I find myself having difficulties with myself and my changing perspectives on this voyage. At first, I was ecstatic to be on a study abroad program with so many like-minded, culturally curious students. A few weeks in, I began to freak out as I realized that about 75% of the students came from the top 5% of the US, economically speaking. It felt as if I was on the campus of Bates College all over again, yet couldn’t get away to the University of Iowa as a safe-haven from snobbery. But after the first month, my anxieties over fitting in with these people exploded into a sea of rage and resentment. Seeing the entitlement complexes of some of my peers, coupled with their abilities to afford things that others could not yet not appreciate what they had, and even not take seriously the poverty of those they saw in the countries…I was offended. I was so unbelievably offended that within the second month, my feelings of anger had grown into hate. I thought SAS was not what it was supposed to be—instead, it was a booze cruise for the disgustingly rich, and opportunity for mommy and daddy to send them away and stay out of trouble at home. This hatred, however, soon developed into outright discrimination. As I started to hear familiar hometowns (Greenwich, CT; Manhattan), I would make snap judgments of students before I even met them. I didn’t even want to talk to them, because I felt that they must be inherently bad people. I was ready to go home, sell all my worldly possessions, and use the profits to launch a Robin Hood crusade against rich bitches everywhere.
But I’ve hit the third month now, and I’m reconsidering my stance. All my life, I’ve had a big problem with telling my friends what my parents do for a living. I didn’t much care for taking people to my house, or saying how much I was contributing to the costs of my college education. To a large extent, I did this because I was ashamed of being what 90% of America and 99% of the world would consider rich. I thought it was embarrassing, almost a crime, to have so much where others had so little, and worst of all to enjoy all the privileges that came along with it. I was grateful to have parents who didn’t make me get jobs, who gave me a beautiful car, who told me to go to whatever college I wanted, no questions asked. And yet…I hated it, because I knew that other people would hate me.
How is what I’ve been doing on SAS any different from what I was afraid other people might do to me? It’s not fair of me to look at someone from Greenwich, CT and mark them off as entitled and awful simply because of their parents’ incomes. Let’s talk about rich boy for a second. I used to tell my friends (and blog about) how I hated rich boy more than anyone I’d ever hated in the entire world. And I did. I really, really did. If you read my blog posts, you’ll remember why. But even my opinion of him has changed. Here’s the thing: as a PERSON, he’s as sweet as they come. He loves his sisters more than I’ve ever seen anyone love their siblings. He has the utmost respect for his parents. He sings like an angel, and is incredibly modest and shy. But as a HUMAN BEING, something has been lost in him. And the problem is, much of it is his own fault. Even if you’re raised in a mansion, you have the opportunity and civic responsibility to look outside the window and notice that the gardener cutting the grass doesn’t have as much privilege as you. In this age of technology, there is no reason not to be aware of political instability with regards to inequality and inequities. Turning on the TV is enough to demonstrate how the country club isn’t where every kid goes to ballroom dance after school.
But somewhere in there, it’s NOT his fault. It’s society’s. He didn’t ask to be raised behind the walls of privilege, to only have access to the minority of Americans who live like nobility. He didn’t ask to be whisked off to the Hamptons every summer as if it was just what “was done”. He didn’t ask to only get to listen to classical music instead of integrating with normal culture. He was raised in conditions the likes of which no one outside of the top 1% has ever seen. Therefore, it makes sense he’d end up different from most people…he was going to end up really weird no matter what. And if anyone doesn’t have a right to criticize someone for being “abnormal”…it’s me. So while I used to despise him, I’m now conflicted. I like to be around him and talk with him…but something in me can’t stand the thought of him. All I know is, there is no reason to hate someone because they’re rich. There is no reason to HATE in general. But the feeling of general DISDAIN should come from how a person conducts themselves, not what means they were born into. Rich boy acts like an angel on a shallow level, a monster on a deeper level. He’s a complex case, but not deserving of Hitler-level derision.
Life lesson learned. Never hate, only investigate why it is you so desperately want to hate. Hate doesn’t solve anything, and neither does constantly bitching.
Another life lesson learned. The concept of “rich” is not a good thing. Inequity is, in fact, the cause of most of the world’s problems. But it is not necessarily “the rich” who we should hate—it’s the system that put them in such a position in the first place.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Marek Has Her Own After-School Special
Monday, November 21, 2011
Japan
Japan Top 20:
1. The train system. It’s so high tech, so efficient, and so easy to navigate that I got from Kobe to Kyoto all by myself…with the help of a Peruvian guy…and a Chinese lady. Whatever, I liked the trains.
2. The vending machines. OH MY GOD the vending machines. I got hot coffee—no, more specifically, a MOCHA LATTE—in a cup, with a lid, straight out of a rest-stop vending machine. I also got soda that was already poured into a glass for me. Others enjoyed hot French fries, ramen noodles, and used women’s panties (I wasn’t allowed in the section that vending machine was). I love Japan.
3. The claw machines. Seriously, I blew through more money than I should have on those things. But they are EVERYWHERE, and they have every toy a kid (or immature adult) ever dreamed of! And the employees were so super nice to me (and/or sympathetic at how delightfully bad I was) that they showed me EXACTLY how to get what I wanted, promising that if I failed this time, they’d shake the machine for me. Mommy, look! I gotted a giant llama!
4. Cabbage pancakes, octopus balls, and something that’s still moving on the plate. Frankly, when that’s what the only English-speaking guy at the food court is selling, you have to suck it up and eat it.
5. Bright green melon-flavored soda. Tastes and looks like you’re drinking radioactive lemonade!
6. Amina onsen, a hotspring and bathhouse right outside of Kobe and atop Mt. Rokko. Went there by my lonesome, ran into a Psychology professor and her partner, and proceeded to see much more of them than I was anticipating (no swimsuits allowed). I think I had to be one of maybe 4 people in the whole place under 40. Minus the wrinkles in odd places, it was exactly how I’d imagined it to be. Ask me about the procedure of actually getting INTO the water later. It’s complicated and kind of hilarious.
7. Nara – Japan’s 9th century capital, home to extensive Shinto shrines and Buddhist temples, and the land of hungry, free-roaming deer.
8. Getting attacked and promptly munched on by the hungry, free-roaming deer.
9. Porn shops in Tokyo, and accidentally ending up in the “14-years-old and under” section while looking for my missing friends. I’m also a fan of the excessive, ridiculous sex toy called “Magnum”. I’ll let you imagine what that means. Also there are bedazzled dildos, which I don’t think would be very effective during sex, but what do I know?
10. 7/11. Tokyo has ‘em, and I used ‘em. Great Japanese food and booze for under $10!
11. Walking into an non-Westernized Japanese restaurant with no English on the menu, knowing the Japanese word for egg while the Japanese waitress knows the English word “beef”, and proceeding to literally be served rice with beef and a fried egg on top for my lunch.
12. Pictures/scale models of food the restaurants often put outside their doors to make sure the annoying tourists know what they’re getting themselves into before walking inside.
13. Getting a free stay in a luxury, 5-star hotel, courtesy of my drunken friend, his parents, and his pissed off sister.
14. Hakone: the most beautiful place on earth.
15. Speaking my broken Japanese, and watching how unbelievably excited the Japanese people get when I do it!
16. Little girls in kimonos.
17. Wedding crashing at the Meiji Shrine. Twice.
18. Purifying myself with spring water at all the Shinto shrines.
19. Wearing a cardboard Pikachu hat and wandering throughout the streets of Kyoto like a 5-year-old tourist.
20. Wearing an Ash Ketchum hat and superhero goggles in downtown Tokyo in order to look ridiculous, and only succeeding in looking half as ridiculous as half the Japanese teen girls.
OH MY GOD I FORGOT
Marek Muller University of Iowa, Class of 2013 BA in Bear-Wrangling/Being a Superhero, with a minor in Jewish Stereotyping
China
Marek Muller University of Iowa, Class of 2013 BA in Bear-Wrangling/Being a Superhero, with a minor in Jewish Stereotyping
Vietnam and Cambodia
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Malaysia!
I AM SO BEHIND.
Therefore, Malaysia gets one brief post. It's a shame, because I actually really did love Malaysia. It's one of my favorite places so far. Please, please, please ask me about it when I get home! I'm planning on going back as soon as I can!
