Locals say Saigon

April 12, 2007
1640

“…War does not make sense. War senselessly wounds everyone right down the line. A body bag fits more than just its intended corpse. Take the 58,000 American soldiers lost in Vietnam and multiply by four, five, six—and only then does one begin to realize the damage this war has done. Project outward from the two million slain Vietnamese and see, for the first time, an entire continent of loss. War, when necessary, is unspeakable. When unnecessary, it is unforgivable. It is not an occasion for heroism. It is an occasion only for survival and death. To regard war in any other way only guarantees its inevitable reappearance.” From Tom Bissell’s short story, War Wounds.

Arriving in Viet Nam was different, and more exciting, than arriving in any other port. We traveled up the Saigon River and docked in Saigon, or to be politically correct, Ho Chi Minh City. Still though, locals say Saigon. We passed other river traffic, billboards, factories and homes on the way to our port. The same river scenery was alive at night; when it got dark the port was bright with city lights and the panoramic lounge on the top floor of the Rex was visible from the seventh deck.

Motorbikes crowd the city streets and freeways—they are the preferred way to get around and everyone rides them—women in high heels, masks, hats and long gloves so the hot sun doesn’t tan their skin, whole families with two adults and three kids piled onto the bike. We even rode them to get from the port area to the heart of the city. It was only a few minutes ride but exhilarating nonetheless. I was apprehensive and didn’t want to hold on to the shoulders of the man driving the cyclo—I didn’t know him and culture seemed to awkwardly separate us—but I didn’t want to fall off of the bike, either. Around corners and through crowded intersections, if he hit the gas just a little too much the bike would scoot out from underneath us—I took a gasp of dirty air and grabbed the shoulders in front of me, this time without hesitation. Luckily I didn’t get burnt by the exhaust when I released my grasp on the poor guys shoulders—undoubtedly leaving fingerprints—and crawled off the back of the cyclo…lots of people did and for the next week had salve and bandages on their lower legs (which couldn’t have been pleasant in the heat.)

Our first day in Viet Nam I went to the Cu Chi tunnels, about a two hour drive outside of the city. Getting there was fun, we drove on highways at first and then through small villages and past lone homes on dirt roads. I wondered what this place was like forty years ago…the vegetation looks like it’s right out of a war movie, and there is a complementary feeling you get when you realize you’re in rural Vietnam, in once enemy territory, that was filled with hidden Viet Cong troops and is probably still filled today with people that were Viet Cong forces then. Lunch was traditional Vietnamese food—none of which I know the name of—about six courses and lots of fish, vegetables and rice. Once we arrived at the tunnels, we were briefed in a dark room with cement walls that shut the damp heat out. A mural sized map on the wall with built in lights signified certain points of interest within the three layered extensive tunnel system that we were about to climb through. First though, we saw booby traps used by the Viet Cong and an above ground entrance to the tunnels. Both were so well hidden that I didn’t notice them until our guide pointed them out. It looked like my 90 pound, chicken winged little brother wouldn’t fit into the tunnel that the guard proceeded to crawl down into, so I got a little worried about crawling through it myself, but luckily we crawled to a “widened” version of the old tunnels. Our section was about three feet high and a foot and a half across, although it seemed even smaller because we were underground and it was very dark. At one point I thought I was going to have an outright anxiety attack because I couldn’t see the person in front of me, but by then I had reached the end of the crawl, and the guide offered to take my picture before I climbed up the steps to the light of day. On the way back to the ship we stopped at a war memorial. It very bright, filled with flowers and graves. The same patriotism you can feel, say, at The Mall in Washington D.C. floods over you and you get a strong sense of the fact that pride is very indifferent.

That night we went to the night market outside of the Ben Thanh. We rode cyclos there, through the hot dusk air. The market inside was closing as the sun set but we wandered through part of it anyway. It smelled awful in the way one can expect foreign markets will smell awful. A scent mix of fish, rotting fruit (or maybe just durian) and dried shrimp hung in the air. Walking back outside was refreshing. Bright fluorescent lights from inside the shops flooded onto the streets and alleyways, filled mostly with semester at sea-er’s and Europeans. We browsed through rows of DVD’s, shoes, bags, clothing, jewelry, etc… all fake, but some real. “Same same, but different!” as the Vietnamese vendors would say, trying to convince us to buy anything except what we were looking for.

The next morning I was up early—6:00 am—for a day trip to the Mekong Delta, which was like a scene out of a war movie—where wounded marines are evacuated by a helicopter that lowers its line into the brown river, blowing the water outwards in a radial patter, and lifting mud-caked, lifeless bodies into the air. First we traveled from one side of the river to the other, to what seemed like a small island in the mouth of the river. We did this by a motorized boat with big red eyes painted on the front of it—round shaped eyes mean South Vietnamese, oval shaped eyes indicate the boat is from the north. We stopped there for some traditional Vietnamese music, and a tea/fruit tasting. Women in traditional dress—a slender long tunic slit to the waist and matching pants—served us mango, pineapple, watermelon and jackfruit, which is waxy, very sweet and in my opinion repulsive. We made another stop later to taste Durian candy and more tea—which was delicious and fragrant, a mix of honey, jasmine tea and juice squeezed from a kumquat. Afterwards we were shuffled into smaller boats, four to a boat, with a petite woman who was wearing a conical hat paddling for us. She hunched at the front of the vessel, balanced on the back of her calves, like a catcher, paddling long deep strokes in the muddy water and narrowly avoiding the other boats that were headed in the opposite direction. All of the people in the boats chatted with and smiled at one another. I was lucky enough to be the first in the boat, and each time the woman would make a long stride with the paddle I got a whiff of sour body odor; I quickly thought about what it would be like to shower in one of those huts?… maybe the people bathed in the river?, I wonder what the sewage is like? And then in my mind I paddled past the unpleasantness of that stream of thoughts and focused again on what was around me. We passed thick mangroves, lush plant life, small houses, huts, villages on the island, all visible from the waterway we were making our way down which was like the equivalent of a street in a neighborhood at home. How the people literally lived off of the river was marvelous—they got their food from it, they traveled by it, they even shopped from boat to boat on a floating market.

