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!

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.

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.

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

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.

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!