Day 1: Did a stupid walking tour of Georgetown that I only signed up for to make Maria (who hails from Singapore) happy. In return, however, she introduced me to every Malaysian food known to mankind (including stingray) and allowed me to stay in a four star hotel with her wonderful dad, step-mom, and half-brother and sister. They were wonderful people. I babysat the little girl Zoe (who is 4), and convinced her to eat her dinner via playing the airplane game which apparently the kids in Singapore have never seen before. We also built sand castles. Maria's overly-masculine British father was humiliated upon ordering a Cosmo and realizing what it actually was. My American-ness sniggered at his British ignorance of pink, frilly American cocktails. Her dad tried to get me drunk by insisting we order more drinks with him. I only got through one Pina Colada and half a tall glass of white wine before I had to stop. The room was spinning just a little bit. I may be a bit of a lightweight.
Days 2 and 3: Homestay!!! I stayed in a small village surrounded by durian trees, leeches, and for some reason a lot of KFC bumper stickers. My hosts did not speak English save for the older daughter, who spoke enough to get by. At first the family was really uncomfortable with me and my roommate (who I had not met before). They pretty much locked us in our room while they prayed (Malaysia is a Muslim country). They did, however, feed us very well. Despite the flies swarming around us like we were poop, I feasted upon fish heads, curry, tom yum, roti channai, fried chicken, and a hell of a lot of tea. On day 2 I'm not joking when I say that I had about 8 meals in one day. The most interesting meal was when I had durian. Durian is a weird, spiky fruit that smells kind of like onions mixed with garlic-coffee breath and dirty socks. The inside is squishy and kind of sweet. The second I ate it, I had to run to brush my teeth to spare my host family the smell of me.
We finally won the host family over by conquering the most difficult Malaysian of all: the 3-year-old. Little Sara was a precocious little thing who made what she wanted very clear to everyone. She could hold a grudge, and proved it. Every time her older sister tried to touch her, Sara would give her the sort of look that Buttons gives to anyone who tries to steal her freshly caught mouse. Upon first meeting me, of course, Sara ran the hell away. That's when we brought out the big-guns: the Hawkeye football. At first Sara didn't quite know what to make of an American football. She clearly liked the colors, but only knew how to spin it around in her arms. When we taught her how to throw it, however, everything changed. I've never seen a little girl who squealed as loudly as she did. We played multiple rounds of catch and where greeted with smiles, laughter, and screams of joy from the little thing. My roommate brought out the coloring books, mini-purses, and sparkles, and Sara just about died. Eventually Sara brought over her little friends. We taught them Yoga and gymnastics, and also gave them removable tattoos. I think that even if we killed someone in front of those kids, they still would have loved us for all the fun we were having.
It was clear that the mother changed her opinion of us from then on. She smiled and did her best to make conversation with the couple phrases in English that she knew. She and her daughter no longer insisted that we stay in our room, and instead watched us with smiles as we danced around the room with Sara. They decided to surprise us by buying us full Malaysian dresses as well as snacks and wedding wands (don't ask) to take back on the ship. We didn't know what to say--no one else's family had done that.
My family dressed me up in full Malaysian garb (including the Muslim hijab, which was actually kind of awesome) and rejoined the SAS group. We watched a fake Malaysian wedding between two of our group members, which was beautiful and really weird. Eventually a Malaysian dance troupe tried to teach all of us a traditional wedding dance. It ended up with the SAS kids wobbling around awkwardly, and me and Sara holding hands and jumping up and down onstage.
Long story short, my family invited me to come back and see them. Go Malaysia, go!
Saturday, October 22, 2011
India: Days 5 and 6
The rest of my time in India was done independently. It was incredibly spur of the moment, and involves a good chunk of eating and shopping. Therefore, I’ll only point out the coolest things that I did and move on to Malaysia.
1. With Maria off seeing the Taj, I became the leader of the group with regard to negotiating with the cab and rickshaw drivers. I think she must be rubbing off on me, because I was damn good at getting the deal that I wanted. Where the drivers wanted us to pay 200 rupees per person to get to the mall, I scoffed and snarled them down to 200 total for the group of 4. I actually was so stubborn regarding the prices I wanted that my group had to pull me away and tell me to just pay what they wanted at one point. I was PISSED. Sure, the difference between 50 rupees and 100 rupees is only 1 dollar, but I was NOT willing to get ripped off. The 1 dollar wasn’t the point. It was the PRINCIPLE of the thing. I am slowly becoming a beast.
2. I went to a really classy, touristy Indian restaurant. I was NOT happy at having to pay American prices for India food, but boy was I treated like nobility. A guy literally pulled up with a cart, yes, a CART of different types of chutneys and told us to pick as many as we wanted. We also got a traditional Indian folk band playing on the floor right next to us. I got the try the wooden flute! I have a new fondness for that Indian cottage cheese thing. I don’t remember what it’s called because I’m in a room full of loud girls, but you know what I’m talking about.
3. I went on a wild rickshaw ride. Seriously, I think our driver was drunk. And considering the nature of Indian traffic? It was like the roller coaster ride from hell.
4. Gabriela and I watched half a Bollywood movie. I would have watched the other half, except for the part where it was all in Tamil with no subtitles. But I got the general gist of what was going on: super cool spy-cop-hero guy was trying to live up to his comatose father and stop an evil gangster but then his father comes out of a coma and it’s awesome but there’s a love interest who hates him and then there’s a train and OH NO WILL IT HIT THE HERO and also song and dance breaks. So yeah.
INDIA.
India: The Rest of Day 2 Through the Morning of Day 5
HOMESTAY IN INDIA: ABRIDGED
I took a sleeper train waaaay down South to the small village of Erode. Keep in mind that India had 1.2 billion people, so a small village for them means 2.5 million people. Let that sink in for a moment.
The sleeper trains are fun. It’s literally like a military bunker, except the place moves. I’m happy to say that I got the top bunk, and was not only the only Indian, but also the only female in my particular quadrant. This didn’t really mean much considering the proximity all of the SAS students to one another, and the fact that the “quadrants” were only separated by a think curtain that could be opened and closed at will, but I still felt cool for about five minutes.
We arrived in Erode, where we were taken to our new home. It seemed strange that there was a group of 11 of us, and we were all going to be staying with the same family. Looking back at my homestay in Ghana, the thought of 11 of us squishing into that little hut made me cringe a bit. When we finally pulled up at the house, everything started to make a bit more sense.
It was a mansion.
Yes, that’s right: a mansion. Turns out we were going to be staying with the village landlords. The place wasn’t too ridiculous-looking. It was like…you know how some mansions are five stories tall with gargoyles and columns and fireworks and guard dogs and stuff? This was more like a really, really long, one-story house. It was pretty, but not fancy. There was always a new part of the house to find once you thought you’d seen it all. A lot of it was open-air. Farmland surrounded the entire area, but the place itself wasn’t a farm. I guess the place was just…I guess…look, it’s difficult to explain.
But here’s the interesting thing: living in the mansion was possibly the coolest thing I could have done because it gave me such striking insight into the nature of income inequality in the country of India. In America, I don’t think I’m exaggerating to say that it’s pretty easy to tell which areas are poor and which are rich. Just look at Denver. We know damn well that we should avoid East Colfax street, and that that Cherry Hills is the place where all the people in the million-dollar McMansions live. In Erode, I don’t think it’s exaggerating to say that I lived in the only place in the entire area with access to electricity. Like seriously, I spent a lot of time lounging in the open-air villa sipping drinks and being waited on by a troupe of servants. Right down the road? Pretty much Tagorme Village. I’m talking huts, trash, and long-ass days of menial labor making sugar and rope in the sweltering heat. My hosts wore jeans while the rest of the locals wore next to nothing at all. Uma was an ex-UN worker while most of her neighbors could barely be classified as gainfully employed. Uma’s niece Aninya was 10 years old and obsessed with Pokèmon and the iPhone, while the kids next door were close to illiterate. The US enjoys its “separation between church and state”. What it often neglects to mention is the blatant “separation between rich and poor” via its gated communities and tall fences. I didn’t need to travel more than 5 minutes to see India’s inequalities at their greatest. At let me tell you, it’s pretty bad.