The third day in Vietnam I wandered around the city and ate some noodles (pho!). Contrary to my mother’s worries (her reaction when she saw the itinerary: My god—Ho Chi Minh City!? my dads response: Oh hell she’ll be safer there than in San Diego…) it seemed safe to go out alone. People in Viet Nam don’t seem to hold a grudge about the war. (Hear CSNY harmonizing “don’t let the past remind us of what we are not now…”) When you think about it, it’s kind of funny how we define this other country in terms of something so negative, nonetheless monumental, but yet such a short blip in the history and culture of the place. Maybe it’s easier to get over the fact that Vietnam isn’t a war, but rather a country when you are there, seeing the place for yourself. This, despite the street vendors selling all kinds of old war memorabilia… dog tags and lots of other things left over by American G.I.’s—cameras, cantines, hats and helmets. Browsing through these remains, I run my fingers over the name of a solder who is probably long gone, brushing over his religion and blood type—what does it feel like to be a name on a piece of metal? Victims of atrocious acts of war—agent orange, pink, purple or whatever other kind of chemical was dumped out of the airplane the day that person, as a child, was outside playing—are easy to spot, but only if you look carefully at everyone walking by. Some people walk with their hands, dragging their atrophied legs underneath them, folded Indian style permanently. A man whose face has literally been melted off hangs out in the same spot regularly, I saw him every day squatting with a hat upside down in his hands, chatting and joking with the passersby. I gave him my extra dong, hell that’s the least I could do, right?

That night I went back out with a friend and we got robbed (however, this does not prove that you were right, mom). It was pretty scary and disorienting. We were crossing a street, and two men on a motorbike were making a u-turn. They always tell us to walk slowly and steadily out into the traffic and the cars, buses and bikes will go around you. If you cross quickly you’ll just get hit, but if you wait for them to let you go, you’ll never get across. So, we walked slowly and steadily out into the road, and the bike got closer to us than any other had, but we kept walking, knowing they would go around us… only they didn’t… they got even closer, and pulled my friends purse off of her neck, breaking the strap and scaring the bloody piss out of us. That was when we went back to the ship.

Day four was spent in much the same way. But day five included a trip to the UPI photography exhibit, war remnants museum and a visit with a former war photographer. Our bus pulled up along side the busy highway we had been driving on and we all filed out, and through a heavy red metal gate that had to be unlocked. Through those fire red doors was an oasis—it was like I had walked into Vietnam circa 1960—an old transistor radio playing, weapons leaning against the trees, an old military jeep parked on a slab of cement. I have to admit I got a little restless, sitting on the wooden floor of a hut built in the trees; we climbed a ladder to get into the one room filled with old photographs and other odd, dusty relics. The mans dog was sitting next to me, panting and sharing its fleas with me. We (the group, not the dog and I) talked about the conflict a photographer feels when they can’t help the people they are taking pictures of, and instead choose to record the atrocities of war and death. In this ethical situation, stories are told and history is recorded, but a person’s last pained expression is also forever solidified on film, eternally taking from them the dignity dying without a shutter clicking in their face would allow. We talked about how the government is still very sensitive, censoring a lot of media and how this man would like to publish his story, but can’t. President Clinton visited this same guys house, he showed us pictures, but I was still more distracted in the hot dusty space by the dog drooling on me and rolling around, writhing on his back, in search of relief from the heat.

Next we went to the actual museum, which was full of even more pictures, all of which were very reminiscent of Time magazine covers. It’s so easy to become desensitized to such photos. In a way the glossy or matte finish blocks what was really being felt at the time and you can’t get a true sense of the situation by simply looking at the photo. I think what I took from the exhibit was really only a false sense of understanding. There was also a war love section, showcasing love letters preserved from corresponding lovers throughout the war, wedding dresses and more photos. There weren’t any stories of American soldiers and Vietnamese women, though. In a walking path that seemed out of order, after you walked by the stark photography exhibit and through the war-love room, your eyes immediately noticed a glass case with two jars inside. Both were filled with babies in jars of formaldehyde—to forever solidify in your mind what it looks like when a fetus is effected by pesticide (as if browsing through Ben Thanh hadn’t already accomplished that). So, there are three wrinkled, soft looking babies, behind two layers of glass, and a jelly layer of preservant. And, what’s creepy is you’re standing there looking at the pruney babies, and in the glass you can see your own reflection. Without a doubt that could have easily been me, or my child. And the interconnectedness of all people becomes lucidly clear. So I think, what makes people kill? We like to think we wouldn’t do that. Or, that we don’t have the capacity to kill like soldiers do. But, the truth is, those soldiers and Vietnamese forces, they were just people like me, like you. We never know what we might do under the conditions they were under. In that situation, far away from home and afraid, brainwashed, lacking an understanding of the truth, or perspective on the situation, hot, wet and hungry, how do you know what you would do when some one of higher ranking screamed “fire”?

Vietnam was groovy. As always what was most moving was feeling the complete and total sensory overload that being in a place so far away from home provides… and loving it.

Peace.

Quit Playin' Games with my Heart...

April 30, 2007
1740
Malaysia

Okay, I’m a bad person for not having blogged since India. Some of you (wink wink) have been chomping at the bit and sobbing tears waiting for me to post something! Malaysia, Viet Nam, China and now Japan are hanging in the back of my mind and weighing heavily on my conscience. Because I have a week on the water before we arrive in Honolulu, I’ve decided to take my time in making up for what I haven’t written. Between now and then I’ll cover all of the ports I’ve avoided writing about… probably every few days a new country will be added. Hopefully your interest and attention hasn’t been lost in the time between now and my last post. Hey, slow and steady wins the race.

