MAURITIUS: the ultimate hybrid culture

While in South Africa, Semester at Sea had to decide where we would dock next since Kenya was officially axed from our itinerary. On the fifth or sixth day in Cape Town, a white board was posted at the gangplank of the ship: “Next Stop: Port Louis, Mauritius!!” Where in the world is Mauritius...No one really had any idea and that was the best part.

Mauritius is a tiny island about the size of Rhode Island in the Indian Ocean a few hundred miles east of Madagascar. It’s India’s resort island the way Hawaii appeals to Americans.

The one class everyone has to take on the ship is Global Studies, which was every morning at 9 a.m. We were given crash course lessons on a certain aspect of the approaching country’s history, society or culture. We learned about Hugo Chavez before arriving in Venezuela, Brazil’s slave history before docking in Salvador and post-apartheid South Africa before arriving in Cape Town. Mauritius’s rainbow culture was our lesson during the few days at sea.

In short: Mauritius was “settled” by the French in the 1700s after the Portuguese and the Dutch decided it wasn’t worth their while. The island was completely uninhabited by humans but was populated by dodo birds (relics of the bird are everywhere on the island – handbags, painting, statues, stickers, business signs…). Over the next century or so, the French “imported” Africans and Indians to the island as labor. Later, the Chinese were brought to Mauritius when it was discovered that the Chinese would work more for less than the Indians. In the early 1800s, the French lost Mauritius to the British in the early 1800s and gained total independence in 1968.

Today, the African country houses a mixture of French, African, Indian and Chinese culture and traditions. The official languages of Mauritius are French and English, but many African languages and Hindi are spoken just as often (I’m sure Chinese is spoken by natives of China, but I personally didn’t hear anyone speak it). The cuisine on the island is menu of dreams – In the little town Grand Bay where we stayed in a condo on the beach for a couple of nights, there was a Chinese food restaurant next to a curry house near a bakery owned by a Tanzanian family. Since Mauritius is a tropical island, there also was a fruit stand near out condo with fresh pineapple and melons, and other exotic fruits that I had never seen before. One the beach, there was a fried rice “truck” resembling an American ice cream truck. I ate like a fat kid at the world’s all-you-can-eat buffet.

Geographically speaking, the Island is volcanic but very lushishly green. Sugar grows very well there and most of the island are either bustling towns or sugar plantations. (There’s a sugar plantation with a museum on the island where you can sample from twelve different kinds of sugar…). Imagine these igneous black jagged mountains jutting from vibrant farms and plantations and towns of ash-colored, square concrete buildings, some painted in every color imaginable.

To conclude my own crash course on the island, I should let you all in on a very convincing secret – Mauritius is ridiculously cheap. A round-the-island buss ride was 80 cents and our beautiful beachside condo for two nights cost a total of $100. An elaborate dinner only cost maybe $15 per person for appetizers a main course and alcohol. If you can afford the plane ticket, jet over to Mauritius for your next tropical getaway (a mere $2000-$3000 round trip for a vacation in October). Unless Semester at Sea just unleashed a boatload of college kids, it’s highly unlikely you’ll see another American, yet the people on the island are very friendly and accommodating. All you’ll need is a wad of Mauritian cash, beach clothes, some flip flops and an open mind – you’re good to go!

SOUTH AFRICA: Hiking Table Mountain

The sun was rising as we approached Cape Town and it was freezing outside. A bunch of us woke up before dawn and put on as many layers as possible to venture out to the nose of the ship on the 7th deck. Even in the twilight, Table Mountain was visible in the distance. I waited with some of my hall mates to see the sun peak above its flat summit....

Days earlier, while still at sea, the MV Explorer received a fax informing us to avoid Mombasa, Kenya - our next location after Cape Town. We were told that because of increasing terrorism attacks and links to Al Quida, there was a high risk of any American (well, white) tourists being targeted. I remember something about the U.S. Military even shifting their presence in Mombasa - if the military is nervous about being in Kenya, imagine what that those kind of threats would do to nearly 700 (mostly) American students and adults...The good news was, we were to stay in South Africa until we figured out where in the world we'd be headed next, extending our stay in Cape Town to an entire week rather than the scheduled five days.