My activities were pretty standard. I got to see the process by which coconut husks were made into rope (and also got to fail at climbing up a coconut tree). I got to step into the steam room (and by steam room I mean the place where some Indian villagers melt something similar to sugar for 10 hours a day, every day), and enjoy the comforts of the local sweatshop. Oh, did I mention the sweatshop? Because there was totally a sweatshop. It was a little further into town, and wasn’t actually introduced to us in the typical “what you’re about to see may scar you, so be warned” type of way. No, it was more of a “Yo, these people have sheets. Let’s watch how their employees make sheets, and then buy us some sheets.” And to answer your burning question, yes, sweatshops are EXACTLY as the media describes them. I was actually sweating after being in one for a good ten minutes, and I wasn’t the one doing work. It’s kind of horrifying. I’ll show y’all the pictures when I get a chance.
During our time, we got to visit a good amount of schoolchildren. What’s interesting about India is the national obsession with modernization and development. This is pretty clear when you talk to the kids for about two seconds. Ask a ten-year-old what he wants to be when he grows up in America and you’ll hear the words “astronaut”, “movie star”, or “secret agent”. In India, you’ll probably get “accountant”, “doctor”, or “engineer”. Even the girls do this. I don’t understand how it’s possible for such a huge bloc of people to be so unanimously practical. I’m also not completely sure that I approve. It’s not that the country suppresses the arts at all. They have a vibrant Bollywood community, and there’s a humanities track that you can take in school. It’s just that, well…nobody seems to take it. Good for the children for wanting to succeed, but it’s almost unnerving that success does not necessarily correspond with happiness or lifetime dreams, but with an upper-middle class income. Doctoring as a noble goal I get…but who really wakes up one morning and says, “I feel like changing the world today. Where are Kumar’s receipts? I’m gonna proofread them a few more times! Living the dream, baby!”
We also went to a school for the physically disabled. I’m not sure what it means that India has schools specifically for the disabled. It’s either really progressive, or has such a large proportion of disabled to non-disabled kids that it’s actually essential to separate the two into different institutions. I don’t really know, but it’s worth looking into. I nearly cried when I saw the little faces looking up at me. Some of them were relatively normal-looking. Maybe they had a foot missing and that was all. But some of them were just…well, I don’t want to use the word “inhuman”, but my thesaurus is telling me that it’s the best word to use. I saw some kids that defied my reality of what it means to be considered handicapped. It was terrible. Nonetheless, they tried their damndest to put on a traditional Indian dance performance for us. I respect them for that. They really did tries their best, and for many their enthusiasm overshadowed the performance itself. We proceeded to do an impromptu performance for the little ones, which basically encompassed me being handed a microphone by my trip leader and being forced to sing the star-spangled banner with a chorus of my shipmates behind me. I’m not actually sure if the kids were impressed.
We were left alone with the kids for a little while. This was an iffy choice on the part of our host, considering we didn’t speak a word of Tamil, and most of these children spoke at most 3 or 4 sentences in English. I spent most of the time as I usually do: letting the kids play with my camera and look at all of my pictures. When that got old, however, I started to throw out random words/activities and hope the kids understood. “Swimming?” I’d say as I imitated a front crawl. “Yes!” they’d cry. “Football, running, tennis?”
And that’s when it happened. A little boy looked at me and piped up, “JOHN CENA!” That’s when I knew. I whipped out my iPhone and sped to my pictures, where I conveniently had placed pictures of my John Cena-themed bedspread, Sheamus shrine, and the live WWE event I attended in Cedar Rapids. We started having an in-depth conversation that pretty much went as follows:
“John Cena!” “Triple H?!” “Yes!” “You like Sheamus?” “Sheamus?” “Sheamus.” “Rey Mysterio!” “Yay!” “619!” “WWE!” “You can’t see me!” “Wrestling!”
I was forced to leave midway through that discussion. Dammit.
We took a sleeper train again, and I arrived back on the ship around 6am. I proceeded to pass out until Day 5 at noon. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the very abridged story of my 2 and a half day homestay in Erode, India.
TO BE CONTINUED.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
India: Most of Day 2
Maria, Gabriela and I woke up early and took a cab to Mammallapuram...or something along those lines. I can barely say it, let alone spell it. The important thing is that it's a really famous old Hindu temple carved out of stone and stuff.
The temples were beautiful and spiritual and stuff, but I can't really describe them sans my camera. I'll have to go into more detail at another time.
What I can describe, however, is the utter silliness of the temple tourist process. So we get to the entrance of Mammalla-whatsit, and the taxi suddenly comes to a stop. We look at each other and start to pack up our things to get out, when suddenly somebody ELSE comes IN. It was, I kid you not, our "tour guide". I glared at our nonchalant cab driver, then looked at Maria, who was considerably better-traveled than me. She told me to just go along with it, and that it was better to just let this guy do his thing than try to argue with him. So yeah. We got a tour guide without even looking for one. "You pay me anything you want!" he said. Yeah. Sure. I decided to worry about that later.
India gets a serious kick out of ripping off its tourists. Mamamamamamamalalalalalapuram is the best example I've seen of this. Here are the actual entry costs posted at the ticket counter:
Indian citizens = 10 rupees.
Non-Indians = 240 rupees.
I'm sorry, but whaaaaaaa?! I get that for me it's under 5 bucks and not a big deal to get in, but what if there was a tourist from Somalia or something? That's seriously not okay. Shame on you, India.
And, of course, just like the cab drivers, it appears that our "professional tour guide" also got some special rewards by bringing in tourists. We got dragged into some crazy expensive shops, where I decided to annoy the sales associates by asking for the price of every obnoxiously big item in the store, and then looking disappointed when I realized it was more than five dollars. Luckily, I did manage to get a pair of sandals for five dollars. Unluckily, they're a size too small for me. Anyone a size 7 who wants some cute sandals from India?
After the temples (again, I'll describe those once I can share pictures with y'all), we paid our tour guide. He demanded two and a half times what we gave him, at which point we rolled our eyes and told him to take what he was given and get lost...well, we THOUGHT that, but Maria put it in much nicer terms. She gave him a pen in addition to our pay, and that seemed to be good enough for him. Weird day.
Our cab driver dropped us off in front of a really classy Indian restaurant. We didn't want to go, so we went to the cafeteria-type place next door. A full meal there cost about 1 USD. We proceeded to spend $15 USD. The Indians across from us looked both alarmed and annoyed. Regardless, we ate everything and everything.
We got back to the ship early because we needed to part ways and pack for our respective overnight trips. The epic tale of my homestay begins that night at 9:00pm. It will commence shortly...
India: Day 1
Alright, folks:
I've got 2 days to write 6 days worth of India, so bare (bear?) with me if my posts are a little shorter than you'd like. I'm not gonna bother with tiny details, and only want to focus on the big stuff. Ready? Set? HERE WE GO.
Dalit Work Project:
OneWorld Educational Trust is a nonprofit in India that focuses on diminishing the educational gaps between the rich and the poor in India. This gap is pretty clear, especially considering that there's an actual debate in Indian politics regarding whether or not people of all income levels should be afforded the same quality of education. Let me repeat that: debate. Anyone who tells you that the caste system doesn't exist anymore has their blinders on.
Anyway, I worked with OneWorld for a day to help refurbish a dilapidated high school in the middle of one of the poorest neighborhoods in Chennai. SAS called this the "Dalit" work project because those are the ones who still inhabit that awful area: the descendants of the impoverished "untouchables" during the time of the Indian caste system. Like the DPS school system in Colorado, it's not uncommon for kids at that school to be provided free lunches, as the administration knows that it is likely to be the only nutritious meal that they will get for the entire day. So basically, mom and dad, think of me walking into East High School, except there's no air conditioning, no cars, no grass, and a horde of Indian children who mostly sit on the floor rather than at desks.
I loved this project because for once I was actually doing work. After the beautiful reception by the school, full of jasmine flower necklaces and traditional Indian songs, I was pulled away by a strict little Indian man to go be useful. He handed me a bucket of pungent black paint and a brush, led me into a sweltering class full of curious children, pointed at a gigantic chalkboard (basically a part of the wall that was painted a faded shade of black, but still just a bunch of wood) and said "go". As the little kids cheered me on, I painted about eight chalkboards over the course of two hours. I was so sweaty that my beige capris were dark brown by lunchtime. Also I was covered in paint, but that one was kind of a given.