Malaysia seems like forever ago, and fittingly so considering my neglect. We weren’t there for long… maybe four days if I even remember correctly. In Global Studies and our cultural and logistical pre-ports we were warned Malaysia would be the “most different port we visited—because of the Islamic influence.” I didn’t feel that way at all. Let’s face it, most people (including myself before having been there) don’t really know where Malaysia is, let alone anything about it. I wish I would have been allowed to gather and form my own opinion about the Islamic influence in Malaysia without having an already formulated one shoved down my throat like a bottle in a calf’s mouth. Perhaps instead of spending time on such uselessness, our time before arriving in Malaysia would have been better spent talking about more relevant things. I don’t feel confidently enough to have any kind of conversation about the politics, religion, or economy of the country. I know lots of people ride motorbikes and Durian fruit smells like a gas leak…but, all in all, Penang was another Port Louis—ambiguous and not so moving as say, South Africa or India. I took advantage of the beautiful island scenery and relaxed; instead of exhausting myself with service visits and tours I went to Langkawi Island, about three hours—by ferry—off the coast of Penang.

We rented a chalet on the beach and basked in the sun for most of our time there. Running out of Ringetts one day at lunch afforded us the opportunity to drive through the island—on our way to the airport (and the closest ATM)—we saw water buffalo and rice paddies, although the cab driver wasn’t very talkative. Those forewarnings about Islamic influence being prevalent and bizarre crossed my mind, but then again, some people are just quiet individuals, to hell with stereotypes. I will say, however, in my self-effacing opinion, the fact that the backstreet boys were omnipresent was far more peculiar than the headscarves and extra personal space. As most of you probably know, I think religion in and of itself is bizarre, and as for the boy-bands…. well, to each their own.

After arriving on Langkawi Island, we checked into a wooden chalet on the beach—for the hefty price of fifteen dollars a person—and made friends with the kittens outside on the porch before walking down to the water. That evening, we walked around the beach town, and checked out some shops and an internet café. Walking past a massage parlor, the skies opened up and started to pour sticky night rain. We ended up getting a pedicure by a girl on a motorbike who showed up only seconds after we had taken refuge under the awning of the building. The thatching of the walls and roof leaked on us as our feet soaked and while it was all very hurried, it was pretty fun (for those of you wondering, I picked a bright coral color). That night I fell asleep to the sound of waves crashing only feet from our doorway.

The next morning we spent a few hours on the beach before getting back on the ferry to return to Penang. We were attacked by crabs that mysteriously jumped out of the sand at my orange toes as I walked from the water (which was really very warm, but then again, not too warm in comparison to the blazing sun) back to my spot in the hot dry sand—where there were no crazy crabs. The locals laughed with us at the ludicrousness of us jumping from foot to foot while trying to move forward and out of the “crab-zone.” I got a pretty cool shell ring and that was Langkawi Island.

Back in Penang the next day, our last in Malaysia, we decided it would be a good idea to take the funicular railway up Penang Hill—it was not. The scenery was actually quite drab, with fake lawn-ornament type animal statues oddly placed amongst shrubs, and the ride up was very close and stuffy. We rode in the same car as two monks—and as more people crowded in I started to have an anxiety attack about how culturally inappropriate it was that I was basically sitting on their laps. I had flashbacks to pg. 48 of Lonely Planet’s “do’s and don’ts”. It was pretty clearly stated women weren’t supposed to touch, make direct eye contact with, or directly hand anything to a monk. After that awkwardness had passed and we got to the top of the not so spectacular Penang Hill, we immediately took the next car back to the bottom, bought a Coke and had a taxi take us to the mall. The ship left that night. Our next port-of-call was Viet Nam, which I am as excited to write about as I was excited to experience.

We jumped into Asia via Malaysia, and I think I had prepared myself to be very taken aback by Asian culture, because it seems the furthest away from my own…now that my voyage is winding down, and basically over—although I still have so much to tell you about—and I have seen more of Asia, I’ll share a quick thought that is probably not so profound—people are people everywhere.

-Lydia.

It's Getting Better all the Time

INDIA.
1430
March 31, 2007

Namaste! After having been in India for five days, we are once again on the open sea (though soon to be in Malaysia). Our ship docked in Chennai, situated on the western side of the tip of India, in the state of Tamil Nadu. That first day I visited a Dalit Village for a service project—painting a school. Walking off the gangway, smog touched my lungs and soot touched my feet. Hot Indian air surrounded me sooner than the mob of rickshaw drivers did. The bureaucracy of the country was apparent as we presented various documents to the security guards in maroon berets who were stationed outside the ship. After a short bus ride to the periphery of the city, we got out of the elephant that was our tour bus and were immediately welcomed by a band playing a horn instrumental, teenage girls adorning us with necklaces made of fresh jasmine—the color of cream—and pinning roses in our hair. As we proceeded through the village, a sea of little hands grabbed upwards towards us. The “untouchables” skin touched my own as glowing white smiles excitedly appreciated our presence.

People stood in the doorways of their thatched roof homes, came into the street, held their babies out to us. Saris against the dirt road and the jingle of anklets in the dust drew my attention to women gathered around a water pump. They filled bright vessels as blonde roosters pecked at the ground around their feet. We found the schools meeting hall and were ushered inside as the crowd around us was filtered out of the door by more maroon berets. After being officially welcomed by the headmistress and performed for by a woman—who was really a man, perhaps a hijra—in orange and gold, we were given sandpaper and paintbrushes. The afternoon was spent giving butter cream yellow walls and black fences a new coat of paint. I could see from where I was painting onto the streets and alleyways below—none of the people had returned back to their daily activities—they were all waiting for a glimpse in their direction from any of us. They lingered until we left; adults craning their necks, little kids jumping up and down, waving. After the days work, the jasmine around my neck was more the color of cream soda, having been wilted by sun and sweat.

We got taken the next day, by rickshaw drivers with swagger, into the heart of Chennai. They adamantly insisted upon us visiting their “cousin’s store,” telling us wherever we wanted to go was closed for “lunch.” We weaved in and out of other rickshaws, bicycles, cars, buses, trucks and saris on motorbikes; we passed unimaginable sights and smells that flooded my mind, drowning out even the blaring horn of our rickshaw. Riding parallel to a buses wheel, in a rickshaw as yellow as a new no. 2 pencil, and as small as a riding lawnmower, I saw people seemingly strewn in the middle of the hot sidewalk, fast asleep, and toddlers wandering under bridges, surrounded by stray dogs and in some cases, cows. With such visual imagery the thoughts “how did that man just decided to lay down in that very spot next to the street to sleep?” and “does that little baby have a mum, does he even have a future?” cannot help but present themselves.

