Food Poisoning and Serentity in India

As the ship approaches India everything on decks 5 and 6 gets wrapped in plastic, and anything in the close quarters of the gangway is shrink wrapped and covered in cardboard in anticipation of the onslaught. As each nautical mile carried us closer to the epicenter of humanity, the MV Explorer prepared. The crew and ship braced themselves by wrapping the ship in plastic as protection and the faculty and staff attempted to prepare and brace our hearts for what we were about to embark on.

Nothing can prepare you for India.
Nothing.

Professors and the two wonderful inter-port students alike attempted to give us a taste of India, to prepare us for what we were about to experience. Nothing can prepare you for India. India seeps into the cracks and crevices of ourselves that cannot be covered by plastic or guarded by shrink wrap. India awakens a part of you that had previously been dormant. India changes you.
Or, at least, India changed me.

Due to budgetary constraints, I was confined to Chennai, the port city in the southern part of India. Chennai is a working city- there are no tourist attractions- just Indians going about their everyday lives. Even the Lonely Planet guide book I consulted before arrival had this charming diddy to say about Chennai- "you would be hard pressed to find anything to faun over in Chennai". And yet- my love for India blossomed in Chennai, this unlovable working city in the south of India- a love that blossomed against all odds.

Stepping off the ship in India is even a shock- the mere act of taking your first few breaths on Indian soil is an experience. I was reminded of the line from Lord of the Rings "One does not simply walk into Mordor- it is folly. The very air you breathe is a poisonous gas". So it is in India. The country has industrialized so quickly that it is evident in every inhale that the environment is suffering painfully. Upon a closer inspection, India bares other scars of rapid industrialization; over-population, extreme poverty, rivers soiled with human waste, streets lined with large piles of trash everywhere. India is a country of vibrant colors, Bollywood and promise, but it is also a land of decay and waste.

On our first day in India a few friends and I took off for a shopping area call T-Naggar. The only way around Chennai for the traveler on a budget is by auto-rickshaw. Eight of us left the port and divided into two rickshaws. Now, the first thing you should know about India is that the most unlovable part of India is the auto-rickshaw drivers. Getting them to take you where you want to go is nearly impossible. They take you to gas stations, shops you have no intention of shopping in and you often end up at a location that is not the one you requested. Plus, haggling over the price of the ride is exhausting and can turn hostile. Not to mention the roads in India. Just like the rest of India- the streets are filled with people, animals, trash and human waste. In order to be a driver in India I think you need a lot of aggression and an approach to life that is a combination of reckless abandon and a maniacal death wish.

That being said, I never felt more alive than the moments I spent in the back of an auto-rickshaw, frightened for my life, unable to breath (between the polluted air the sheer number of us squished in the rickshaw), the driver, a man named BaBa, swerving around the packed road to get us close to a bus so that he could shout "Touch it! Touch it! Touch the bus!" until we complied and reached out to touch an equally packed public transportation bus. There is something about that kind of mayhem, that feeling that you could die at any moment so you might as well enjoy the ride, is unlike any I have ever felt.

The next day I made a fatal mistake. After another long day of haggling with rickshaw drivers, bartering for prices and walking around in the hot Indian sun, I decided to indulge in one of the great loves of my life; Chinese food. I am not one for spicy food, something that is difficult to avoid in India and my love for Chinese food knows no bounds. At that particular moment in my life China felt like an age away and the ships asian inspired meals were... not too inspiring. As I ate my food happily, I had no idea that I would come to regret the choice of Chinese food more than I would regret any choice I made on the trip.

It hit me just after I had laid down to go to sleep. That intense discomfort that can only mean one thing- I am about to vomit like I have never vomited before. I practically fell off my top bunk and ran to the bathroom and settled in for what was about to be one of the worst 36 hours of my life. I'll spare you the details, dear readers, but know that I have never been that disgusting or disgusted in my life.

By the time I was healed enough to venture out into the city again, armed with a pepto and an intense fear of Indian cuisine, I had only one desire- to visit a temple.

Here, I will give you a short history of me and my religious beliefs. Be prepared to be offended (though I do not intend for this to be so).