For lunch we were served dhosa and chutney from an Indian fast food joint. I was amused by this, considering how terrified SAS was about us getting sick in India. "AT LEAST ONE OF EVERY FOUR OF YOU WILL GET VIOLENTLY ILL", they warned. It was funny to watch my peers poke nervously at their food and investigate it for signs of scary Indian poisons. One part of our meal was quite literally a bunch of soup in a plastic bag. It was really good. Then our guide came and told me, "don't drink that alone. Pour it in the dhosa. You'll get sick if you drink it alone". My dhosa was gone, and the soup was good. I chugged the rest of the soup to the horror of my friends. I'm still waiting for the violent vomiting I was promised a week ago. Sad day.
After working, I was mobbed by the kids. That seems to be a theme of this voyage. The fun part was, though, rather than going after my camera like they usually do, these kids wanting something else: my autograph. I think I must have signed at least 50. It was pretty wild. The best part, though, was when a little girl came up to me with a tiny cloth wallet and said "for you". I refused at first, not wanting to take her stuff, but she came back a second time and insisted that it was for me. I took it and thanked her. Then I looked at the wallet and almost cried: embroidered into the cloth were the words "I love you".
Dazzled and drenched, I returned to the ship.
At night, Maria, Gabriela and I hired a cab to take us to Spencer's Plaza, which is a mall and not Spencer Abbe's house, although for a second I was hopeful. It's important to preface that when hiring cabs or rickshaws in India, you shouldn't expect to get to your destination in one straight shot. The drivers get commissions and gas stamps from overpriced souvenir shops if they bring in new tourists. So, whenever you get in the cab, your driver will say "you want shop? I make two quick stops" or "you get discount 50 rupees and I take you 4 shops". Sometimes they'll even stop at a store without warning and claim it's where you said you wanted to go. You have to be very firm with them. Luckily, Maria was firm as hell. We got to the mall first try.
Indian malls are kind of awesome, mostly because they seem to be styled after Indian marketplaces. There's no rhyme or reason to them. There are stores EVERYWHERE. You can head down what looks like the path to a dead end and still find at least six more stores that you could have sworn were not there when you last looked. You can stop walking for a second, look around, and next thing you know you're being dragged by the arm into a shop by a suave guy insisting that "looking is free". You can ask for directions to the bathroom and be directed, that's right folks, into ANOTHER STORE. Even though the malls claim to have fixed prices, if you're smart and savvy enough, you can still bargain. Once you start getting ready to buy in a store, that's still not good enough. The associates will pull out at least five more things for you to try on and get upset if you say no. It's a crazy place, reminiscent only of the Buckle in Southwest Plaza.
The girls went crazy over the prices of Indian food court food and ordered way too much. I was not hungry at all, but naturally assisted them in finishing their delicious foodstuffs. Afterwards, we went out to a bar with our taxi driver Kumar. Don't worry, Kumar only had a soda. I pretty much did that too. My gin-and-tonic-related thing was about 90% alcohol and 10% edible. I had like three sips.
We went back to the ship very tired, full, and happy. Day 1 was a raging success.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
SUCCESS
5 Straight Hours of Frantically Studying Japanese History: Check
4 Hours of Migraine-Troubled Sleep: Check
1 Hour of Japanese History Midterm: Double Check
Taking the Rest of the Day Off to Sleep and Celebrate: Commencing Now.
Dock Time
My dock time decision was reversed due to an "extremely unique set of circumstances," with the caveat that "a decision like this will never happen again". Oh, and it wasn't just for me. It was for everyone.
Marek: 1
SAS: 0
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Frustrations. Advice, please?
Met with the executive dean today to discuss some concerns I had about the program, namely field programs not being given as advertised, the lack of compensation for failed field programs, and that whole dock time thing. She was a nice enough lady who said there was a possibility of a partial refund, at least on the awful trip on the first day in South Africa. Somehow, though, I got the impression that she expected me to forget about it and assume it would be taken care of. Clearly this woman has never met someone as obsessive and stingy as me before.
She got very slimy and used-car salesman-y when I brought up the lack of actual service on our service trips. You know how you should always read the fine print? Apparently, even though it’s never actually stated anywhere in the field program catalog, there’s a decisive difference between a “service visit” and a “service project”. I signed on for “service visits”, meaning I literally “visit” an organization that does a “service”, and maybe get to interact with people in the process. If I’d done a "project" like I'm signed up to do in India, I’d actually get to do things (we'll see about that). I was speechless at the blatant wretchedness of that explanation. It was as if they enjoyed manipulating me into spending money on what I thought was something else. Here’s a tip, SAS. If you’re going to get all high and mighty and tell me to “read the fine print”, maybe preface the fact that you actually HAVE fine print. I’m so frustrated by that. I wish I was my daddy right now. He’d scare them straight.
The dean denied a lot of my accusations of how they handled the dock time thing. I’m not going to get it revoked no matter how hard I try.
I just want to hit my head against the wall. How can an organization that’s giving me such an amazing opportunity constantly make me feel like they’re deliberately wasting my time?
Seriously?
OOH. One more thing before I forget.
I asked rich boy how he felt about seeing all the horrendous poverty in South African townships.
"Poverty? I didn't see any poverty in South Africa. What are you talking about?"
I guess some people's blinders work a little too well. Too bad this one actually has the money to help people if he'd just take the blinders off.
Mauritius
We arrived in Mauritius off the eastern coast of Africa. Little known fact? It actually exists. It's a small island country that before the Dutch came in the 1600's was completely uninhabited by humans. Actually, it's famous for having had dodo birds.
Overall, Mauritius was a mixed bag.
We were scheduled to be in there from 6am to 6pm. So that's one day of fun. So, I went to a children's shelter for abused and neglected children. Fun. These kids were unable to succeed in a normal school setting, so were put into this place, where they were supposed to be getting an alternative type of education and a second shot at life. Personally, I was underwhelmed. The shelter seemed to have no method of disciplining the children, who were clearly troubled. It was a very "well, we can't FORCE them to behave" sort of environment. Well...neither can the schools. So exactly what good are you in helping them get better? Seriously, the kids who actually wanted to interact with me were frequently interrupted by older kids who cursed at us, shoot their butts at us, and ran through our talking circle. No one did anything but yell with annoyance. It was like a poorly-run classroom in Denver Public Schools, except there was barely any learning happening.
I think that was the part that disturbed me most of all. These kids could stay in the shelter until they were 16 years old. At that point, they were not given even some sort of certificate of recognition for completing the program. No diploma, nothing. So what was the point of them even going to this "school"? They still couldn't get a job at the same pace as a high school graduate. They weren't even really learning. Sure, they took classes like "shop" and "home ec". But these kids were practically illiterate. I sat in on a class of 14-year-olds who were trying to learn to write basic sentences. They didn't even learn HISTORY or POLITICS, for Christ's sake. How are these kids supposed to be valuable members of society without a basic knowledge of how they came to be where they are today? How are they supposed to care about anything bigger than their day to day lives? Worst of all, there was no way for them to get to college if they wanted to. I specifically asked the staff if they'd ever had a kid go off to college, and they said no, that'd be impossible. I asked what the kids did after leaving the program. The program tries to put the kids into jobs in specific trades, like woodworking. But, they prefaced, it wasn't up to THEM to secure a job for these kids. They had to do it themselves. I asked how the "graduates" did after leaving. They said they didn't know. They didn't even KEEP UP with the kids who left them.
You know how non-profits are supposed to prove that they actually make a difference? What happens when one of the organizations seemingly has no interest in proving it? This place even had state support. Mauritius, dude. Come on.
After getting pissed off at Mauritius for screwing its neglected children out of opportunities, I left the SAS trip and went via water taxi to downtown Port Louis. I ate at a Chinese restaurant...because apparently Mauritius has a Chinatown. Whaaaaaa? Afterwards, I met up with a troupe of Mauritian girl scouts. They sang dirty Creole songs with us, and we serenaded them with Disney. It was awesome. They showed us a fantastic Mauritian drink to try. I forget its name, but it was essentially a combination of Thai iced tea, a milkshake, and boba tea. Oh. My God. SO good. We said goodbye to the girl scouts and proceeded to a Mauritian department store, where we were greeted by my favorite thing in the world: a 70% off sale. I bought designer-leggings for $8, where they used to be around $40. Also, they were the tackiest, most awesome leggings ever. Think...bedazzled. I can't wait to show them off in America.