We finally arrived in T. Nagar—a shopping district in Chennai. I bought silk scarves—one for an aunt, one for a grandma—and a sari. I bought a ruby for myself and a white sapphire for a friend. Some of the stores were several stories high—all of their walls stacked with exotic beading and fine colors, Kanchepuraam silk and cashmere pashminas. Despite the palatial marble floors and glass cases filled with fabric—the noise and heat of the outside world never really stopped distracting me. I may have been looking at a garment or a jewel, but my mind was endlessly preoccupied with the fast paced, dense culture of poverty outside, where women, short and thin, held their sleeping babies, pointing to their mouths and pleading with their eyes.

With what I had seen earlier that day sliding around the back of my mind, I departed that evening by train to southwestern Tamil Nadu—to a home stay in Erode. The train station itself was a huge brick-red building with high ceilings, people sleeping on the floors and huddled against the walls. What looked like and could have been the same dogs from earlier, still wandered around. A woman’s sari brushed against my arm and as my visual and olfactory senses were so exhausted, I was reminded again by touch that I was in India. Even the word seems so exotic that I perhaps thought it would never be real.

Organized chaos lent itself to us as we boarded our train. Past the squat toilet and endless cabins that weren’t mine, I found a spot and settled next to a window. Only a curtain separated me from anyone else in the train that came and went throughout the night. I watched out the window as we started to slowly roll, and acquainted myself with the other students on the trip, wondering if they were processing things the same way I was. We played cards, a friendly guard checked in on us, inspecting the red and black deck. As I put my bunk down that night, falling asleep against a pillow that smelled like Chennai, I was reminded of family vacations that were half a world away, but considering so, didn’t feel so distant, even if I had seemingly outgrown them. I slept that night, with my L.L. Bean backpack tangled around my legs so no stray hands would find themselves inside my curtain, searching for loose belongings.

The next morning we arrived at five a.m., the light of morning was so fresh it was still dark and fires dotted the landscape of rural India. We went by bus to our hosts home, a beautiful 300 year old lavender and periwinkle establishment that covered an acre of land itself. We slid off our shoes outside and walked into the entranceway, through antique doors and underneath netting that separated us from the open air of the sky. Spatial patterns that translate into thoughts were drawn on the floors in chalky white paint. Mango leaves and lemons hung over each doorway to absorb negative energy and provide a blessing. Breakfast was served on the lanai; we drank the sweetest coffee and tea, from the plantation of a relative.

Afterwards we toured the family’s farm, surrounding factories and a school. The nutmeg trees smelled hot, even though it was not yet eight in the morning. Tik and coconut trees lined the landscape, provided water by a newly installed drip irrigation system that conserves water by allowing only the minimum amount of water needed, to be delivered drop by drop to each individual tree. Considering the state of the perpetual water crisis in India, the government offers a 30% subsidy on drip irrigation.

Our next stop was to a sugar processing plant, where a small village seemed to work eternally, harvesting sugarcane, crushing it, reducing it and rolling it to dry into brown sugar. Inside the low hut that was the “factory,” steam rolling off of the massive vat of hot sugar made the temperature and humidity nauseating. I am still unsure of how the human body can handle such temperatures. A man stirred a stewing batch of liquid as women squatted over the same product in a different stage, rolling and pounding the sugar into round balls with their bare, calloused hands.

Next we visited a school. Poor attendance was no issue there, because the children are given breakfast, lunch and a snack. The parents send their kids to school instead of having them work simply because of this. We showed the kids U.S. dollars, how we wrote our name—in return, they graciously showed us how they wrote theirs— and let them play with our cameras. The sun rose to the top of the sky and we returned back to our home for the day, for a spicy lunch. We ate red bananas, tortilla type bread dipped in coconut chutney, stew and rice cakes, all with our fingers and off of a palm leaf, accompanied by mango soda. Naptime for most followed, but I couldn’t stand to close my eyes, knowing I didn’t have much time in this new place. Instead I rested my feet on a red and white woven footstool that contrasted beautifully against the cool colors of the house, even more beautifully against dark Indian skin, and talked to our hosts. As a perk for not dozing off, I got a tour of the house, I met the servants and the cook’s kids—a little boy and his older sister, who had skipped school that day and were dressed neatly with their hair combed, the girls braided with flowers, for us. “How old are you?” was mistaken for “How are you?” and they both say “I aaam fine” with smiles so wide they suggested being more than fine.

In the late afternoon we visited the local market, filled with fresh flowers, produce, and white oxen—some with painted horns, one red, and one green—pulling wagons. That evening we ate dinner and listened to some men from the village drum while they danced. The bright red-orange sun dropped in the sky like a bindi on the forehead of India. I brushed my teeth with a twig off of a neem tree and fell asleep to peacocks meowing.

Awake early the next morning, it was noticeably refreshing to sleep on a mat, and not be surrounded by mirrors, noise or showers. We once again indulged on tea that was too sweet, said goodbye to our host family and departed for a school that would serve as our new host for that day, serving us breakfast lunch and dinner. After being welcomed there, we visited several temples, where people were bathing, gathering for ceremonies (we saw a wedding!) and having what seemed like picnics. They were bright places of worship—laid out in a campus like setting and filled with bright pinks, yellows, blues and reds that once again popped against the dark skin of the people.

After lunch and a little bit of down time back at the school, we visited a disabled children’s home. I was nervous and apprehensive of what emotion might well into my eyes. Were these kids ostracized in the villages they came from, did they see their families, or were they abandoned? Why did the teachers and nurses that worked at the school keep calling them “inmates”? These questions danced around my brain. Crutches leaned against the wall outside the room where they awaited us. I thought about bits and pieces of stories I have heard about my own dad’s childhood. How the kids with polio were separated from the kids with CP--something noticable here as well. Sometimes we are so quick to make assumptions based on fallacy. I recognized and accepted that regardless of where and what I come from, I still make hurtful assumptions as well, and that everybody has to work against falling into the path of least resistance, and believing what we are socialized to. Stereotypes happen; it’s identifying our prejudices and intercepting them that is important.