All throughout my high school career I had been a devote Christian. I led the worship band for youth group, mentored other students, went to bible study and church camp every summer. My senior year, a friend of mine was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. By my graduation she had gone into remission and we all thought she was on the road to good health. I was slated to attend a Christian university, Palm Beach Atlantic, when the unthinkable happened. Before we knew it, she was gone. She was only 19 when she died. I self destructed- I spiraled into a depression that I was helpless to escape, and for two years I struggled with my faith as I tried to tread water. I left the church and haven't been back since.

It wasn't until I moved to North Carolina in an attempt to get my life back and attend Appalachian State that faith re-entered my life. by some off chance I signed up for a class on Genocide Studies that was immediately followed every Wednesday with a class on the history of Christianity. More than once that semester I called my mother in tears, wondering why the world was such an awful place to be. Despite the depressing semester, I found my major with those classes (Religious Studies with a minor in Peace Studies... so pre-poverty with a minor in depression) and met my wonderful academic advisor and his wife, two of the greatest influences in my life. I also found Hinduism.

I'm not claiming to a Hindu by any stretch of the imagination. I cling to the label 'agnostic', unable to abandon belief in something and unable to pin that belief to any one entity. Hinduism is the closest thing to what I believe that has a label and so, I was very excited to go to a Hindu temple.

The Ramma Krishna Mutt temple is like a small oasis in the world, tucked away behind a large gate a even larger trees. I spent the morning and afternoon there, meditating on faith, on my friend, my family, and on hope. There are only two places I have ever felt that in touch with myself, my faith, and (as corny as it sounds) the universe, and they are a Buddhist temple in Malaysia, and the MV Explorer. The Ramma Krishna Mutt temple was a reminder to me that in the (literal at that moment) shit-storm of my life, there is still peace, there is still hope and there is still serenity.

India is a place of extreme contradiction, poverty and wealth, beauty and destruction. The very sad and the very happy are neighbors in India- but it remains, without a doubt, a magical place.

I know I'll be back to India soon, and this time I'll stay away from the Chinese food.

Friendship in Mauritius

Hi! Remember me? I'm that girl, Mallory, who used to write on this blog. I should be publicly shamed for my negligence, but instead I am coming back to beg forgiveness. I'll spare you all my apology and just dive right in.

Mauritius is like a dream- a super short dream filled with clear blue water, pina coladas and good friends. Semester at Seas time in Mauritius is severely limited, thanks to the thoroughly charming behavior of past voyages (who mostly just get super drunk and destroy things). Thanks to that truly diplomatic behavior of past voyages, our time on the island was very short- only one day. So, I had to make it count. This was the first port where all my new SAS family members had nothing planned, and so it was the first place that felt like a home away from home with the best people on the planet.

I began my day with my friend Joe. Joe's brother is married to an Indian woman who grew up in Mauritius and had a request; to find her childhood home and take a picture of it for her. What we didn't know is that her old home is on the same street as the Prime minister's primary residence on the Island. So, we make a wrong turn and there are armed guards- oops. BUT, eventually we did find it and creepily took a picture of the house (I never quite as creepy as a do when Im with Joe).

After our trist into creeperland, we finally made it out to the star destination of the day- the beach. Mauritius has some of the best beaches in the world and the beach we landed on, Flik'n'Flak Beach, had to easily be one of the most beautiful beaches I have been to in my life (and I grew up in Florida, so I have some expeirence with this). The heart inside my lifeguard chest rejoiced in the crystal clear water and the weak currents. Plus, with the help of SPF 50, I remained pastey white and sunburn free!

The true star of the day were the people I was with. These people have become my family here on the ship and I will be eternally changed because of them.

Ubuntu in South Africa

        We all have those cities or places that we feel drawn to- pulled to by some higher power. South Africa is one such place for me. Anticipation for South Africa was intense- the crew told us stories of past voyages and places to go, movies and seminars on the culture, beauty, and history sparked our imaginations. I began to worry that hype of South Africa would somehow out do South Africa, a phenomenon that occurred for me in Ghana. I began to fear that this place I had dreamed of visiting would somehow be… less. 
        In anticipation, we all rose at 5 am to watch the sun rise over Africa as we approached Cape Town. As the sky was stained orange with the early morning sun, I felt like I was coming home to a place I had never been before. I felt more spiritual watching the skies slow progression from star-studded blackness to cloudless blue than I have in any mosque or cathedral. There are no words to describe the beauty and feeling of that morning, as I watched Table Mountain rise in the distance and Cape Town come into view. Just know that it was probably the most magnificent morning of my life. The hope that I would come to associate with South Africa lived in that sunrise.
       