Then, of course, things got sucky as HELL. So we start to head back to the ship around 5:25. We're required to be back onboard by 6:00 or face punishment by the administration. It should take about 5 minutes to get there by water taxi. Unfortunately, the taxi driver, in an attempt to make more money and while ignoring our angry complaints for him to MOVE HIS ASS BACK TO THE SHIP, decided to keep us all waiting an extra 10 minutes while he waited for more clients to show up and fill his boat. He proceeded to waste 5 more minutes of our time collecting money from each person individually instead of taking off and letting us pile our money together. I about punched him.
We got back to the ship at 5:45, where we were greeted by a line of, I kid you not, 100 people trying to get back onto the ship. Clearly, the catamaran cruise of drunkards had gotten back just ahead of us. Now, there was STILL a shot of me getting checked in in the next 15 minutes. But, wouldn't you know it? The staff gets a kick out of screwing us. First, they decide to let anyone who was on a SAS-sponsored trip CUT IN FRONT OF US to go inside. This was dumb in and of itself, since those kids would not get punished REGARDLESS of when they showed up since they were with SAS the whole time. Therefore, it was a clear showing of privilege to those kids who had the money/lack of creativity to pay for an SAS excursion versus independent travel. Did it matter that I'd spent a half-day on one of their trips? Nope. Only the full day kids got to cut. Then, of course, the hard-core drunk kids got to be pulled out of line, taken to the FRONT, and tested. First of all, why do the kids who are already gonna be kicked off the ship for policy violations getting the advantage of getting back onto the ship early? They're already in trouble. GIVE THEM DOCK TIME. Next, all this time spent pulling kids out of line could easily have been spent checking our bags, which was the most time-consuming part of the whole check-in process. There were, I kid you not, 8 people standing around shouting at the kids in line and pulling drunk kids out of it, versus 4 people actually doing work and checking our bags and, you know, actually helping us avoid getting in trouble.
You know what time I got back onto the ship? 6:03pm. You know my punishment? 2 HOURS of dock time. I have to be back on the ship 2 HOURS EARLY on our last day in India. Thanks a bunch, SAS. You guys are so awesome to the students who pay you exorbitant amounts of cash.
So, analysis of Mauritius? Great food and great people, but awful at providing equal opportunities for its residents regarding education. Also, F*** YOU WATER TAXIS.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
South Africa: Day 6
My last day in South Africa gets a mixed review from me. I was signed up for a service trip that turned out to involve no service whatsoever. Nonetheless, I learned a lot about the state of education in South Africa and its applicability to the state of race relations in the country. To save time and prevent useless rambling, I'm going to simply copy-paste the essay response I submitted to my global studies class regarding the Amy Biehl "service" visit:
"On my last day in Cape Town, South Africa, I joined the Semester at Sea service visit to the Amy Biehl Foundation. We started the day in the middle of downtown Cape Town, where we entered the high rise that housed the official headquarters of the foundation. The manager of the foundation discussed the basis of the nonprofit, namely that during apartheid, so many South African children were robbed of their youth via the poverty of the township system that they turned to drugs, gangs, and violent crimes. Upon realizing this, the parents of Amy Biehl, an American girl killed in a township, sought to prevent more kids from going down that same road. The foundation does so via providing constructive afterschool programs in sports and the arts, peer education on HIV/AIDS, and academic support for children in local townships. Upon visiting a township school itself, I interacted with local children who were fascinated with my bald head and snazzy camera. A boy said what he wanted more than anything in the entire world wasn’t money or fame, but “chocolate”. As they played with my things, I glimpsed their nearly-empty libraries and under-equipped classrooms, which the twenty-six teachers used every day for over one thousand students. Despite the sorry state of the school, some upper-classmen performed music, dance, and theatre for us. They were amazingly talented at what they did, and most likely would never have had the opportunity to participate in the arts without the constant help of the Amy Biehl Foundation.
What I observed in my visit to the Amy Biehl Foundation and its partner schools was very applicable to what we have been learning regarding globalization and development, particularly regarding the importance of education. Without a proper education, it is incredibly difficult to succeed in the world no matter who or where you are. Unfortunately, residents of townships tend to drop out of high school in high proportions. They do so for various reasons, including overcrowded schools, the expenses of uniforms, pregnancies, and other factors. This makes the unemployment rate skyrocket, and leads to high levels of poverty in South Africa. So, while not going to school leads to poverty, already being in poverty tends to lead to dropping out. Clearly it is a vicious cycle. Globalization and development cannot happen unless the cycle is broken. Luckily, the Amy Biehl Foundation caters to development by keeping kids in school to help ensure future employment, providing them with extracurricular activities to strengthen their minds and leadership potential, and making sure that kids have all the relevant information they need about keeping healthy. Amy Biehl also uses the new global era to help support its cause. It brings in chorales from all over the world to perform for the students, and is in the process of engaging global support via posting a short documentary on the foundation on Youtube. Without the power of mobilization via globalization, this nonprofit would not be as strong as it is today. Without the nonprofit being so strong, children of townships could not develop as quickly as they are doing right now. Amy Biehl is doing its best to break the difficult, deadly cycle of poverty as it relates to under-education.
I feel that this service visit has expanded by understanding of what it means to be a global citizen in today’s world. The original founders of the foundation truly exemplified global citizenship through their powers of understanding and forgiveness. Amy Biehl was murdered by the very people she was trying to help. Many parents would have been so furious at their daughter’s murder that they would have demanded the killers be imprisoned for life. They would have written South Africa off as a terrible place to be full of evil people. However, the Biehls took the initiative to travel to South Africa to try to understand why those men did what they did to Amy. Upon realizing that it was the system, not the killers, that was dysfunctional, they not only vouched for the killers’ early release, but even worked with them to help develop the sports education section of the nonprofit. To be a global citizen means working towards the needs of all rather than the needs of one. The Biehls were exemplary people in that despite their grief, they did not seek revenge on the township members, but rather worked with them to help fight through the problems of youth in poverty. Forgiveness is a key quality in being a true global citizen."
So yeah. Good organization, good learning experience, dumbass service trip. Also, they're willing to let me intern with them. That'd be fun. :)
Also, that night I met Desmond Tutu (look him up, Daniel), shook his hand, and got a picture with him. So there's that.
OFF TO MAURITIUS!
Thursday, September 29, 2011
South Africa: Day 5
South Africa: Days 2-4, aka SAFARI TIME!
Friday, September 23, 2011
South Africa: Day 1
The Seas to South Africa
Take a plane. This shit is ridiculous. It's like a roller coaster ride that lasts for a week without stopping, only there are no loopdie-loops and I want to shoot myself in the face. I think my history professor has grown so accustomed to me running out of class to barf that I'm essentially a half-time student in his class.
Explanation
Alright, alright...to be fair, here's the email I sent my parents on Neptune Day:
"So.
I know I've been a really good kid for most of my life, and have never really done anything too crazy. And I know that you know that I'm extremely obsessed with my appearance, so much so that I've been known to weigh myself upwards of 10 times a day.
What you don't know is that on Semester at Sea, when we pass the equator like we did today, there's a ritual called Neptune Day where some of the girls liberate themselves by shaving their heads.
I may have done that today. I cried the whole time, like literally sobbed. But I think that since I thought the only thing beautiful about myself was my fake red hair, it was unhealthy for me to keep it. So I hate being bald, really really hate it. And I feel hideous and disgusting. But I want you to know that I did it for the right reasons. I hope I can find something beautiful about myself now that isn't from a bottle of dye.
I'll have very, very short brown hair when you see me in December."
So there you go. I look like a boy right now, I hate it, I hate myself, and I don't want to go outside. But I know it's good for me. If I can't go to a temple and meditate in India for three days, I guess I'll be doing this and seeing the repercussions for the next year. Does anyone remember what my natural hair color is? Because I don't.