Table Mountain was immediately on my Cape Town "to-do" list. I wanted to scale it anyway possible. The second day we were in Cape Town, three of my other hallmates (Brent from Philadelphia, Sean from Northern California and Rob from...somewhere) and I packed not nearly enough water, some trail mix and sunscreen and started out for the botanical gardens that housed a gagillion Table Mountain trail heads. We had no idea where we would end up or how long it would take to get there...or how hard of a hike we were naively choosing. We had no idea really what we were in for, which is against outdoors(wo-)man's intuition, but we were STOKED.

TRAIL HEAD
The garden sat at the base of Table Mountain - the mountain triumphantly blossomed skywards, covered with a thousand of shades of green, leveling off on top to hide the Mars-scape of its summit. We wandered through the garden for a little bit and then found a trail head in the back of the park. At first it seemed rather innocent; the trail was curvy but flat and shaded by jungle green. Soon the trail became a series of boulders shifted into huge steps which turned into wooden latters. Eventually, the trail disappeared and we starting climbing upstream - water was flowing over the rocks and our shoes down the side of the mountain. It was dyed red from iron deposits in the rocks. Climbing up a vertical creek bed with red water flowing over white rocks and bright green vines was certainly a bit surreal.

IRON RED GORGE
As we climbed higher, a trail reemerged that took us away from trickling water. We reached an opening in the 'jungle' that offered a view of Cape Town from wwaaaaayyyy further up than I thought we were. The trail zig-zagged a few more times to where we found a sign directing us to "Skull's Gorge." We barely stopped long enough to ponder the thought that a 'gorge' is usually a body of water. Minutes later, the dirt turned into white fine sand and the trees progressively grew closer to the ground and offered thinner cover. As the trail leveled off and we approached the 'table' of the mountain, I thought I was on another planet. The ground was flat for miles in front of us until it dropped off in the distance because we'd reach the end of the world. There were huge white, chalky boulders that surrounded a dammed reservoir of iron red water. Little green shrubs burrowed into the white sand and to our right a ways off was some sort of stone structure that was manned by a lone park ranger. We scaled a boulder for a water break, but none of us spoke.

Rested, we started walking on a road that was to take us...nowhere. At one point a small, dented pickup recklessly passed us with a dozen people in the bed that blankly stared at us as they drove away. I felt like we were walking in circles and it was hot without the jungle shade we were under an hour ago. We saw the lone park ranger out-and-about a ways away from us and scrambled towards him. He didn't speak any English and we couldn't even identify his language (South Africa has 11 official languages, 9 of which are considered tribal...) but somehow we expressed that we were lost and he showed us a trail, rather than a road. We ended up backtracking a bit, crossed the dam that split the red lake in two, and zig-zagged again up and over a hill. We stopped again on the hillside. The red lake was below us and the edge of the world was visible. Light grey puffs of clouds padded the landscape at the far end of the mountain and blended with a grey sea where the Atlantic and Indian oceans mixed - the closest shore to us beyond Table Mountain was Antarctica, thousands of miles to the south.

HILLS AND VALLEYS, VALLEYS AND HILLS
At this point, I was down to my last inch of water in my Nalgene and it seemed my hallmates were in the same situation. We munched on a bag of trailmix Sean magically pulled out of his bag for the first time, even though all of us grumbled about our stomachs rumbling while walking the wrong way on the wrong road. We reached the top of the hill only to discover two shallow valleys and hilltops ahead - and that's what we could see. Below in the valley closest to us, we saw another hiker, our first hiking passerby since leaving the garden. When we met him in the bottom of the valley, he told us (in English) we had maybe three more hours to go until we reached the cable cars. This was good and bad news. Good news was that we had an final destination - and it included cable cars that would take back to the bottom of the mountain. Bad news was that we were out of water. About two hours later we had scaled the two valleys and hilltops and left them in our dust.

