Global Osmosis

Grabbag

2011-07-21T16:28:00.000-07:00

In no way do I intend to trivialize my experience in China (or anyone else's for that matter), but I will say that the list of places I saw while in Beijing came out of a travel guide. I saw the Great Wall, of course, and the Summer Palace, the Ming Tombs, and the site of the 2008 Olympics. I traveled with my fellow tea scammed for the week that I was there, which didn't help to separate me from all of the other tourists meandering the same route of historic places.

As redeeming as it was to share tales of Chinese landmarks when home and have friends and family actually know what I was talking about, travel is more worthwhile when I don't come home with a host of stories that could have come out of Frommer's. (No offense Frommer's)

It's easy to get lost in the crowd in a new city, but if you're paying attention you might pick up on a couple of things like these to distinguish your trip...

Foridden City take one...

And take two...

Despite the inevitable crowds at The Summer Palace, there's peace to be found on-site at Kunming Lake. You wont regret renting a paddle boat and taking in the sights from afar.

The PekingUni International Youth Hostel is an extension of campus dorms that will land you in a bunk next to a variety of students and travelers from all over the world. I happened to meet a professor from Shanghai and a lost adventurer whose next stop was Cambodia. I recommend bringing an extra blanket to this dig - the two sleeping options are under the thin blanket provided, or with arms and legs exposed using the blanket as a sort of cushion for the mattress, or I should say board, below.

Down the street from the hostel is Lush Bar, which sits atop a bookstore and some other clothing shops. It's an American-style pub and open mic venue owned by an Australian and one of China's former pop stars. Be careful with the giant electric blue Adios Mothafuckas- after one of those I was singing an old Dave Matthews favorite (off-key and 3 beats behind) to the room of strangers.

We saw an acrobatics show that was a humble Cirque de Soleil with performers so bendy I felt compelled to do more yoga upon returning home.

Immediately after being tea scammed, we stumbled upon what I like to call "the skewer festival"- an outdoor food market with snacks on sticks for strong stomachs, and adventurous eaters. I ate snake and banana cakes. My friends grubbed on chicken stir fry wraps ans silkworm. Also available at this market: starfish, shrimp, scorpion, squid, cat and dog.

The Tea Scam

2011-05-08T10:54:00.000-07:00

It was hard not to follow Janie. She wanted to practice her English with us. She complemented our beautiful skin. And she offered to lead us out of the cold and away from the swarms of other tourists.

After a long night at the ice bar in Hong Kong and an early morning flight, we were exhausted when we arrived in Beijing. Despite our fatigue, we'd adopted the traveler's "I'll sleep when I get home" mentality, so we headed out to visit Tiananmens Square.

The sun lay close to the horizon for more than half the day, reminding us that we were across the world from home. When it finally did go down, we found ourselves buying expired "2008 Olympics" beanies to stay warm.

When Janie approached us I wondered how she found us, or why she chose us, in the sea of other visitors at the world's largest city square. When I look back at the photos and consider our head wear, I realize how easy it was for her to spot us, even from across the site's 440,000 square meters.

When Janie spoke our language and offered to lead us to a restaurant with some of China's most authentic cuisine, we gladly accepted her invitation. We followed her white leather-shoed footsteps out of the square and into a series of dark streets, all lined with tall brick walls. She adjusted her sparkling headband often, chatting away about her love for the American Pie movies and the Backstreet Boys. We adjusted our beanies further down over our ears as the cold night set in, and continued to follow this stranger who promised a Chinese experience different than the tourist trap at the Square.

We emerged out of the walled alley ways onto a busy street with red lanterns hanging across skyscrapers above. Janie led us to a small restaurant brimming with eaters and imbibers. "It's too busy here," she complained. "Let's go get a beer first."

So we followed her again through the maze of brick walls, disappearing again into the dark network of alleyways. This time when we came out, we were on a darker, quiet street. I wished there were lanterns -it was so dark, and bitter cold, and I was starting to wonder why we'd walked so far for a brew. Wasn't there alcohol on the busy street we'd been on before?