Ghana: Day 4
We’re docking in South Africa tomorrow and I’m feeling pretty ill, so I’ll need to wrap up this blog about Ghana ASAP. I guess I won’t be doing as detailed an account of Day 4 as I initially planned. Here it is in brief:
I woke up early the next morning, had a very fruity breakfast, then was graced with a rare group discussion with the village elders. Here’s what stuck out to me: when asked what the greatest problem in Tagorme was, the chief told us “poverty”. “But,” he insisted, the poverty was a result of the village’s lack of education. As the old man had told me on day 3, villagers only had a primary school, but aside from that had no feasible access to secondary or higher education. How, then, could they be expected to learn skills? Then men knew how to weave and fish. The women knew how to make pots. But those skills alone were not enough to bring money into a village when most of everyone else already has their own fish, cloth, and pots. If given the option, they would not spend so much time making pots by hand. They would rather use machines. “Forget tradition”, they said. All they wanted more than anything in the entire world was for their children to get an education and bring their village into the modern world.
The chief posed a question to us. “What will you do for us?” We didn’t really know what to say. They had an idea to market their crudely-made pots in the USA to further their sales range, but as my professors explained to me later, this was simply an illogical business move which would bring in no money. They wanted us to contact our schools and set up exchange programs for Ghanaian students. This one seemed for reliable, but the problem for Tagorme was in secondary education, not higher education. Who in the USA would be willing to feed and house a Ghanaian student through middle and high school? It’s a tough situation. None of us knew what to do.
To finish off the day we went to a game reserve for lunch, whereupon a baboon attempted to steal my lunch. I caught the bastard red-handed and scared him away. He then came back with six of his baboon buddies, who stole another girl’s lunch. We spent the next hour throwing apples at the hungry baboons surrounding us. I am now two for two in countries where I’m attacked by apes.
I miss Ghana dearly. I want to go back as soon as I can, hopefully in an education-related role. I don’t much approve of Americans going into countries and promising to “help and save” them, like they’re children. But when the actual inhabitants of said country come straight up to you over and over again and say “help us”, how can you say no? The Ghanaians didn’t ask for money. The people of Tagorme didn’t dig into my wallet as I was sleeping, which they could have done easily. All they wanted was an opportunity, a chance at social mobility like we have at least somewhat in the States. I want to help give them that opportunity. Fulbright? Yes? No? Maybe?
People discount the value of a good education. Ghanains will be quick to tell you why you’re a moron for doing so.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Ghana: Day 3
I’m not sure that I can put days 3 and 4 of Ghana into the right words. There’s a reason I’m not a fiction writer, and that’s because the long, elaborate paragraphs on scenery, people, and emotional upheavals are pretty tough for me. But I’m gonna do my best, because my overnight to the Tagorme village was possibly the most memorable experience of my life so far.
On day 3 we started our journey into the Tagorme lands. We drove and drove. Slowly we stopped seeing cities, shops, and stands as the scene changed to lush greenery. We had officially left the hub of Ghana and had moved into the rural wilderness. As we approached the village, the streets turned into dirt roads. We bounced up and down and down and up so much that I was happy I hadn’t had breakfast that morning. Finally we began to see crudely constructed wooden buildings and mud huts. But, before we could even take in the traditional architecture of this place, we were all distracted by the mob of children. At least 100 little boys and girls clad in their green school uniforms were running towards our bus, yelling and screaming and smiling and waving. They ran after our bus until we came to a stop near the village center, upon which they mobbed us so completely that I was sure I might be pulled to pieces by all the little hands tugging at my arms. Considering that there was only one tiny little school house in the village, I couldn’t help but wonder how all these kids could fit into the place at one time.
The kids led us further into their village, where we were greeted by a sight straight out of a documentary. There were mean clad in traditional Ghanaian cloths wrapped around them like togas, little boys covered in paint and wearing white skirts, and even a village chief sitting in a sort of throne carrying a large bronze staff. Drums were playing, people were singing, chickens and goats were running in and out of the party circle…it was trippy, so very trippy. My immediate thoughts were, as you might expect, “is this for real?”
We were escorted into our seats, which were pretty much front and center and directly across from the stern gazes of the village elders. The next two hours were filled with some of the kids performing traditional African dances and chants for us, heavy on the Ghanaian drums. Interspersed between performances were the naming ceremonies. I was called up in front of the entire Tagorme village, where I was given two African names. The first was…well, I don’t really remember what it was, but it was the name all Ghanaians give to girls who were born on a Thursday. (Incidentally, Kofi is the name of a boy born on a Friday, so I guess I learned something about our WWE superstar that day.) The second name was my new, official African name: Sitsofe (pronounced something like sitchopay). It means “shelter”. Upon naming me, I was given a handmade pot and bracelet. At the very end of the ceremony, we were introduced to our official hosts. I was greeted by Ben, a man clad in red and blue Ghanaian cloth, and then pounced upon by his enthusiastic mother. The girls were not particularly comfortable with the idea that we would be isolated from each other in the village, half of us with a male host. But before we could speak our concerns to the trip leaders, we were whisked away to lunch.
Compared to what had just occurred, lunch was pretty uneventful. We were brought to some ritzy hotel and given traditional Ghanaian food. It seemed dumb to have left the village to eat what the villagers pretty much ate every day, but I assumed that SAS was trying to ensure that our lunch was as hygienic as possible. I ate a lot more pepe. There was a lizard on the ground. That’s about it.
After lunch we returned to the village, where we were once again promptly mobbed by the kids. The adults tried to get the kids to leave us alone, but that just straight wasn’t going to happen. We got a brief tour of the village, where we were introduced to the women’s main profession of pottery-making and the men’s professions of weaving cloth and fishing in Lake Volta. It was an incredibly interesting presentation, but I have to admit that I wasn’t paying a lot of attention. The kids were pretty persistent, and I ended up holding hands with them, giving them piggy-back rides, and stopping them breaking my friends’ cameras for the entirety of the tour. The kids were just. Too. Cute. Keep in mind, I don’t really care for kids. But when you’re surrounded by children who think you’re the coolest thing since sliced fufu, it’s pretty hard not to fall in love. They gave hugs for EVERYTHING. Did they want us to give them presents because we clearly had more money than them? Well, yeah. But what kid doesn’t? I’m pretty sure that the one who was most attached to me only knew three English phrases: “yes”, “let’s go”, and “fish”. It was pretty fun to mess with that.
After the tour we were sent to our respective hosts. I went with Ben and was officially introduced to my new living arrangements. We walked into a small collection of little huts, the likes of which people tend to imagine when they think of peasants in Medieval Europe. I’m talking one room, thatched roof, mud walls…seriously, primitive as primitive gets. The ground around the huts was nothing but dust and trash. In Ghana, it’s very, very dirty because the concept of a trash can doesn’t seem to have reached most of the general public. So, in my new Tagorme home, I was surrounded by orange peels, candy wrappers, broken sandals…and I heck of a lot of poop. Yes, you heard me, poop. Or did I not mention? The place was literally crawling with chickens and goats. Everywhere you looked, another one was wandering by. I’m actually not sure if I was ever more than three feet from an animal during my entire stay in Tagorme. There were more goats than people. (Kristin Wirtz, you’d be in heaven.) In actuality, I did like this quite a bit. It’s refreshing to see a community that lives as one with animals, allowing them to live full lives before finally using them to make fufu. Sure as heck beats locking the poor things up in a cage and pumping them full of pesticides. However, in terms of the villagers’ personal hygiene, I’ll admit that the horde of goats didn’t seem like the best decision.
Ben introduced me to his family…or who I thought were his family. It’s pretty hard to tell, because in Tagorme everyone is “my brother” or “my sister”. The only ones whose identities I was sure of were his mom and wife. I gave his kids (maybe his kids) the gift I’d been saving for them: an Iowa Hawkeyes football. They went craaaaazy. I’m not sure they knew what it was at first, maybe a broken soccer ball. I had to teach them about American football and how to throw the ball, but before I could even think of playing with them, they were already wrestling each other to get to the ball. Ben had to take it away from them.
I was shown into my room, which amounted to my own personal hut. It was reasonably sized, with a large painting of Jesus on the thin wooden door to remind me which room was mine. There were protective coverings over every piece of furniture in the room, which led me to believe that either they were afraid of contaminating me, or they thought I might contaminate them. My mattress was firm and made from locally-grown straw. I’m not sure what the floor was made of, but my guess is that it was some form of solidified clay. It’s important to establish that I did indeed have electricity…in the form of one really creepy light bulb in the back corner of the hut that glowed a sickly shade of green reminiscent of a nuclear power plant. Ben had placed two fans in front of my bed to counteract the sweltering heat. There wasn’t really a window. In short, the place was pretty much the exact vision you have when you imagine those guys in the Peace Corps who live in the depths of Africa living amongst the locals, and everyone else rolls their eyes and says you’re just ignorant and stereotyping a country. Nope. Still happens.