CABLE CARS OVER THE EDGE OF THE WORLD
Once we climbed over the last hilltop, we were expecting the worst - which would have been another serious of lonely changes of elevation. The sun was behind the clouds and even though we were glad the sun wasn't beating down on us wasn't like it was when we reached the gorge, we were nervous because we couldn't tell if the sun was about to go down or if it was just overcast. Then I heard people - their voices were faint, but I was happy to have another human encounter to ensure that someone knew we were up there. Once we got over the ridge, there were tourists everywhere and we could see the cable cars, a museum and a restaurant. One woman was chasing her kid across the rocks in high-heeled sandals. We emerged a little haggard, oozing a sense of ruggedness. Those fresh off a five minute cable car ride up the mountain were enjoying the views in designer sweaters and shoes. We surged over the rocks, ignoring the meandering trail, towards whatever building was closest. We reserved a spot on the last cable car down the mountain (which was scheduled for sundown). We had enough time to eat fat, juicy burgers and a mountainous side of fries outside, and tried to find the invisible divide between the Atlantic and Indian ocean. Then, right on schedule, the sun followed us down the side of Table Mountain.

BRAZIL: Capoeira - does a body good

By late September of 2005, our ship had traveled from the Bahamas, snaked south in between Cuba and Haiti toward Venezuela and along South America's north and eastern coasts to dock in Salvador, Brazil. I spent most of my time in Brazil in the city of Salvador in an area called Bahia and island hopping off the coast of the city. No matter where I was in the country though, capoeira was in action and so were the ripped and sculpted bodies that were capable of such a beautiful form of contortion.

Capoeira is a fight-like dance that originated from Brazil during the African slave trade into the country (16th-19th centuries). The way I understand its history from the bits and pieces I picked up while in Bahia, African slaves engaged in capoeira as a way to hinder the effects of suppression and to keep African traditions alive. I was told by one native Brazilian that capoeira was a way to "fight" fellow slaves in efforts to relieve aggression, but because capoeira is an art where it's disrespectful to actually make physical contact with your opponent, it appeared more like a dance or ceremony rather than a kick boxing match. For this reason, the act was ignored by the slaves' captors who would usually punish their slaves for fighting.






In short, any given dance is a series of attacks and regression, sometimes with an opponent, involving high kicks, incredibly high jumps and leaps, and back flips and body-bends in any given direction. Most impressively is the ability for a performer to do these ridiculously elevated maneuvers while jumping and landing almost in the same spot.

There was always a small crowd of either fellow dancers or musicians and awe-struck observers surrounding any given capoeira performance be it on the street or in a dance hall or restaurants that have the option of a show on the menu. I personally saw capoeira everywhere in Bahia - on the street (where performers will hold upside-down positions on one arm to get your attention and take a photo - then ask for money since you took a picture of them...), on postcards and posters in shops, on the beaches, and in a Luau-like dinner performance.

I have distinct images in my mind of insanely able, half-naked bodies of the people who can do capoeira well. Of course I gawked all these young Afro-brazilian men with dreadlocks and bulging pecs and biceps and abs and quads....and was envious of the women with an evenly toned body. Even teenagers and youngsters were running around with what little muscles they had toned and tuned and would strike a headstand or a back flip off curbs or into the surf.

Capoeira has not only spread and varied throughout areas of Brazil, but has become a worldwide phenomenon. Many of America's universities have capoeira clubs (including the U of A) and it seems most communities and gyms have classes and clubs for all ages (including in Tucson). Keep in mind that this blog is by no means an expert's take on the art, technique or history of capoeira; it is only how I experienced wandering the streets and beaches of Bahia/Salvador. Check out either capoeirista.com or capoeiraarts.com for a more indulgent history, explanation and music samples (even wikipedia, though usually shunned by some on account of possible inaccuracy, has an in depth article on the art and dance).

Included in my blog are my own videos from a dinner show called "Bahia by Night" and pictures from around Bahia, Friars Island (about an hour off the coast of Salvador) and the city of Salvador. Obrigado!

