get ugly) and I did take photos. If I had it to do over again I would find a way to give some money to this beautiful beloved set of beings who in the midst of it all, forgot it all and loved each other.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Sweet Trash
Sweet Trash
by Anne Benvenuti (c) 2008
Pigeons are pecking at pastries,
flaky crust and sweet guava jam.
Trash sticks to their feet,
step, peck, peck, step, and
chewing gum yuk is stuck on
a beautiful purple painting
on a crumbled cement wall.
Man in red pants with swivel hips,
Woman in yellow dress, smooth feet.
"Tudu bom?" And we are moving
to some distant drum.
Smiling eyes, soothing hands,
bright teeth, dancing, we are
dancing in the warm sun and sweating.
My wallet is gone. What happened
in Brazil? Que bom! Que bom.
by Anne Benvenuti (c) 2008
Pigeons are pecking at pastries,
flaky crust and sweet guava jam.
Trash sticks to their feet,
step, peck, peck, step, and
chewing gum yuk is stuck on
a beautiful purple painting
on a crumbled cement wall.
Man in red pants with swivel hips,
Woman in yellow dress, smooth feet.
"Tudu bom?" And we are moving
to some distant drum.
Smiling eyes, soothing hands,
bright teeth, dancing, we are
dancing in the warm sun and sweating.
My wallet is gone. What happened
in Brazil? Que bom! Que bom.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Vibrant color, warm people, sweet trash...
Every conversation I overheard in Portuguese began with “tudu bom?” then a bit of response, ending with “tudu bem,” then a bit more exchange, and then, “que bom!”
This translates, “It’s well with you?”…. “It’s good,” and “How nice!” All of this takes place to the choreography of kissed cheeks, stroked shoulders and back, and general warmth and mutual petting. I began to think this is the national affirmation practice, “it is good, it is good, it is good,” and all that oxytocin is flowing from the touch and more touch. (Isabel is working on a research study of touch and oxytocin here in Brazil; truly the place for it!) There is no lack of sexual energy in Brazil; it is everywhere and everyone gets to be sexy; you don’t have to be young and pretty. But the constant touch and direct eye contact is not about sex; it is about rampant unabashed intimacy. There is a steady diet of music, food, touch, eye contact, dance. People here are generally happy, in spite of financial corruption in so many venues, from taxis to government offices. Isabel says that life takes a lot of energy in the context of financial struggle, but the lifestyle replenishes energy, so people are well.
I arrived on Carnival in Salvador, heart of Afro-Brazil, and made my way through the Carnival madness to the airport, then to Rio de Janeiro, where Isabel picked me up and drove me to Sao Pedro de Serra, a village in the Atlantic Forest. Clouds hovered over the flower-drenched green mountains; I awakened in the morning first to a chorus of birdsong and then rooster crowing. There were so many kinds of flowers, so many colors of flowers, drenched in the golden glow of morning and evening, and decorated with the bright clear drops of rain. The people wear colorful clothes, so my bright orange and purple onya bag got me some fitting-in.
More tomorrow…
This translates, “It’s well with you?”…. “It’s good,” and “How nice!” All of this takes place to the choreography of kissed cheeks, stroked shoulders and back, and general warmth and mutual petting. I began to think this is the national affirmation practice, “it is good, it is good, it is good,” and all that oxytocin is flowing from the touch and more touch. (Isabel is working on a research study of touch and oxytocin here in Brazil; truly the place for it!) There is no lack of sexual energy in Brazil; it is everywhere and everyone gets to be sexy; you don’t have to be young and pretty. But the constant touch and direct eye contact is not about sex; it is about rampant unabashed intimacy. There is a steady diet of music, food, touch, eye contact, dance. People here are generally happy, in spite of financial corruption in so many venues, from taxis to government offices. Isabel says that life takes a lot of energy in the context of financial struggle, but the lifestyle replenishes energy, so people are well.
I arrived on Carnival in Salvador, heart of Afro-Brazil, and made my way through the Carnival madness to the airport, then to Rio de Janeiro, where Isabel picked me up and drove me to Sao Pedro de Serra, a village in the Atlantic Forest. Clouds hovered over the flower-drenched green mountains; I awakened in the morning first to a chorus of birdsong and then rooster crowing. There were so many kinds of flowers, so many colors of flowers, drenched in the golden glow of morning and evening, and decorated with the bright clear drops of rain. The people wear colorful clothes, so my bright orange and purple onya bag got me some fitting-in.
More tomorrow…
Monday, February 4, 2008
Seafaring
I have managed to learn port and starboard, deck, bridge, and aft. My cabin is on deck five, port side, and I have a private balcony. I still want to slip and say 'boat,' though it is not correct; I am on a ship. How do I know? The ship carries boats! So I wonder if I took a toy boat into my kayak, would that make it a ship?
Sunday, February 3, 2008
Getting to daily life
As GOE's would have it, I arrived in the Bahamas overtired and under-prepared for the adventure before me. So, I worked as necessary and I discovered, in retrospect, something about the necessity of rest. I slept, and slept, and slept, and I think this sleep was a gift from my new ancient mother, the ocean. I doubt she knows me, or cares, but rock she do! She has rocked me to all the sleep I needed on her great moving body these past two weeks. It was a bit frightening to have no choice but to 'let' that happen to me, a total surrender of little me to big she; I sometimes thought I would never fully awaken! But now I am both awake and deeply rested and I know that rocking is there, it is there in my memory, there in my body, and with it a qualitatively new experience of life.
So, since the blog is new, here's the edited version of what I've been up to (meaning, I know this post is a bit long, so bear with me!). Also, I'm trying and trying to add photos, and we just don't have the bandwidth on the ship. So the photos will have to come later. Yes, I know pictures are worth a thousand words. But here are the thousand words anyway!