Ben showed me around the village for the next three hours. Yes, three hours. Of course, half the time was spent getting to his canoe a mile and a half away on the lake. He was very proud of that canoe. He was a fisherman. At one point he introduced me to another one of his “brothers”. The man seemed very skeptical of me, and didn’t believe me when I told him just how much a liked Ghana. He pointed to a girl across the way about my age. “You see her?” I nodded. “She finished school here, but now can’t afford to move on. She wants to go to school. We have no money. You can help us.” I looked at my host, who didn’t seem to have a problem with this statement. Eventually, we moved on.
It was about dinnertime when Ben asked me if I’d like to bathe. I was a little hesitant, knowing full well that the lack of flushing toilets and running water in this village did not leave much chance of me getting what I defined as a bath today. But he and his wife grew more and more persistent, and I was already caked in sweat from the heat and humidity of the day, so I finally gave in. They took me behind a wall and showed me to my bath: a wire sponge, soap, and a bucket of water. It did the job washing off the sweat, but I’m pretty sure the river water I’d just threw all over myself had probably made me dirtier. Luckily, they gave me about a gallon of perfume to coat on my skin afterwards, which succeeded in making my skin nice-smelling and incredibly sticky. It was an odd experience, but I’m glad to say that I did it.
Dinner was pretty much hotel food again. Nothing to discuss.
After dinner the village held a bonfire, which pretty much amounted to an all-out dance party for me and the village children. I taught them the Macarena and they taught me they’re local dances. Whatever sweat I’d just washed off of me came back ten-fold by the end of the night, due to the combination of hard-core dancing, fire, and children on all sides of me. When I finally sat down to take a break, the village children took pictures of each other with my camera. They gave it back, and were utterly entranced when I showed them photos of Morocco. I think the food photos were they’re favorites. They kept making slurping and munching sounds when they saw them.
Finally it was time for bed. I went behind my Jesus-door and collapses onto my straw mattress.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Ghana: Day 2
Alright, so we’ll begin the epic tale of Day 2 in Ghana by concluding the events of Day 1. I ended last time by saying that John, Maria, Gabriela and I ended up wandering into a Southern Fried Chicken in Tema. We ordered some chicken and fries (vegetarianism is hard in Africa) and a bunch of Smirnoff Ices. The food was actually really, really good. I suppose that any semi-decent American food would taste delicious to me now, considering the quality of the food on the ship. But I’m dead serious when I say that the fries (or as Maria British-ly calls them, “chips”) were the best that I had ever had. They were like…crispy, but melt-in-your-mouth at the same time. Is there such a thing as Michelin-star caliber French fries?
At this point, we were all having a great time. Considering that we were about seven Smirnoffs in between the four of us (3 each for Gabriela and Maria, 1 for me, and none for sissy old John) and that we were yet again the only foreigners in the restaurant, we were drawing a lot of attention to ourselves. The waitresses were very amused. I flagged one down and told her that Southern Fried Chicken was the best food in Ghana. She was nearly in hysterics. Then, seeing as how Ghana is INTENSELY communal, the waitress actually pulled up a chair on the job, sat down with us, and started talking with us. Her co-worker joined her soon after. I’m not sure anybody was taking anybody’s order from then on through the night.
The waitresses’ names were Grace and Sandra. Sandra was also 20 years old and was a student at the University of Accra, studying HR. She wanted very badly to be either a trainer or a teacher in the future. But, as would be a common theme during my time in Ghana, she explained to me that she feared she would be a waitress for the rest of her life due to her deficits in education. Education was so expensive, and the extra training needed to teach was out of reach for her. She was already driving an hour to work every day from 4:30 to 10:30pm, and still studying as a full-time student two hours away. The woman was completely overworked and I honestly don’t know how she still had so much energy. Grace was a 25-year old mother whose husband also happened to be a taxi driver. Upon finishing the rest of the Smirnoff Ices in the entire restaurant (Maria is a heavy drinker), she set us up with her husband, who charged us a mere 5 cidi to get back home. Before that, however, our newfound friends promised us that if we returned tomorrow, they would have specially prepared “fufu” waiting for us. Not entirely sure what “fufu” was, but aware that it had been highly recommended to us by the Ghanaian student onboard the ship. We promised to return. Upon leaving, Gabriela restarted her weird tribal chants of “Marek! Marek! Marek!” Grace and Sandra joined in chanting my name. I am now an international celebrity.
Now we can finally begin the story of day 2.
We boarded the SAS bus which took us to Cape Coat Castle and Elmina Castle. These were the places that they used to hold slaves during the Atlantic Slave trade. It was pretty intense, to say the least. The dungeons were dank, dark, and incredibly hot. A room hardly bigger than my room in my apartment was expected to hold upwards of 100 people at a time. They were literally eating, drinking, and sleeping in their own feces. If anyone resisted, they were locked in an even smaller room to starve to death, or in the case of the last one left alive in the room, suffocate. The most intense experience was when the guide took us into a cell, all 50 of us, and locked the door. There was no light, we were sweating, and a lot of us were panicking pretty badly.
We were in there for exactly 10 seconds.
Here’s a “fun” fact for my student friends: Although in America we mostly hear about how many slaves died on the ships to the Americas, a higher proportion of the slaves actually died in the dungeons while waiting to board the ships. I can see why.
We ate lunch at a hotel, which was really anticlimactic after such a dramatic retelling of history. Nonetheless, I FINALLY drank out of a coconut. More specifically, I drained three coconuts. I also had about a pound of straight pepe. I really needed to stop having all that pepe, because I was definitely getting a stomach ache from eating it. My response to my tearing eyes and burning lips, however, was to drown it out by eating more pepe.
That night we went back to Southern Fried Chicken, where we were happily greeted by Grace and Sandra. As promised, they brought us a massive bowl of the traditional Ghanaian soup, fufu. It’s tough to describe it, but I’ll do my best. The broth was red and kind of tomato-ey, and delightfully spicy. The fufu itself is essentially a gigantic dumpling composed of flour, sugar, and ground cassava. It was slimy and tasteless, and I wasn’t a fan of that part of the meal. What really struck me, however, was the meat they put into it. It was goat. Now obviously I’d never had goat, so I knew I had to try it. I still felt really guilty though, since goats are to Ghana like cats are to Morocco and rabbits are to America. They wander around the streets without a care in the world looking cute and innocent. I felt like I was a monster for eating it. It only got worse, though, once I realized that the thick gray stuff on top of the goat meat was not fat…but the skin. Goat skin. Now keep in mind, goat skin is not the same as, say, chicken skin. It is thick. It is icky. It is really, really, REALLY skin-like. I put the soup away. Fufu 1, Marek 0. No more meat for awhile, please!
We bade the girls farewell very sadly, knowing that we’d probably never see them again. They left, however, many US dollars richer. We had made sure to tip them very well for being so kind to us, so much so that their final words to us were “God bless you. God bless you all.” I hope so much that Sandra will be a teacher. God bless her too.
Grace’s husband took us home afterwards. We were walking back to the port when we were stopped by Ghanaian security. Naturally we were all a bit freaked out, as we’d been warned ahead of time of how corrupt the Ghanaian police system was. It is not uncommon for a police officer to put his gun to you and rob you blind. But honestly, since coming to Ghana, I’ve grown rather skeptical of that assessment. The Ghanaians are so unbelievably friendly. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. You know what the security guards wanted? Conversation. They wanted to know how much we were enjoying our visit to Ghana, what America was like, how we liked Ghanaian food…the works. We left that encounter having exchanged email addresses and promising the guards that we would contact them if they ever dropped by the states. I freaking. LOVE. Ghana.
And thus concludes the tale of day 2.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Ghana: Day 1
Okay, so I am incredibly far behind on my blog right now because of how busy I have been in Ghana. I have to do about 4 blog posts in the span of one night, and I have 96 hours of stories to tell. So forgive me if I forget some details, but I have the pictures to make up for it when I get home.