Janie knocked on a dark green door. A grandmother-like woman silently opened it up and motioned for us to come inside. She counted the eight of us, and corralled four of my friends into one small room, and four of us into another. Before I could ask where the beer was and what the hell we were doing, another woman came in and delivered teacups and a variety of herbs to our table. She didn't speak either, but she began filling our cups with samples of tea - ginseng, jasmine, fruit tea, wheat tea, green tea, black tea.

Janie translated. "This is a traditional Chinese tea ceremony. These small cups are meant to be drank in three sips. Place your pointer finger and thumb around the rim of the cup and your middle finger underneath. Go ahead, try it."

We drank the small cups of tea in three sips each. Janie instructed the guys in our group to stack up their other two fingers underneath their middle fingers while drinking, and the girls to point theirs out. This was a sign of male professionalism and female beauty, she said. I wondered if my other four friends were also stacking their fingers in the other tiny room.

Janie taught us "Gan Bei," or cheers, and encouraged us to keep trying the different varieties of tea. I had no idea where in China I was, how I would get back to my hostel, or where the food and beer I'd been promised was, but the tea was delicious so I kept sipping.

Ten varieties of tea later, and yet another woman came in to deliver receipts. They were written in Chinese, obviously, so Janie continued translating. "500 Yuan... each."

My friends and I stared at each other in shock. We hadn't been given a menu, and we had never expected to rack up a bill of $75 American dollars each. We looked to Janie hoping to find similar shock in her face, but all we saw were her sparkling headband and cheerful smile flashing back at us.

So we paid. We came out of the little room to find our four other friends similarly awestruck by the price of the tea ceremony, and the distinct suspicion that we'd all been scammed.

Janie stayed behind at the tea house, where she had clearly come from in the first place, and bid us farewell before we walked back out into the cold, dark alleyway. We walked away in silence, with absolutely no idea where we were going. We pulled our beanies back down over our ears.

24 Hours in Hong Kong

2011-01-04T15:46:00.000-08:00

I don’t step onto land when I step off the ship in Hong Kong. Instead, I step into a hallway portal that spits me out into a fluorescently lit shopping mall. There’s a Starbucks next to Calvin Klein with a stack of newspapers on the counter all featuring Barak Obama’s face on the front cover. Today is November 13th, 2008.

It feels like a mile of window shopping before I see sunlight. I wait for the ferry from Kowloon Island to Hong Kong Island while Taylor buys an egg something from a street vendor.

We get off the ferry and onto a two-story cab/bus that weaves between skyscrapers that make me feel as if I’m inside of a video game.

We ride the trolley up to Victoria Peak.

We stroll the Hong Kong Botanic Gardens…

And Hong Kong Park.

We catch the ferry back to Kowloon Island…

so that we can catch the light show at nightfall.

Before the night is through we’ll go over the ferry once more to drink at The Russian Vodka room, a bar made of ice. Too bad I’m allergic to vodka. I went for the parka, anyway.

Gains and Loses

2010-12-08T00:59:00.000-08:00

November 5, 2008

My back's to the wake of the ship, roasting. Sitting crosslegged on the wooden deck against the metal railing. Journal in lap. Pen ready. The assignment: write a list of things gained and lost thus far on this journey. Here goes.

Gains:

friendships, connections

passion for writing things down

a floating home

energy

the notion of self- morally, professionally, humorously

a sense of adventure, and open-mindedness

travel bug

this could go on for a while...

Loses:

the birth of my nephew

a landmark election (the first time I ever voted was absentee via sea)

football season

the change of seasons

some of my vulnerability

my own reality

a sense of time

I recommend writing this list whenever you travel, especially on long journeys. Write it at your halfway point like I did, and then rewrite it again when you get home.

Grabbag

2010-12-01T00:02:00.000-08:00

Randomness and highlights from a week in Vietnam, in no particular order, with no particular meaning.

The view from the bar that I brought my laundry to.

Bag of laundry in one hand, Tiger beer in the other. Travel will definitely push the limit on what you're willing to carry around with you. We've even got a backpack in this one.

Kem Bach Dang ice cream topped with pineapple, figs, and my first strawberry since leaving the United States. Amy's face says it all.

Peace and quiet.

Drink menu...

... I ordered the avocado shake instead (didn't order the American flag). I'm still wondering what a "Sex on the Pool" is.

My final journal entry before boarding the ship:

Vietnam was the most all-encompassing port yet. Educational, culural, visual, fun!, entertaining, tasty, emotional... the most meaningful.