        South Africa is a land of juxtapositions. It’s a land of beautiful waterfronts, and tin siding slums. It is a place of decaying buildings and electric fences.  It is a place where there is, simultaneously, tremendous wealth and heartbreaking poverty. It is a place where the poorest of neighborhoods have tremendous hopes.
        On my fourth day in South Africa I met a cab driver named Phira. Phira is a native Cape Towner, having been born in Langa, a large township. As he drove us from the V&A Waterfront to Langa on a township tour, Phira explains to us that Langa was the first township for settlement when District 6 was disbanded and forcibly removed. Langa, he says, means the sun, so that the sun will shine and bring prosperity to the people who live there. Phira is hopeful and optimistic as we turn into Langa. Immediately it is clear that Langa, too, is a land of contradictions. We drive in and immediately pass the small one or two room brick structures that are the government built homes for those living in the townships. The lawns are clean and houses seem well kept. We drive on, maybe twenty feet, and the brick structures give way to shacks of all different colors and sizes, leaning on each other for support, covered in many layers of dirt and grime brought on by years of human habitation. This is where the majority of the people of Langa live.
        The unemployment rate in South Africa is estimated to be between forty and fifty percent, a fact that is painfully obvious as we get out of the cab and walk to a bar that brews a traditional South African beer made from wheat. It is only two or three in the afternoon, yet adults of all working ages are sitting in the shady spots near the bar. No one has a drink. We walk into the bar and buy the beer for the people we meet. It’s a traditional beer that is brewed in what appears to be an oil drum and is served in metal pails. We pay our twenty rand for the group and pass the pail, waiting for the stories to begin. It takes only a few minutes, our driver, Phira and a friend of his named Luke, were freedom fighters in the fight to end the apartheid government in South Africa. They show us scars from their youth, scars from the fighting, but quickly the conversation turns to Ubuntu. South Africa is clearly a country weary and tired of violence, even in memory.
        I had heard the theory of Ubuntu in a religious studies class a few years ago, but I hadn’t been prepared for its presence amongst the poorest of South Africa. One of the girls I traveled with asks Phira and Luke how they could forgive those who had tormented them for so long. Their reply is simple- we must. They say that the white Afrikaans were victims of the same system they were subject to and that they must forgive. After all, Luke says, Does God not forgive those who betray and lie and steal? How can they withhold what God gives freely? I’m not sure I buy into the God bit, but even without it, the statement is deeply profound, moving.
        Hope is the driving force in the Langa. People are hopeful that they will get a house, hopeful that they will have work soon, hopeful that their children will get an education, hopeful that their circumstances will get better. That kind of hope is truly inspirational from people who have next to nothing, especially for a westerner who feels so little hope in her country for the future. After all, if these people can have hope when they have nothing, how can I withhold hope when I have had everything?

        I think that is what I learned most in South Africa. I learned to have hope. When we went whale watching off the coast of the tiny little gorgeous coastal town of Hermanus, we sat in a silent boat and watched three Right Whales dance not 20 feet away. The awe that those beautiful creatures inspired was one of hope. The whales continue to be nearly extinct, but the beauty of their presence off of South Africa fills one with hope.
        Hope lived in the cell of Nelson Mandela on Robben Island. Hope danced on the face of every child who played jump rope with me and in every person I met smile. Hope is so palpable in South Africa I though it might become tangible at any moment.
        It’s pretty contagious, too, the hope of South Africa. On a couple of nights some friends and I decided to go out for dinner and drinks. Any of those who know me are probably choking on the very air they breath. I don’t go out in Boone, North Carolina, let alone strange, exotic destinations around the world. But I was soaked with the hope of South Africa and braved an Irish Pub call The Dubliner, and a gay bar called Crew. Both were amazingly fun. I sometimes worry that I don’t enjoy being 22. I worry that I focus too much on the future or the past, without remembering to have fun. But, as I danced with some friends as the technicolor lights flashed at crew, I knew I was exactly where I am meant to be- even when I’m being cautious. I may not have sweet dance moves, but I am learning to enjoy myself a bit more, and for that I will always love South Africa in a special way.
        I was incredibly sad to leave South Africa. Both parts of South Africa hold a special place in my heart. It felt like home the same way the MV Explorer felt like home. I know I can’t wait to go back.