We arrived in Ghana early in the morning. After a few hours of getting ready (or I should say of Gabriela considering and reconsidering what to bring with her), she, Maria and I finally went out to find the much-touted Coacoa beach. We were very dubious of the cab drivers in Ghana after our experiences in Morocco. The driver who approached us told us that the fee to get to Coacoa was “fifty”. We automatically scoffed and turned to go. Eventually we settled on “okay, okay, thirty-five”. We were satisfied with that price, since the driver told us that the beach was an hour away and 35 Ghanaian cidi is the equivalent of about 23 dollars. Between the three of us eight bucks cost seemed cool. Unfortunately, we were yet again sucked in by the manipulative ploys of foreign cab drivers. No sooner had we arrived at the beach did the cab driver demand his pay. We gave him 35 cidi, and he handed it back angrily demanding “no, dollars”. We were naturally like, oh HELL no, and tried to get this guy to grow the hell up and treat us like people. The “hour trip” had only taken twenty minutes, so we sure as hell weren’t paying more for a cab in freaking AFRICA than I would for a ride to the airport in Iowa. Unfortunately, we were three smaller women, and he was a rather large man. He started to get very angry and raise his voice at us, so we bitterly gave in and handed him his godforsaken 35USD. Pissed off and poorer than we wanted to be, we headed out to the beach.
Coacoa beach turned out to be the backyard of a Ramada Hotel. We were not amused about this, so we walked about two blocks to the right and opted to go to “Shining Beach”, a beach populated entirely by Ghanaian locals. We had to pay 2 cidi to get in (though the “guard” was basically a skinny guy in a wooden hut). We handed the man a 5-piece and waited for change. After about a minute, he told us (without looking) that he didn’t have any change and that we should come back later. Rolling our eyes, we went to the beach and forgot about the 3 cidi we knew we’d never see.
Immediately upon lying down in the sand, we were approached by a man. He seemed genuinely surprised to see three non-African women in a sea of natives. We were wary, since the last two men we’d met were kind of douchebags. But this guy welcomed us to the beach, told us to make ourselves comfortable, and assured us that anything we wanted was all ours. He introduced himself to us as Tyler. We LOVED Tyler. Not only did Tyler charge us absurdly low Ghanain prices for food (1 cidi for water, 2 for a large alcoholic drink, and 5 cidi for a plate of food that even I couldn’t finish), he took us in like we were a part of his family. But more about that later.
After Tyler left to get us drinks, we were approached by another man. He introduced himself to us as “Prince”, and welcomed us to Ghana. We got a weirder vibe from him than from Tyler. He was about Tyler’s age, probably late twenties, but was extremely well-dressed for a man at the beach. He stood over us as we lied on our beach towels and began starting up an awkward conversation about how beautiful we were. Essentially, we knew his game right away.
Gabriela and I were very weirded out by Prince at first. He proposed marriage to Gabriela within about five minutes of talking to her, and kept on insisting upon how much he loved “white women”. This was rather ironic, since Gabriela is not white by American standards. In fact, she’s pretty Hispanic. Apparently “white” doesn’t necessarily have to do with skin color in Ghana, Africa. He nicknamed Gabriela his “African Queen”. Maria was his “Princess”, and I was his “Angel”. I think it’s because I was the whitest. He insisted that he was an “exercise trainer”, but insisted that he was very good at giving massages anywhere we wanted. Then Prince proceeded to regale us with tales of how good he was at sex compared he was to our white boyfriends (we made up names of boyfriends we had in America to stop him trying to get us to take him to the US with us. Mine was Sheamus from the WWE). We were very cordial to him, of course, and let him talk to us for nearly an hour. When he finally left, however, Gabriela and I breathed a sigh of relief. Maria told us very frankly that we shouldn’t have been surprised by the way that Prince was acting. She said that in certain cultures, intense statements of masculinity and sexuality are parts of mainstream conversation. Maria is from Singapore and is very well-traveled. From then on, we just laughed and smiled whenever a Ghanaian man made comments to us that were suggestive in any sense.
Tyler was a welcome face after the ordeal with Prince. He brought us a gigantic concoction of blended pineapple with a touch of what I think was rum, but Gabriela thought was vodka. It was so yummy. There’s nothing quite like fresh, local pineapple. But what he served us next was amazing. He gave us a local Ghanaian dish called “Banku”, which was a combination of sauce, rice, beans, bone-in fish, and my all-time favorite part of Ghanaian cuisine, a spicy black paste called “pepe”. It was so very, very good, and so very, very spicy. It was really hot with high humidity outside on the beach, but I was sweating bullets from the spices in the food.
After lunch Gabriela and Maria wanted to go swimming. I decided to stay behind and guard all the bags, as we weren’t sure what to expect from Ghanaians yet and I didn’t care to test out what doxycycline’s side effect of “extra sun sensitivity” meant by going in the water. They ended up bringing back three local boys with them. I think they were all brothers, but I’m not really sure because their accents were difficult to understand. They were very nice, and like everybody else on the beach very intrigued by us. They wanted very badly to hang out with us for awhile. We did so, but left when Gabriela got upset. One of the boys had explained that his father was very sick, so he’d had to quit school to support his family. All he wanted was to go to school, but couldn’t afford it. “You can help me. Please help me”, he said. It was very upsetting, especially for Gabriela who is getting licensed to be a teacher.
We called Tyler over to pay for our food and drinks. He asked why we were leaving so soon, and I explained that Maria was having an allergic reaction to the salt from the ocean. This was an excuse, but not a lie. She really was getting a bad rash. So, shockingly, he told us to follow him to his house so she could wash the salt off her skin. We were hesitant, but Maria told us that her allergic reaction was getting really bad, so she needed to do something. So, we followed him a little bit down the way and went into his backyard. It was a very simple place. I can’t really describe it without pictures. But suffice it to say, the “shower” he provided for Maria consisted of him filling up a large bucket with water, leading her behind a curtain outside and telling her to rinse. She did so and felt much better. Then Tyler insisted that Gabriela wash off too since she also had saltwater on her. This sounds creepy, I know, but it was actually incredibly generous of him. He did not have any sort of running water in his home. The water literally came from a hand-pump in his yard, and he gave us a LOT of it. He gave us so much, in fact, that we were worried that he and his family might run out of it. But he brushed it off and insisted that the girls get clean.
Tyler wasn’t done making us feel at home yet. After the girls washed, he insisted that we meet his sister and her baby. He literally called her out of the house as she carried in baby in her arms and made her pose with us for photos. Then he gave Maria the baby to hold. The baby started crying, and he kept scolding her. “Hannah, Hannah! No! Smile! No crying!” This man wanted us to have a good time with his family.
But that wasn’t all. Upon hearing about our awful cab driver, Tyler insisted upon getting us a fair price to get back home to the ship. He told us to hide in the back while he hailed a cab, because the second a cabbie saw an American “the price goes up three times”. For what cost us $35 to get there, it cost us 20 cidi to get back, which is equal to just over $13. Tyler was a saint. Although we had tipped him for the food, I made a point of giving him some extra USD for helping us out so much. He looked shocked, absolutely shocked, and gave me a huge hug. “God bless you.”
We went back to the ship ranting and raving about our Ghanaian angel.
That night we went on a hunt for food. However, it was about 8 at night, so most Ghanaian places were no longer serving food as Ghanaians usually eat pretty early. We had meant to eat earlier, but were accosted by the merchandise men right outside the ship who wanted to sell us woven bracelets with our names on them. Having had quite a bit of experience with this in Morocco, I was able to avoid their tactics. Gabriela, Maria, and John, however? They’d gone on the camel trek in Morocco and weren’t used to these guys. Before they knew it they had been suckered into shaking a guys hand and getting a bracelet they didn’t want tied around their wrists. “HOW DID THIS HAPPEN TO ME?!” I laughed really hard at them. But that took a long time, so we were starving by the time we’d finished getting away. We settled on the first place the cabbie showed us, a hole in the wall called “Southern Fried Chicken”. We were skeptical, but very hungry, so we paid the cabbie and went inside. This would soon become our absolute favorite place in all of Ghana…but the reason why is better explained on the story of Day 2.
TO BE CONTINUED!!!