War Journalism: A Question of Ethics

2010-11-16T15:54:00.000-08:00

An image at the War Remnants Museum has got me thinking about ethical journalism. It was a photo of a terrified family holding on to one another; the caption read that the photographer asked a firing squad standing out of the photo’s frame to hold fire so that he could take his shot first.

I think he exploited the family in their time of ultimate fear and confusion –at what point does documentation become dehumanization?

I went on to irrationally slander war journalists for passively witnessing cruelty for their work. I called them cowards. The writing, which I’ll respectfully exclude from Global Osmosis, reflects the frustration and sadness that I felt as I examined the gruesome, chaotic, devastating photos at the War Remnants exhibit. Ignorant to the extent of the war before visiting Vietnam, I was overwhelmed by its chronic impact.

I am a visual learner. It wasn’t until I could see the conflict (euphemism for carnage) between America and Vietnam, in the museum photos that I could even begin to comprehend it.

War photographers, as a whole, are far from cowardly. It would be hypocritical to nark on these journalists who have heightened my understanding of what exactly a war is. And in the same breath I still question where you draw the line and put down the damn camera.

War Tour

2010-11-01T16:38:00.000-07:00

While I'm not typically an advocate of guided tours while traveling, I can honestly say that I got more out of these few hours in Vietnam than I've gotten out of days, even weeks, in other places. The war became tangible for me on a tour of the Củ Chi Tunnels.

Here's a photo tour; I hope you approach it with skepticism.

A series of underground tunnels underlies Ho Chi Minh City. This network called the Củ Chi Tunnels is deeply rooted in Vietnamese soil and history. During the war, the tunnels hosted a whole range of activities- from hiding to combat, from transportation of supplies to access to medicine.

The tunnels have since been expanded to accommodate large groups of tourists, and large tourists.

Here's my foot next to the entrance. Hard to believe it used to be smaller, let alone the fact that people lived down there.

Paintings on the walls at the Cu Chi Tunnels exhibit.

The military cemetery for the Viet Cong and the North Vietnamese Army.

The final stop in the tour was a shooting range. Yes, a shooting range. It cost extra, and it was a spectacle, to say the least. I couldn't shoot a gun on these grounds. Couldn't even consider it.

"Effects Yet To Be Reckoned"

2010-10-18T10:44:00.000-07:00

I once read that the United States military troops sprayed at least 20 million gallons of Agent Orange, or toxic herbicides, in Vietnam during the war. I looked it up, and according to the U.S. Department of Veterans affairs, this deadly chemical causes a variety of cancers, heart diseases, Hodgkin’s disease, Leukemia, diabetes, neuropathy and liver dysfunction. The chemical also causes birth defects, such as Spina Bifida, in the children of veterans. The physical mutations of Agent Orange in people in Vietnam were prevalent, to say the least.

I wrote one sentence in my journal the day we visited the War Remnants Museum:

Why does history keep repeating?

In Steve Hawley’s feature “What We Leave Behind” in the Winter 2004 Issue of the Bear Deluxe Magazine, he predicts, “Amid former battlefields [in Iraq], contaminated with depleted uranium, or DU, the true costs of war have yet to be reckoned.”

Hawley’s article reveals the overwhelming amount of toxic DU in Iraq from U.S. bullets. The numbers are staggering- some 260 to 270 millirads of radiation are emitted with a single charred bullet. Hawley points out that the limit of exposure for non-radiation workers is 100 millirads per year.

He also points out research suggesting that damage done by DU often manifests itself in the next generation. Just like Agent Orange, DU is a genotoxin that alters DNA, often in the children of people who have been exposed to it.

I’ll write it one more time:

Why does history keep repeating?

Quite The Show

2010-10-13T09:34:00.000-07:00

"Show don't tell."

That's what every teacher and professor has instructed me to do with my words for as long as I can remember. Writing should paint a vivid picture with sensory statements and artfully incorporate detail. It should establish a sense of place, so much so that the reader feel as if he or she is there.

It's often difficult to show rather than tell travel stories because they represent my individual perceptions. They are not generalizations about these places or these people; they are just my own experiences. In no way am I qualified to speak knowledgably about these cultures. I'm simply documenting the mere hours I was there.