The First Bus to Accra (Ghana)

The ship is buzzing with tales from Ghana. Mostly for me Ghana was a mixed bag; I enjoyed my time there and I didn’t. More than anything I was astonished. Astonished by the people, by the smells, by the cities, by the trash, by the children. I was just astonished.

The ship docks in Tema now, which is a good 22 miles from the capital city of Accra. There is a closer port but the good ole’ MV Explorer can’t dock there anymore thanks to the drunken escapades of students from past voyages, so SAS was kind enough to rent us buses to take us to Accra every two hours. However, Ghanaian roads are not set up to handle the number of cars driving, so traveling the mere 22 miles from Tema to Accra can take anywhere from one hour and forty minutes at best, and over four hours at worst.

After getting my passport on the first day docked in Tema, I head out to the bus ready to experience a true sub-Saharan African country. A group of African singers and drummers were outside the ship playing music and dancing, welcoming us to Ghana and a series of vendors had set up in the port right outside the ship, but I passed both and boarded the first bus the Accra. The time was around eleven o’clock in the morning when we left, but even with a police escort, it took nearly two hours. That first two hours were fun though, as people waved at us from outside the country felt far friendlier than Morocco had on that very first night.

As we pulled into the parking lot of a club and restaurant called citizen Kofi, however, it was clear that the big green bus and the police escort had warranted us some unwanted attention. A large group of young Ghanaian guys were dancing along side the bus, jumping up and down and shouting. I came to learn that Semester at Sea has only been coming to Ghana since 2009, but a new profession has emerged because of it and that is a special kind of mobile street vendor that caters almost specifically to Semester at Sea students.

We got of the bus and walked straight into the hands of these street peddlers or hawkers and immediately they are all smiles. My brain was reeling- I was being hugged and hand shaked everywhere I turned and before I knew it I had a bracelet that said “GHANA” on my wrist, sporting the Ghanaian colors of red, gold and green. Having learned my lesson from Morocco, I instantly gave the bracelet back- I had no money yet (I still needed to find an ATM) and really didn’t want the tacky bracelet. “No, no,” the man said, “it’s free free. Akwaba!” Akwaba means ‘welcome’ in Tri, a local Ghanaian language. I protested again, Morocco also taught me that nothing is ‘free free’. Nothing. But the man insisted and I went on my way in search of an ATM. 15 minutes later, after successfully procuring money, I turned around and there was the vendor who had slapped the bracelet on my wrist, now demanding 20 cidis for the bracelet (that I hadn’t asked for and had tried to give back). The man was smiling, but wouldn’t accept that I was not going to pay for it. Eventually I thrust it back into his hands and somehow got away. But as we stopped for a traditional Ghanaian meal of Fou-Fou (a play dough like substance with no taste and a strange texture) we all spoke of how much we liked the guys we had met and who had tried to sell us bracelets. Sure, they wanted to rip of off, but they were friendly about it! In Morocco the people were relatively straight forward, the small talk and flattery only lasting a few minutes before hard-core bartering began, but here they wanted your money and they wanted to be your friend! How fun!

By the third day in Accra something about their sales method had begun to rub the wrong way; they started to feel distinctly predatory and aggressive. They still smiled and called me sista, but something was wrong. We would duck into shops or restaurants for a coke hoping to lose the salesmen, but they would gather just outside the door in packs, waiting. I had begun to feel weary and hunted, like those cute baby animals in discovery channel documentaries, running from a predator. I began to feel like I was constantly being hunted.

The streets in Ghana are surrounded by little stands that are charitably called shack, selling everything from fish to candy to clothes. In all the parts of Ghana I saw, these collections of shacks are everywhere, the preferred means of commerce for the people. No matter where we were, the middle region, Cape Coast, Tema, Accra, everywhere the shack malls spread out in the hot African sun. The streets are lined on each side by a trench about one foot (maybe a foot and a half) deep. This is the sewage system. Uncovered in most places, people stop on the street and defecate or urinate right there. Unlike Morocco, the smell never leaves. The ever-present smell of human waste and trash is always present. Speaking of trash- I was unprepared for the amount of trash. Even in the countryside, there is trash everywhere. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that.