As collected as possible, I walked into that room filled with warm energy. Despite the welcome, I was shocked. Never before have I seen kids with drop foot from polio (the vaccination that we take for granted was only introduced in India as recently as 2001)—something I thought was a relic of my parents, aunts and uncles generations—or children who are paralyzed from the waste down dragging themselves along as quickly as their arms will move them so they can line up to welcome us. Never before have I seen kids that were so excited for a group of discombobbled Americans to sing and dance, if you can even call it that, the hokey-pokey.

They performed for us, too—martial arts and traditional Indian dance. Most vividly—something I will remember for the rest of my life—they sang to us. First, the song “it’s getting better all the time” and then they sang us a prayer. I didn’t understand a single word they said as their little voices sang in Tamil and bounced off the walls, drifting out the open windows. It was the promise they sang with, the trust someone was hearing their prayer, and that it would be answered. My eyes were watering, and my ears were stinging but I focused on the outline of one little girls face, and watched her the whole time she was singing. He face was full of expression, her eyes having a hard time staying shut as she smiled and sang unashamedly, feeling the words that came out of her mouth.

Soon enough we were back on the train and I was drifting off to the car swaying over the tracks. 5 a.m. came even sooner, and then we were back in Chennai for another full day of the city before departing.

In just a few hours we will be in Malaysia, but I am not done absorbing India. I can still smell the city; I can still smell the incense from our evening in Erode. I can still hear those little voices and see the eyes of the woman begging with her baby in her arms. I feel the “untouchables” touch me and I can still feel that sari brush against my skin. They say India will move from the list of developing countries to the list of developed countries within the next 35 years. I believe this not because of what is apparent upon first examination; upon first examination I felt wonder, but certainly not optimism. I believe this because what counts is that “it’s getting better all the time.”

Until next time.

-Lydia

Mauritius and South Africa

March 23, 2007 (Happy 15th Birthday, little brother!)
1600


Hellooo all! Once again, sorry for my tardiness, things tend to come up when you’re circumnavigating the globe—I’m going to hit two ports with one post, so read on!

Mauritius May be Mark Twain’s Heaven, but It’s not Mine…

We are two days back from Mauritius and on our way to Chennai, India (some one thousand miles to go!) Mauritius was scheduled to be a short stay—three days and two nights—and was particularly brief after having arrived late due to rough seas. I didn’t care for the island...when we docked it was next to a molasses plant which filled the air with an odor that smelled like spilt sugar on the hot coil of a stove. To get to the main part of the city we had to take a water-ferry but the shops and restaurants seemed eerily odd and business slow. What isn’t a beach or a city seems to be a sugar cane field.

We roamed around Port Louis’ marketplace, which was close and hot. Most of the things being sold—aside from produce—seemed to have come from India. The fruits and vegetables were abundant, though, and provided an interesting backdrop to the social interactions that were happening everywhere. The buildings seemed unkempt and the sidewalks were narrow and dirty. Everything being sold on them seemed to be counterfeit. I didn’t feel welcome; I felt like I stood out and was being followed by seedy and skeptical eyes.

For one night we rented a villa on the beach at Grand Bay, and getting away from the hustle and bustle of Port Louis was much needed. The beach was beautiful, the Indian Ocean a clear green color. Our dinner and breakfast were included in the price of the villa—a cheap sixty dollars—and were served on a bamboo-curtain enclosed porch. The food was colorful and spicy, exposing the Indian influence in Mauritius’ Creole culture. We lounged at the beach for a full day; I even ate a whole pineapple, its skin artfully and decoratively cut off in front of me to reveal a pattern in the flesh of the fruit. That night a group of us went out and I was painfully aware of my surroundings; while I didn’t have a hard time cutting loose in South Africa and Brazil when we went out, I felt strangely in Mauritius.

It was good to just take some time to relax, I didn’t do any SAS sponsored trips—which I felt guilty about skipping out on some service opportunities—but I figured it didn’t hurt to relax a little before the final and most strenuous leg of the voyage. Hopefully my senses will be a little more relaxed and my mind more open for our arrival in India. Chennai is the port I was most excited for, although now I think I am really looking forward to Vietnam, China and Japan.

“Till you get there yourself you never really know…the drone of ship engines is a song so wild and blue it scrambles time and seasons if it gets through to you… and your life becomes a travelogue full of picture postcard shrines…people will tell you where they’ve gone, they’ll tell you where to go, and while some have found their paradise….till you get there yourself you never really know.”

The Sun Shines in Khayelitsha…

South Africa was marvelous. As I sit here writing to you, with Joni Mitchell crooning in the background, it seems at the same time like years ago and yet just yesterday I was on that continent. After a turbulent night at sea we arrived on March 2nd—and pulled into port while the sun was rising over Table Mountain. The black outline of the mountains in the foreground, with a lavender-orange glow sunrise behind them was a great way to come into the idea of being in AFRICA! We docked at the Victoria and Alfred waterfront, which is disgustingly ritzy and obviously forged, with its five star hotels, restaurants and shopping malls and even a few photo-shoots happening here and there. Though, I did catch some good live South African Jazz there…

That day I visited Khayelitsha—a well known township in South Africa. Juxtaposed to the waterfront or even downtown Cape Town, Khayelitsha is personable and warm. Along the highway kids play soccer and cricket. Literally driving just ten or fifteen minutes away from the waterfront or the well known convention center will offer you a glimpse into a hairdressers shanty business, with grease, combs and hairdryers reflected through the open doorway by the mirror in front of which stands a woman combing another’s hair. Driving into the township there are cash stores on every corner, women with babies tied to their backs and carrying water on their heads. Goats heads fly-covered and for sale at a market stand, corn being husked, tires and furniture for sale along the road, school children in uniforms.