The first hours were memorable. Waving goodbye to parents in the Bahamas, and then turning to say hello to the Caribbean while floating awkwardly down long hallways... all of us so aware of setting out on a life-changing journey, but having no idea what that would mean. We were like a thousand gentle drunks in bumper cars, engaged in something both exciting and surreal as we navigated the ship. Soon, many of us were turning green and barf bags appeared in stacks at every juncture. A young woman I'd never met came up and introduced herself and asked me to hug her because she was sick and scared; another spilled hot coffee all over herself, needing both my first aid and my shirt! Most of us have now acquired that wide-legged sailor walk, and, combined with motion sickness meds, it works.
In old San Juan, I delighted in drinking a pitcher of sangria (made with wine, rum, citrus liqueur, and a splash of juice over ice) while listening to salsa music in an open garden, this to celebrate Courtney's birthday. And I went out one night with a group of about 60 students to kayak on Bioluminescent Bay, combining two of my favorite things, bioluminescence and kayaking. I went to sleep that night steeped in beauty and the joy of that continuous paddling motion.
My days start at 5 or 5:30 if I sleep in. I make coffee from the hot water in my thermos and my French press mug, and then I do my morning spiritual practice, culminating with meditation on my balcony (yes, MY balcony!!) when weather permits. I hold my 'office hours' before my 8 a.m. class (followed by global studies, a class that all 700 students attend) and then my second class. When I get back to my cabin, it's been cleaned, my bed made, fresh towels and ice set out! (My cabin steward, Bryan, has fun arranging all the pillows and placing my stuffed piggy in creative ways--tonight she has headphones on and is sitting on the top bed pillow.) When we're in the dining rooms, we're attended by staff, such that we never carry out our own plate after a meal; to do so would be an affront. I also get my laundry washed and pressed and delivered to my room. I'm not sure I'll be able to return to normal life in which I'm the laundress and cook and cleaning staff! And working out on the treadmill is quite challenging with the sea pitching you and the machine into the air and catching you again.
One interesting difference in life on the ship is that complaining is really taboo because life simply is not convenient in all the small ways we're accustomed to controlling, so it's generally expected that you find a way to adapt--with a smile. To do otherwise would be to ostracize yourself fairly quickly. And so I learn that I really don't need to complain; what a concept! Many of us get it that complaint is so much a part of our 'customer satisfaction' culture, and we're relieved of the burden of critique; and many of us have learned how to sit and stare, or sit and trance, like cats and dogs. Work is for when you need to work, and not for anything else.
***
So, since the blog is new, here's the edited version of what I've been up to (meaning, I know this post is a bit long, so bear with me!). Also, I'm trying and trying to add photos, and we just don't have the bandwidth on the ship. So the photos will have to come later. Yes, I know pictures are worth a thousand words. But here are the thousand words anyway!
The first hours were memorable. Waving goodbye to parents in the Bahamas, and then turning to say hello to the Caribbean while floating awkwardly down long hallways... all of us so aware of setting out on a life-changing journey, but having no idea what that would mean. We were like a thousand gentle drunks in bumper cars, engaged in something both exciting and surreal as we navigated the ship. Soon, many of us were turning green and barf bags appeared in stacks at every juncture. A young woman I'd never met came up and introduced herself and asked me to hug her because she was sick and scared; another spilled hot coffee all over herself, needing both my first aid and my shirt! Most of us have now acquired that wide-legged sailor walk, and, combined with motion sickness meds, it works.
In old San Juan, I delighted in drinking a pitcher of sangria (made with wine, rum, citrus liqueur, and a splash of juice over ice) while listening to salsa music in an open garden, this to celebrate Courtney's birthday. And I went out one night with a group of about 60 students to kayak on Bioluminescent Bay, combining two of my favorite things, bioluminescence and kayaking. I went to sleep that night steeped in beauty and the joy of that continuous paddling motion.
My days start at 5 or 5:30 if I sleep in. I make coffee from the hot water in my thermos and my French press mug, and then I do my morning spiritual practice, culminating with meditation on my balcony (yes, MY balcony!!) when weather permits. I hold my 'office hours' before my 8 a.m. class (followed by global studies, a class that all 700 students attend) and then my second class. When I get back to my cabin, it's been cleaned, my bed made, fresh towels and ice set out! (My cabin steward, Bryan, has fun arranging all the pillows and placing my stuffed piggy in creative ways--tonight she has headphones on and is sitting on the top bed pillow.) When we're in the dining rooms, we're attended by staff, such that we never carry out our own plate after a meal; to do so would be an affront. I also get my laundry washed and pressed and delivered to my room. I'm not sure I'll be able to return to normal life in which I'm the laundress and cook and cleaning staff! And working out on the treadmill is quite challenging with the sea pitching you and the machine into the air and catching you again.
One interesting difference in life on the ship is that complaining is really taboo because life simply is not convenient in all the small ways we're accustomed to controlling, so it's generally expected that you find a way to adapt--with a smile. To do otherwise would be to ostracize yourself fairly quickly. And so I learn that I really don't need to complain; what a concept! Many of us get it that complaint is so much a part of our 'customer satisfaction' culture, and we're relieved of the burden of critique; and many of us have learned how to sit and stare, or sit and trance, like cats and dogs. Work is for when you need to work, and not for anything else.
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Benvenuti a Equator!
There. I'm no longer a pollywog, but a shellback. That is sailor talk for I just crossed the equator in a ship for the first time.
Not only that, but I created my first blog page within minutes of crossing, a sign of great things to come, perhaps even a photo of the equator.
Not only that, but I created my first blog page within minutes of crossing, a sign of great things to come, perhaps even a photo of the equator.
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