On the Second day we decided to say so long to Accra and head out to the coast. Along the coastline of Ghana sit three slave castles- two in Cape Coast and one in Elmina. We rented a car and driver and set out around noon. Once we arrived, the same bracelet hawkers waited outside our car for the doors to open, and we ducked into the castle. Once you walk through the gates an instant solemn quiet overcomes you. Other than the group of guides gathered smoking just outside the ticket desk, no one smiles or laughs here. We went to the slave dungeons/castle at Cape coast, a former Dutch and British Slave post. I wont say that the visit was fun, but it was without a doubt meaningful. I believe that places have memories, and that place without a doubt remembers (Id like to think that any remaining vestigages of spirit in that place have moved on to a happy place). You walk into the dungeons and rooms where the people were kept and you can feel like many people suffered a lot there- the suffering presses in on you, suffocating you in darkness. The reminder of the great atrocities that human beings commit against each other is hard to witness. I took some pictures, but mostly I felt like taking pictures was some kind of injustice to the memory of the place. It’s not a tourist destination, but rather a place to confront humanities truly dark and demon ridden past… and how can you capture that in a photograph?

Our drivers name was Ali (pronounce All-lee). He was a truly awesome person. He didn’t talk to us a whole lot, he was very professional, but at one point we got stopped at a Ghanaian Police checkpoint, where they waived us over to the side of the road, not letting us pass and keeping Ali’s drivers license. He pulled over to the side of the road and got out of the car to talk to the police. A few minutes later he came back to the car and explained to us that the police wanted a bribe. When he refused to pay, they gave him back his license and sent us on our way. But as Ali explained what happened he said, “This is beneath Ghana”. I am sure he is right.

On the third day we went back to the area of Accra called Osu. It’s the place I met the little girl the other day. We went back to play with some kids we had met on the first day and give away some of the candy and things we all have for children. However, it quickly turned into a sad affair. The children we encountered were doing laundry in buckets near the sea. They were 9 and 10. School wasn’t supposed to be out for another hour. It broke my heart that these two little girls were not in school, but were washing the clothes for their large family (5 younger siblings). We talked with them for a while (they couldn’t play) gave them some candy and coloring books, but it all felt wrong. These girls don’t need candy and coloring books, they need to be in school. They need to have bathrooms, not trenches. They need new shoes and proper food and mosquito nets and houses that aren’t falling down shacks. Candy and coloring books feels too small. They feel like nothing in the scheme of things, as I suppose they are.

We left the candy with a mother of a large family and left shortly after to make the bus back to the ship.

Despite all the books I have read and documentaries I have watched on Africa, nothing seemed to prepare me for what I saw. The diplomat that gave us a briefing before we left the ship said that Ghana, as one of the only stable democracies in Africa, is Africa-light. If this is how the most developed Sub-Saharan African country is (with the exception of parts of South Africa), I can’t imagine what the rest are like. I can’t fathom that kind of neglect and poverty. I just can’t.

Ghana had its lighthearted moments. We saw a Spanish soap opera called, ‘In the Name of Love’, badly dubbed in English as we ate ice cream, laughing with the young woman who ran the shop at the cheesy lines. We shared stories with a barman over Cokes as we ducked away from some street vendors. We banded over the play dough like Ghanaian food of fou-fou. We marveled at the women who balance everything from stacks of toothbrushes to sewing machines on their heads.

Ghana has made me think long and hard about my life; about the comforts I enjoy, the home I am lucky to have, and just how much I am fortunate to be born when and where I was. It also made me think about my aspirations to join the Peace Corps- is it still something I think I can handle? After Ghana, I believe I can. I also have emerged with my desire to help others, and to meet others in this great wide world in tact. Morocco started hard and got easier, Ghana began easy and got more difficult. Traveling continues to be a true learning experience.

Here's Looking at You Kid (Morocco!)

We arrived at Morocco and I didn’t really know what to expect. I knew two things; I knew I was scared out of my mind, and I knew I was more excited than I have ever been in my life. Anything outside of those two things, I did not know.

Morocco is a land of juxtaposition; Billion dollar Mosque across the street from total poverty; men who are dressed like any other man on the planet and women who are in full head to toe coverings; nothing about Morocco makes sense if you think about it too much. That’s just how Morocco is.