Not all of the township homes are in shanty towns, there are government subsidized homes built from cinderblocks with gates surrounding small front yards—the square buildings are painted coral pink, cornflower blue, sunshine yellow, and some an unobtrusive cream color. We stopped at the Khayelitsha Craft Market and were welcomed with Bill Withers “Ain’t No Sunshine” and Marley’s “No Woman No Cry,” performed by a group called Marimba. There were beads for sale, burnished pottery and miniature tin safari animals made from recycled cans—a worn Coca Cola Elephant, a Grape Lion, a 7-up Cape Buffalo.

We had the chance to interact with some local kids, who surrounded us as we got off of our tour bus. It was overwhelming to have the statistic 4 out of 10 in the back of my mind. Never would I visit a neighborhood in the States and be reminded of AIDS when I looked at the faces of the children. I had brought some stickers with me—a sheet of SAS stickers and a couple sheets of alligator stickers (go gators!)—and didn’t realize right away that they were so popular only because of the brand Lacoste. Most of the stickers the kids put on their hands or their foreheads, but as they pushed each other out of they way and shouted “lacoste” putting the gators on the left side of their shirt, just below the lapel, the irony of globalization was friendly. One little girl was particularly memorable—she had beautiful long braids which I was admiring when she came up to me and started playing with my blonde hair—which she must have equally admired.

On the same visit I got to talk to some women at the Pilani Centre, which is a grassroots organization that trains mothers to work with other mothers against malnutrition and HIV/AIDS. It was a tidy complex of soft sunshine colored buildings, open windows with floral print curtains where women gather to become educated about issues that affect women and children within the community. The criterion for becoming an outreach worker for the organization is that you have to have successfully raised healthy and happy children. There was a playground for their children, a neatly trimmed courtyard, a garden and even a shop where they sold handcrafted goods, like tapestries with social awareness messages literally woven into the fabric.
The trip ended with tea and biscuits at a B&B—called Kopanong—in the township, where I got to try ginger beer (very spicy but cool and refreshing!) and learn about Bed and Breakfasts as vehicles for awareness and employment.

Early the next morning I had a trip to Cape Peninsula and Cape Point, which is marketed as the southern most tip of Africa, though I think the actual title goes to Cape Agulhas. Of course it rained the whole day, so I was soaked to my underwear, but the drive was beautiful. The road wound precariously up and around steep cliffs with either the Atlantic or Indian Ocean crashing below. I experienced the “floral kingdom” of fynbos, saw baboons and even penguins—supposedly one day four just showed up to the cape and a million penguins later, the rest is history. The trip was nice but not nearly far-out enough for my taste, and still intrigued by Khayelitsha I decided to return again the next day with an independent group of SAS students.

We met up with a non profit group called Africa Jam—an organization that arranges after school programs—two of the program leaders showed us around. Winston and Lloyd took us to a sandwich shop in the colored part of Cape Town, where we all shared a few Gatsby’s—a huge sub (which I thought was similar to a good old Primanti Bros.) with French fries in between the bun. We also tasted beer in the township, which was surreal—we were a group of eight uneasy Americans sitting shoulder to shoulder in a woman’s living room that was probably not as big as ten square feet. The Bold and the Beautiful was playing on her TV—go figure—and the bar she owns seemed more like an extension of her home. We didn’t go into it but despite the open door it looked dark and close. With yellow paint on her face, she poured some beer into a tin can (like economy tomato paste size) for us to taste. Once I got past the aftertaste from the metal, it really just tasted like sour water, not alcohol brewed from the corn garden in her side yard. However, the most important and mind shifting part of this second visit was going to the after school program that Winston and Lloyd led.

The building where the group met was a community building made of whatever could be found—sheets of corrugated metal, plywood, cardboard, held up in the middle by a single post, with a few milk crates providing seating. Light filtered in from the gaps between materials, making visible dust particles in the air. A group of maybe fifty school aged kids greeted us and we were partnered off for a tour of the township. As we congregated a girl my age slipped in the door late, and I turned to smile at her. When we were told to go she grabbed my arm and said she wanted me to be her partner.

This sounds like an okay situation to anyone reading this, but in the moment it was far more intense. We had been warned constantly about not going into the townships alone and after being in culture shock from the visual stimulation of Khayelitsha, it was frightening to just walk off through the streets with someone you didn’t really know. Still uneasy, even with Siphokazi’s arm wrapped cordially around mine, I saw where she lived, with her grandma and little sister, where they bought their groceries, where she went for a piece of candy, where her friends lived. She told me her favorite color, subject, music artist, and that she wanted to go to college but it was too expensive (2,000 American dollars). She told me her little sister was six and her mom lived away from them because of work. I met her grandma and sister, who was drawing on scrap paper. I gave her a drawing tablet, colored pencils and sharpener, which I had brought to give to the kids but had been too hesitant to pull out of my bag and hand out earlier. She taught me how to say “how are you Gran,” in Cosa, for when I met her grandmother: unjani mokulu. The way she clicked her tongue was foreign and intriguing.

She bought me a lollypop and continued to wrap her arm around mine as we strolled back to the rest of the group. We played games in a circle—mind stimulating, shyness slaughtering games. I didn’t realize how completely uncomfortable I was, despite being warmly welcomed, until we were called on to participate in the singing, dancing and acting. I was shy but they were fearless. Topics came up in improve such as alcoholism, family issues and AIDS. As they danced for us I took in the sound of feet stomping on the ground, bodies moving, laughing, Cosa clicking. Smaller children gathered outside the door and peeked in. We ended holding each others hands in prayer, and being next to the doorway I took the hand of a little boy from outside, closing my eyes to solidify forever what I had just experienced as part of my minds memory.

The next morning, bright and early I was scheduled to climb Table Mountain with the former Mayor of Cape Town. Thank God the Cape Doctor was too strong and wind advisories had shut down the cable cars that run up and down the mountain, so our trip was revised and we hiked Devils Peak, instead. Not that this was easy, either, the former Mayor almost had to carry me up the peak. When it was all over my legs were shaking so badly I could hardly stand. Nothing like some refreshing physical activity! Luckily I got to nap on the boat ride to Robben Island, where Nelson Mandela and countless others were held as political prisoners since Dutch Colonial rule (and through apartheid). We took a tour of the Island, which was led by a former prisoner.