VENEZUELA: The Affairs of Foreign Journalism

In September of 2005, I visited a newsroom in Caracas, Venezuela with fellow classmates of a feature writing class and my professor, LA Times writer Janet Eastman. The visit was part of the class curriculum, but really it was a much needed wake-up call as an aspiring American journalist to appreciate the freedoms available to us in the states.

From the port in La Guaira where our ship was docked, we traveled on a tour bus through a
tunnel that burrows through a hillside separating La Guaira and Caracas, Venezuela's capital. Thick grey exhaust swirled from the tunnel like toxic fingers beckoning me to my first real foreign experience (spring break in Cabo San Lucas and a day trip to Tijuana pale in comparison to this South American experience...). I had never seen pollution like what exists in Venezuela - trash ornaments every other empty space of civilization like wilted popcorn strings on an outdated dying Christmas tree and is stuffed in between scuzzy business and apartment buildings stained dark by the greasy, sweaty haze that suffocates the atmosphere. This...mess is ironically juxtaposed
against breathtaking tropical emerald green hillsides that jet skyward from Venezuela's shores and cities and summit above the morning coastal fog. Venezuela's contrasting scenery can certainly be a metaphor of how its stifling government pollutes the concept of free speech and inhibits the concept of outstanding journalism.

In the lobby of El Nacional, we were met by Yaemi Vargas, a mousy-looking young journalist in her early twenties with a thick accent. At first, our visit seemed like a standard guided tour you would attend with your elementary school class or girl scout troop. The building's layout was typical for a newspaper - the paper's name in gold block lettering in the lobby, an open newsroom divided by short cubicles decorated with computer screens and phones ringing to the rhythm of fact checks and interviews. The only thing particularly interesting so far was checking out El Nacional's printing press - a hand-me-down from a Boston newsroom circa 1940-something that runs like a wizz. The press looked ancient and heavy but its mechanic, who spoke broken English and was spotted with black ink, swore by its efficiency and speed.


After the tour, we squeezed into a hallway that offered a bench and just barely enough floor space for all of us. Class was about to begin and the day's lesson is one that will stick with me forever. Two other of El Nacional's staff joined us, a young male photographer and a young female reporter. They both spoke English well but the the second female reporter spoke as if she grew up in a Latin neighborhood in New York, despite having never been to the States. The three journalists dished insight on what it is like to be a journalist in Venezuela, stating that the government, headed by Hugo Chavez, considers the press public enemy numero uno. El Nacional is a left-centered, family owned newspaper that is usually is critical of Chavez and the government. It is one of Venezuela's most circulated news publications, along with El Universal. The newspaper's building has been vandalized by Chavez supporters who have thrown bricks with hate messages attached through its front windows. The newspaper has received bomb threats and on more than one occasion and reporters have feared for their lives even when attending to daily activity outside of work.

Despite the heavy matter being addressed, all three reporters spoke articulately and with confidence. I was surprised by their composure. One of them said that most active journalists in Venezuela are young and female, a statistic that also surprised me. Not to say by any means that South American journalism is a "man's job," but I was in awe by the fact that so many young women wanted to become revolutionists despite threats of violence and and the thought of pending free speech. Leaving the newsroom, my mind was pregnant with so many concepts of ethics and contradicting politics. For the entire forty minute bus ride back to the ship, I tried to make notes in my journal about the conclusions I had made from the day's affairs, but I couldn't find the words. I stared out the window for the rest of the trip back in a state of silent disposition. Now a year and a half later, I thumbed through the journal I brought with me on all of my travels with Semester At Sea to recall material for this blog. A few pages in, under the heading "El Nacional Newsroom visit," my brief entry of facts and notes about the atmosphere of our meeting is ended with "Conclusions:..." followed by an empty space on the page. Apparently, that was the most sense I could make out of Venezuelan journalism.

For another read about the real risks, read this article about the murder of two Venezuelan journalists of other Chavez-critical publications in June 2006, the summer after my visit.