I went with a group of students who traveled to Marrakech independently. Marrakech is an incredible place, though getting there was quite a challenge.
My group boarded a train to Marrakech without much of a game plan. We have the address of our hostel written down on a few sheets of paper and didn’t think we would have a problem getting to the hostel. But, as Semester at Sea keeps telling us, the ‘F’ word of the voyage is ‘flexibility’, and the 20 of us had no idea just how true that was going to turn out to be.

Outside the train station in Marrakech we were immediately overloaded with sights and sounds. The 20 of us stood outside the train station and just marveled for a few minutes- and that was a mistake. A group of 20 western looking college kids with overnight packs, standing looking lost is a temptation no self-respecting Moroccan cab driver can pass up- and they didn’t. Since we didn’t have a clear plan or any person in charge, we were easy pray to get hustled into cabs and way overcharged to get dropped off into the hands of more Moroccan men waiting to relieve us of our money. The cab drivers deposited us in a busy intersection in the dark Moroccan evening, pushing us into the arms of 3 young, 25 ish) Moroccan men. They offered to walk us to our hostel (which, we came to learn, is down an ally that is not accessible my car or donkey, just by foot). We knew that this was a sketchy plan, so tried to tell the guys la shukkron (no thank you in Arabic), but they weren’t having any of that. Having to choice but to walk in the direction of the hostel behind the guys, we began our 15-minute trek down creepy urine smelling allies in pursuit of our hostel. We kept tell the men that we would not pay them, and they would reply that they just wanted to help out their ‘American friends’ and would not require payment. ‘What is money?’ one of them asked me, illustrating that he had desire to take payment. Ha. That was a joke. By the time we reached the door of our hostel the group of 3 guys had swelled into 5, and now they didn’t seem to remember that they didn’t want money. They barred the door and now demanded a payment of 100 Dirham each. We argued with them for what seemed like an eternity, growing more frustrated with Morocco every minute. Once the threats of violence began to fly, we each paid the 20 Dirham and eventually than left, laughing as the disappeared out of the ally.

As we entered the hostel, we had begun to hate Morocco.

Luckily, our hostel was a fortress inside; an Arabian palace from one of those old black and white movies, it was like stepping out of a nightmare and into a dream. The hostel that night served as our safe place in Morocco that felt hostile and frightening. We went up to the rooftop that night to look up at the moon and stars, sharing a bottle of wine and eating couscous.

The next day we decided to give Morocco another chance and headed out to the medina (the old market place filled with shops and souks). In the daylight, Morocco wasn’t nearly as frightening. We did some shopping and had lunch at a small food vendor (tarjine aux les legumes! Yum!) now that we had splintered into smaller, more manageable groups. We even made an attempt at bartering. Walking through the medina was like walking through a real life Aladdin (though it smelt pretty bad in certain areas). The narrow alleys and winding roads have laundry draped across, drying in the sun. Music plays from street performers and shops. It was truly magical.

But if the medina during the day was magical, I have no description for the medina at night. The medina at night is a whole new place. The main square, empty during the day, is now wall to wall with food carts, selling everything from strong mint tea to rotisserie pigeon. Street performers, magicians and story tellers gather crowds in large circles, and without the sun beating down on you, you feel like you can actually breathe at night (the guys in our group didn’t know how lucky they were. We ladies were in long pants or skirts, long sleeves and head scarves often, just cooking in our own skin).

Bartering for taxis is horrible for women. Darrell, a fellow male student who live on my deck, decided to adopt our group, gets his way all the time. Every once and a while, however, one of the taxi drivers waiting outside train stations, port gates or hotels wont see Darrell to approach him and will instead approach one of the girls. Earlier today one saw us and immediately started bartering with me, until he saw Darrell, who doesn’t speak French (French is super helpful here). Darrell (who is called Denzel Washington by all the merchants and venders) was using me to translate and the man kept trying to get me out of the conversation. Unable to do so politely, he eventually turned to me and said in broken English “In Morocco the man makes the deal”. Darrell then took my arm and walked away from the driver. Darrell has been nice enough to take care of our group (now splintered into only 6 or 8 girls depending what we are doing) while in Morocco. Last night while in the Old Medina (a street square with performers, food venders and shops) a man put a monkey on my shoulder, and immediately demanded payment for the pleasure of having the monkey there. I refused to pay, and Darrell stepped in to get the monkey off my shoulder. He watches over us like a mother duck, leading our caravan through the markets, turning around occasionally to count and make sure we are all still there. He even tries to keep all 8 of our butts from being harassed in crowds- a harassment that is a mixture of pick-pocketing and copping a feel. It’s a near impossible task, but poor Darrell tries really hard.