That evening our friends from Khayelitsha met us at the waterfront and we took them out to dinner before returning to Khayelitsha for a sleepover. The taxi back was expensive because no one wanted to drive through the township at night. The woman finally agreed to drive us took the taxi sign off the top of her old Mercedes and charged five times what it normally would have cost during the day. It was good to sleep in a real house and be off of the ship. We visited with Siphokazi’s friends and family and watched tv before going to bed. All of our friends from before were happy to see us again and it was nice to come back, too. The next morning we walked to the cash store and bought eggs, milk and bread. Gran made us scrambled eggs for breakfast and we got to experience the township in the early morning, when the sun was new in the sky, the air still cool and the streets still quiet.

On our walk to the store neighbors were scrubbing the street, which I didn’t think anything of at first. A few minutes later my mind returned to the thought and I asked Siphokazi what they were doing. Someone was stabbed the night before, the night we arrived. They were scrubbing the blood off of the street. We hung out that day and showed up to the after school program again, to the surprise of Winston and Lloyd, who were also happy to see us again. They had brought another group of students back that day and it was interesting to be part of the group, and not new to the situation. This time I wasn’t uncomfortable singing and playing games—things weren’t so foreign or scary. A tangled web of taxis and crowded fifteen passenger vans blasting pulsating techno/rap and swerving down the highway got us back just in time for on ship time. We told our new friends goodbye and were soon on the open sea again, with Table Mountain once again in the distance.

We'll be to India in just two days, where I'll be doing a homestay in Erode for three days as well as some service work in dalit villages. My secret (not so secret, now) ambition is to buy myself the ultimate souvenir--a ruby!

Until next time....

Peace Love

Carnavel is like the Clearfield County Fair...

February 28, 2007
0830

Apologies for not having posted this sooner—I got lazy/sick/busy with schoolwork and inaction got the best of me. Brazil was amazing, another reason for the delay—I didn’t even know where to begin!

We docked in Salvador and Carnavel began the day we arrived. We went out that night and discovered the beer—Skol was real cheap… 2 reals for a pounder—no pun intended—which translates to about one US dollar. We watched Capeoira, an Afro-Brazilian martial art, which was happening in just about every square, circle and plaza. Formed for the purpose of self-defense and disguised as a dance, so that slave owners wouldn’t forbid it, the sport is very popular. The same is true of Candomble; Orixas were renamed to assimilate catholic saints into the voodoo practice. Salvador has a lot of African influence, as is apparent through not only Capeoira and Candomble, but Carnavel, too…

Carnavel is a celebration of lent, and all of the classes and races come together for the purpose of the party. The best way I can describe Carnavel is as the lovechild of Halloween and the Clearfield County Fair, amplified times ten million. The streets are blocked off and literally filled with over 2 million people—dancing, with rhythm that I’ll never know, singing and jumping around like crazed maniacs. So, obviously, I loved it. People dress up like different Orixas, in drag and just in general. Even little kids dress up like clowns, animals and Orixas. Huge trucks move at an elephants pace down the cobblestone streets, blasting music from whatever band or performer is on top of them. The areas around them—blocos—are blocked off and people with the band dance inside the ropes. If you’re lucky, you’ll get a spot just behind the rope—they tend to not be as crowded as in between two blocos. It’s amazing how the people stay out all night long—literally the party continues from noon (really picking up in early evening, at five or sixish) to seven a.m. The energy is ridiculous, when they say this is the biggest party in the world, they aren’t kidding.

If the street is too much for you to handle, there are a few options, one is don’t go out (boo), because you’ll have a panic attack. Or, you can buy tickets to a camarote, which is like a viewing booth above the street, which we did one night. Or, find a side stage, which we also did a few times—they tend to be a little less hectic—the crowd is more family oriented and in general less raunchy. Usually we would take the elevator up to Pelourinho, which is a district of Salvador, find a side stage for a few hours, drink a little, and then proceed to go out into the parade, getting trampled and groped and loving every minute of it! The camarote was fun, too. You get a bright colored shirt and have access to a bar and food court. The parade is played on a big screen as you watch it from above the street, too. There are security guards and not as many people, so you can relax a little and not worry about your money belt getting snatched from underneath your souvenir t-shirt.

Moving away from the energy of Carnavel, I went on a city tour and saw the favielas, which were amazing and in their own way so full of life. The facades of the houses are bright. There are people on the sidewalks—laughing, hanging out—listening to music as colorful as the houses, fast and loud. Each little neighborhood has its own butcher, with hunks of raw meat hanging in the doorway, its own fruit market, its own bar, its own garage. They are relatively self-sustaining, albeit crowded. Favielas are technically illegal, so after they are established the government comes in to provide sewage and water (electricity comes in sooner—private contractors). But, when they start as a small outcropping of a few families moving in from a more rural area, they are very basic. Called “invasions” by Brazilians, they are built from the inside out. The façade is the last part to be erected. There are no real roads through the favielas. Instead, there are steep and winding dirt and stone alleyways that sweep underneath clotheslines and past kids sitting on steps or playing soccer.

People migrate to the city in search of a better life—and are then reduced to living in the slums, because it’s what they can afford. And, while it looks like a destitute lifestyle, like I mentioned before, it’s actually bright and lively, they have a better life together in the slums than isolated in the countryside. The current political issue surrounding land distribution is tri-fold. Landless workers are using slash and burn techniques to clear new farm lands, decimating the Amazon, because rich landowners—30% of the farmable land is being unused—refuse to distribute their land. The other party involved is the native tribes of the Amazon, whose homes are being destroyed during the forest clearing.

I got to visit an MST settlement, to talk with the Landless Workers Movement, on a trip to Cachoeira. They have such a true sense of justice and life. For instance, the MST land pastoral states basically that every single Brazilian has the right to raise their family off of the land. No one in MST village’s goes hungry, education is mandatory, so is participation by women. When we first arrived, kids hesitantly peeked out from doorways at us, but it wasn’t soon before they were following us around handing us flowers. We were welcomed into a woman’s home—Donna Bebia, who showed us coca fruit, how she made cocoa powder and chocolate products from it. Mules, horses and cows were tied up to graze around while their owners stopped in the bar for a quick drink and some conversation. This visit provided just a quick glimpse of real life in the settlement, and then we were off.