Balancing Act

How do you define 'balance?' Does it make you think of trapeze artists, gymnasts or yoga gurus? Do you apply it to the relationship between work and family? Or is 'balance' merely some word you have used to jazz up a paper or a story when what you're really trying to say escapes you?

For me, it's a combination of ink and identity.

In August of 2005, I set sail on the voyage of a lifetime as a student of Semester At Sea. In 100 days, my class circumnavigated the globe trekking nine different countries ultimately covering over 25,000 miles of land and sea. Prior to departure, I found the need to do some major soul searching. Afterall, this was my first attempt at international travel and I had a feeling that dozens of encounters with the unknown and unfamiliar awaited me. This quest for a personal foundation would be a treasure hunt with no map and no fellow comrades. At the end of the dotted line, I didn't exactly find a chest of ancient pirate's booty, but something infinitely more valuable: my own sense of personal balance...and a tattoo shop.

Three weeks before leaving for the Bahamas to meet my ship, the MV Explorer, I left on my lunch break to meet my appointment across the street at Tatfu Tattoo in downtown Flagstaff. I had a design dropped off the day before - a "simple something" that was was almost a year in the making. The design I chose fit all the right standards that I had regarding personal mutilation: personal, discrete, and placed somewhere that wouldn't show on the job or at my wedding. My cousin worked kitty corner to me and I forced her to come on her lunch break as a witness. Nick, my 'artist' told me that my tattoo would only take 15 minutes or so - no sweat, right? After playing with size and exact placement, I apprehensively agreed on an end result. A solid 15 minutes later, I did break a sweat and winced more than once, but I was a slightly different person. I was inked...



I managed to keep my tattoo a secret from my parents for the next three weeks. I had no intentions of hiding it from them - I was 20 years old and totally capable of making these kinds of decisions on my own. I figured, though, I'd let them find it themselves. My parents knew I wanted a tattoo - I brought 'the idea' up at dinner after I had already made my appointment. It was immediately met with opposition. My dad thinks tattoos are unnecessary and only sought out in acts of teenage rebellion, in my case delayed teenage rebellion. My mom stated that I was putting my entire experience with Semester At Sea at risk because my foot will get infected and I'll be sent home as a festering mess...

My dad saw it first in our hotel in Nassau while my mom was in the bathroom. As I was putting sunscreen on my legs, my dad stopped dead in his tracks and peered at the arch of my left foot.

"Did one of those ladies on the beach draw that on you?" he asked, completely in denial.
"No, it's real. I got my tattoo, dad."
My dad rolled his eyes and sighed acknowledging the fact that at least a dozen hairs on his head just turned grey.
"Well just don't let your mother see."

A matter of hours later, the three of us were at a ferry station waiting to explore the next island over. My parents were sitting on a bench and I stood about two feet in front of them when suddenly my mom's gazed became fixed toward the ground. She lifted her sunglasses to reveal an appalling look on her face.
"What is that on your foot?" she quizzed.
"I got a tattoo, mom."
"What does it say??"
"Balance." I took off my flip flop and stuck my foot in her face. My mom didn't move...and then she sobbed. 'Oh god, I made mom cry...' I thought. I started to explain in the most concise way possible the mental and emotional journey I went on that resulted in being inked when mom sobbed again and dad forced a smile.
"Oh honey, that's beautiful!" To my surprise, she liked it - she appreciated it! I saw my dad relax a little, but he still kept quiet.

My mom cried "happy tears" for the next 24 hours. I felt a sense of relief from her emotion. I think my parents know they raised a daughter right despite displaying innocent tattoos (multiple piercings and fuschia-colored hair dye are also a part of my past). I am their only little golden bundle of something wonderful that is the result of all their hard work and good intentions, and I was moments away from leaving the nest for bigger and better things. I felt like my parents understood me more as an individual and were more willing to let me brave the world, literally, on my own. I too, understood myself more than I ever had. I felt balanced.

Until next time, bon voyage!