Anything can happen the medina. A monkey was placed on my shoulder by a street performer who offered to take pictures with it (to which I said no thank you), snake charmers wave snakes around, draping them on unexpecting passers-by. The square is crazy and magical all in one.
The next day we said goodbye to Marrakech and took the train back to Casablanca, and returned ‘home’. It’s amazing how quickly the ship has started to feel like home.

On our last day in Morocco was spent exploring Casablanca. We went to the King Hassan II Mosque, the third largest mosque in the world (the first two largest are in Saudi Arabia). The mosque is located right on the water (in fact one third of it is actually built over the water) and is beautiful. A life long learner told me that, no matter what religion you were, you would feel the presence of God in the mosque. I felt disappointed when all I felt was anger. The mosque is built right across from so of the worst poverty I have seen in my life. The giant, beautiful mosque felt more like a monument to mans own hubris than a holy site. Don’t get me wrong, it was beautiful, one the most beautiful buildings I have ever seen with its 56 chandeliers and Moroccan marble floors that stretch out for miles. But while I was there I couldn’t help but wonder if it wouldn’t have made God happier if they had spent the billions of dollars they spent to build that Mosque, on the poor people right there across the street. Wouldn’t that be more of an honor to God?

I guess I don’t know.

On the whole, I loved Morocco. The place is so different from anywhere else I have ever been to; so uniquely its own. The biggest lesson and struggle I have had in Marrakech is coming to terms with what being a woman, and more specifically a western woman, means here. The men either look through you or are grabbing your butt and calling out to you in broken English that is rude at best. I have never ever been able to let a man do something that I can do better. And even more of a struggle is, when you do feel someone grabbing your butt, knowing that turning around and confronting the pervert will likely get you arrested or worse. I have never felt so helpless, and the fact that the feeling is entirely based on my gender just makes me furious.

We are now sailing through the Canary Islands on our way to Ghana. As we said goodbye to Morocco I couldn’t help but feel like I wasn’t saying goodbye, but rather ‘see you soon’ to a new friend. As my first really different travel experience, I’m sure Morocco will always have a special place in my heart.

I’ll do my best to post some pictures up here as soon as I can find some free Internet in Ghana. We’ll arrive in 5 days.

Here’s looking at you kid,
Mal

The Overwhelming Ocean

I will start this entry with this warning; I have never been out to sea for more than an afternoon. Never cruised or sailed beyond the bay in Clearwater, Florida (and even that was only once, a very long time ago).  I was totally unprepared for the crossing of the Atlantic. Unprepared for the constant motion of the sea, unprepared for the seasickness, unprepared for the beauty, unprepared for the insecurity, unprepared for the sheer magnitude of the experience. There are no words to describe how you feel when you look out in any direction and see water, water as far as the eye can see. You feel powerful and weak, but mostly you feel small. The sheer amount of water is almost overwhelming if you think about it too long. Yet, there is something magical and beautiful in feeling that small- like you could disappear into the water and essentially disappear into another world.

Life on the ship is a surreal experience. I wake in the morning to a pitch-black cabin. With no windows or lights on- you can’t see anything. I feel my way down the bunk ladder (I’m on the top bunk to break a fear of heights) and rustle myself over to the shower.  Thirty minutes later, I’m up in the Dining room, wet hair and little makeup, eating breakfast before I have to report to work at the campus store. It’s strange to think how freeing it is to simply be liberated from blow-drying my hair every morning.