The actual town of Cachoeira is in a steep valley, alongside the Paraguacu River. Getting to all of these places was a far-out experience in and of itself—the roads, which some of were major highways, are narrow—flanked on each side by sprawling bamboo, sugarcane and in some cases just scrub. They wind precariously through farmland and dive bravely into valleys and over hills. Cachoeira was slow—everyone was on vacation for Carnavel, so shops were closed. Likewise, because of the sweltering heat most people don’t start hopping around town until around four in the afternoon. Even the dogs wandering around town were sluggishly panting. The houses were vivid and bright as well, with spiraled wrought iron balconettes and intricately designed doors. We stopped for lunch in an old convent, and ate outside in the breezeway—at a long row of old wooden tables, with heavy chairs and beautiful white and sapphire lace table coverings.

As we arrived, driving through all of these places in a huge orange tour bus—which people could see in, I felt guilty. It is with the best intentions we want to peer inside these peoples lives. But, sometimes I just feel we are so intrusive. At one point I almost cried out of embarrassment, because some of my peers are so painfully unaware. What does it say about our views and perceptions of others when it is no big deal to snap a picture of another person without their permission, as if they exist simply and only for our viewing enjoyment, like a statue, a tree, an inanimate object? This behavior lends itself to the awful stereotype that we are.

I was unsure of what to expect of Brazil. Never being here I had only a stereotype of what it was like. Don’t make the same mistake I did, picturing in your mind an image of a beachscape in Rio, taken from a documentary on the worlds “ten best beaches” on the Travel Channel. That’s not Brazil—not that I’m proclaiming myself an expert on the state. Brazil is a huge country, with diverse cultural influences. It has farmlands and beaches; it has scrubby plateaus and the Amazon. Some people live in mud houses. Others live in the favielas, some in high-rises, still others—though just a small percentage, live in estates only to be reached by helicopter. Brazil is a country that has one of the biggest disparities between the rich and the poor. It is also a leader in environmentally friendly fuel and some social issues. There are all women’s police barracks, strong public schools. Rich culture from the days of Portuguese colonialism and emergent black pride create a distinct Brazilian culture.

In a quick conversation I shared with a Brazilian who had studied in the United States, and come back to Brazil to start a business, I had a revelation. He asked me if I liked Brazil, I told him “Yeah! I could live here!” Our cheap but polite conversation ended with him saying “You know, once you are an America, you are always an American” shaking his head in a disapproving way. I danced off into the crowd, moving on to a fast paced night. In reflection, though, I beg to differ and dare to think. I am not “stuck” with any limits but those which I place on myself. What I think he was saying is that Americans have a distinctly American way of seeing the world—a paradigm influenced by our world-order-top-dog status. I have realized, and can appreciate, being on top is not the best. In so many different ways being “below” (what I’ve been socialized to think is the standard) opens many more possibilities for exploration.

South Africa in 2 days.

Peace Love.

Two Guys with Guitars in a Beat-up Buick....

February 16, 2007
1953


Two Guys with Guitars in a Beat-up Buick…

Supposedly this is how one of the trios of carnival began. Guess who the third member was? The driver.

Anyway, if I forgot to mention it we crossed the equator a few days ago. Today I was out on the seventh deck, trying to get some color, and never in my life have I felt such sweltering heat. There was not a breeze in sight and it literally felt like the sun’s rays were burning my finger and toenails off. With that said, tomorrow we will be in Salvador, Bahia, Brazil. Hopefully there will at least be a breeze moving around.

My plans for Brazil include going to Cachoeira to talk with the landless workers, partaking in Carnival celebrations in Salvador (the second biggest part, next to only Rio), Bicycling in Pitaucu Park (for my sustainable communities class) and going to the North coast of Bahia in search of a supposed hippie village, the beach and some groovy handcrafted items.

We have logistical pre-port in a few minutes, where the staff will hopefully (for everyone else’s sake) inform us about the dangers of drinking alcohol after being in the sun all day and then partying in the streets and alleyways of a foreign country. Some of these kids are dumb. Mr. Bob is playing his guitar for us, gotta run!

FYI I will also be purchasing a phone card, hopefully sometime tomorrow, so keep your phone lines open!

Nothing important, just some shipboard gossip...

February 12, 2007
0835

Exciting news: Today I received a packet of letters from a third grade class in Pittsburgh (this is a good time to reflect: have you sent me mail???). As part of the Vicarious Voyage program I am going to correspond with them over the course of the semester, sending them a packet of information about each of our ports. Puerto Rico’s packet will be sent out in two days, including a miniature Puerto Rican flag, a map of the island, the front page from a newspaper, a post card, some information about me (and SAS), and one interesting fact about Puerto Rico for each of the students to share with their classmates. One letter reads: “It is my dream to go to Australia and China”, another: “My grandparents live in Chennai.” Most mention that it was snowing when they wrote their letters and the majority ask “what is it like to live on a boat, what is it like to go around the world?” I don’t think I’ve quite figured that out myself, but the enthusiasm is welcome…so is the fresh and simple perspective these kids radiate, apparent by just reading their charming letters! Nothing like a group of twenty-some eight and nine year olds to keep me humbled.

In other news: I am a few hundred miles off the coast of Brazil, traveling southward in the Atlantic Ocean, towards Salvador, Bahia. Our current speed is 17.8 knots and the seas are choppy. It is dark now, but earlier the skies were overcast and it was raining sporadically. I would also like to add, as a fact, that the ship rocks more during my Climates and Vegetation of the World class, thus making it hard to stay awake for such interesting discussions of cumulonimbus clouds, the very clouds which I later found to hamper my tanning time. For any of you concerned about my academic performance, I happen to have quite the advantage after taking PoliSci 245 last semester (and any class at Allegheny, for that matter), and don’t worry, I read while I’m laying in the sun! As is quite obvious, I’m rambling on, and I want to catch “Boyz in the Hood” (being shown later tonight on our closed-circuit television system) so I would be well advised to go do some work.

Love you all, miss most of you.