Work and classes are the same; you have to fight the rocking waves. The waves rock against the ship, seducing your mind into thinking one thing; it must be naptime. The gentle waves rock you back and forth, making sleeping on the ship easy- I have yet to have an issue falling asleep. The waves do, however, act as a sort of sedative during class. They make you feel like the most import thing you could be doing at any given moment is napping. My professor’s classes are very interesting, and yet I feel like I have eyelids that weigh 70 pounds each.  During the day as you fight sleepiness; you also have to fight the waves walking around. I’ve been told our seas have been uncharacteristically calm, but even still, walking around can be hazardous. Students and faculty (the crew seem to be the only people immune) can be seen at any time, walking around looking slightly drunk. Like, not drunk enough to be wasted, but drunk enough to be feeling warm and fuzzy. We must look like a ship full of drunken people.

Some students are here to be a serious student. You can tell who they are after talking to them a few minutes. Majors, home institutions and course loads can tell you lots about a person. But even the not so serious students who are along for the ride and opportunity to get drunk in every port are nice. The community, all in all, is friendly and accommodating.

On a somewhat house keeping note, you will not see pictures accompanying my post while I am blogging at sea (I will try to post pictures in port). I have super limited internet access and loading pictures is impossible.

I hope you all are doing great. I miss you all more than I can articulate, but know you are all in my heart.

Also- should you feel inspired to email me (which you should!) you may email me at mlharrell@semesteratsea.net
Until Morocco!
Mal

Bon Voyage! (0 Days!)

Well... here we are.

Boarding the MV Explorer in a matter of hours.

It's been a long road here, full of the ups and downs that the passage of time generally holds. It has been a long journey, but it has also been a spectacular one. It's unnerving to know that this first chapter- the waiting , the stress, the endless planning- is coming to a close. The voyage is beginning. Stepping onto the ship is the first of many steps into a new life, a new understanding, and a new Mallory.

But mostly I can't believe it's real.
Seriously, someone should pinch me.

New York City and Montreal have felt unreal- more like a very vivid dream than my actual life. Both cities have been wonderful.

a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBTcPbWIuk1poEB7surrLdRZcG68ba-S27Dr3VaGM41cBPHnzqTMKTvkR_qCUMYVpHTQSIwwTy_B-ziUsH13bTwMcOydArK2EUElLbxagO0wCLmv0SpAcQpXL5Q6mYSa6tXxhMqY64e0RI/s1600/IMG_0563.JPG">A friend of mine once sang "NYC, what is it about you? You're big, you're loud... I'm spinning" in my middle school production of Annie as he spun around in a desk chair during a rehersal. We laughed then, but it turns out that is not far from the truth. New York City was larger than life. The lights, the sounds, the smells, the people, all too much for my imagination to have created- but there they are. The city moved and ebbed and flowed in a way no place I have ever been to in my life has. I loved the city, and saying goodbye to NYC to board my train was more like saying 'see you soon' to an old friend. I feel like my life will lead me there again, and probably soon.

If New York City were to have a cleaner, smaller younger sister it would Montreal. The people move in similar ways, but the french speaking and distinctly Canadian relaxed vibe of the city makes it less stressed- more like a fancy Parisian lady who is running late, but stops to have a drink anyways.

Last night, my last night in Montreal, I hiked to the top of a mountain (I use the word mountain liberally... it is more like a large hill). Up at the top, the view of the city was beautiful, lights as far as the eye could see. It was one of those moments in life when the world seems to stretch out before your feet, just waiting for you to answer its beckoning call, and all you have to do is move your feet and be open to the universe of possibilities.

As I prepare to drag my super large suitcases down the flight of stairs to check out and then into a taxi, I would be remissed if I didnt take a moment to thank the people who have made this voyage a reality for me.

Thank you Mom for pushing me to continue to work hard even when all I wanted to do was sleep in. Your support has meant nothing short of the world to me, and as I head out into the world, know that I take you with me in spirit everywhere I go.

Thank you Mamaw for making this voyage a reality. Your help has assisted in so many ways- I could not be here without you.

Thank you to Matthew and Christine Quiat. Your kind words, guidance, and help has opened my mind to the wiser possibilities of the world (and inspired me to read Lord of the Rings again).

Thank you to my Dad, who has contributated to getting me in ways that have been a huge help.

Thank you to DR. Reed and Dr. Ammon of ASU. You guys have opened my mind to ideas I had never considered before.

Thank you to all my friends- there are simply too many of you wonderful people to list by name. I will miss you tons and can't wait to see you come Christmas. Start listening to Christmas music in October for me ;)

See you soon!