As you read my blogging, specificially about Vietnam, I encourage you to keep in mind that these are my own experiences painted with colorful words. In order to explain the things that I saw and how I felt about them, I must write candidly.

I visited the War Remnants Museum in Saigon and joined a mass of other tourists to mill through it's sobering maze of artifacts, books, testimonials and photography about "The American War in Vietnam." The western world calls it "The Vietnam War." Enough said.

As I scanned war photography, an English woman came alongside of me to ask what information I'd learned about the war in American school, and I was ashamed to respond "not much." Sure "The Vietnam War" had been in my textbooks, but certainly not in the graphic detail I experienced at the museum that day. It was at that photography exhibit that the war became tangible to me, and this is what I wrote...

Images That Will Never Leave Me

A soldier doubled over magazine crates, sobbing. The photographer must have caught him taking a private moment.

The black and white of an airplane lifting a dead American soldier from underneath. Bold and simple. While dead American soldiers were flown home, dead Vietnamese soldiers were left to die in the ruins.

An American soldier crouching in the grass to hold the bloody remains of a Vietnamese civilian. His face is ragged and torn. I have no words.

Worthwhile Wake-Up Call

2010-10-05T17:04:00.000-07:00

I woke up early and sleepily trudged to the bus that would be taking me to one of the most authentic forms of entertainment in Vietnam, or so everyone said. I was skeptical. In my pre-coffee haze I started to question why an early morning water puppet show had sounded like such a good idea.

Maybe I was intrigued by the ambiguity involved with Vietnamese water puppetry. It takes two to three years of training in school to learn the secrets of crafting the bamboo puppets. Historically, some shows were performed in villages in secret so that overruling governments couldn’t copyright them.

Our bus arrived and we assembled into a small outdoor amphitheater with a pond-sized pool where you’d expect a stage to be. From seemingly out of nowhere, a cast of bamboo characters appeared on the water. They erupted into an intricately choreographed routine.

I finally awakened from my slumber after the first splash of water on my face. The energetic, multicolored puppets held my captive attention for the rest of the show.

The puppeteers came out from behind the back curtain at the end of the show to reveal a bit of the mystery. During the performance, they wade in the pond and operate the puppets from underneath the surface of the water.

It’s clear they’ve put a great deal of practice into the routine, and their beaming faces suggest the amount of pride they take in their performance.

Water puppets are integral to Vietnamese culture; they represent a commitment to detailed craftsmanship, and emphasize the significance of education. The puppets have been used in the rice and rain ceremonies. They even suggest a certain gender division of labor. Our speaker tells us that women were not allowed to know the secrets of the puppets until 1956. He says, “Since then, the shows have become more gentle and beautiful.”

The puppet show is one I recommend to anyone traveling in Vietnam. It’s bright, entertaining and bound to make you smile. It’s worth waking up for.

Catching a Buzz

2010-07-17T19:31:00.000-07:00

My good friend and seasoned traveler Leah Olson discovered weasel coffee during the several months that she lived and backpacked in Vietnam. She regurgitates what she found in an article about the country for Ethos Magazine, which I was proud to provide the photos for.

I often write in coffee shops - I settle into a freshly brewed cup of java and flow to the caffeine buzz that follows, attempting to sync head and hands completely as I convert rambling thoughts into text-heavy journal pages. Here's a direct excerpt from one of the best coffee producers in the world.

I'm in tune with the rhythm of the world today. I'm marching to the beat of whatever grand drum is pounding out there and somehow finding contentment in the midst of the insane chaos that is Ho Chi Minh. Maybe it's timing, maybe I'm becoming a skilled traveler, or maybe I lucked out. I'm sipping caramel coffee at Trung Nguyen. Body and mind are at peace while buzzing motos speed past, flashing lights in the coffee shop window. We're in writing moods, occasionally stopping to share excerpts, jotting and sipping. We are right in line with today's cadence. While in Vietnam I'm finding the universe.

A Place to be Savored

2010-07-12T23:14:00.000-07:00

The Mekong Delta dominates Southern Vietnam. It's a 15,000-square mile network of channels and streams that empty into the Mekong River. Known as Vietnam's "rice basket," the region feeds the rest of the country, in essence. And it's the lush home for countless species, more than one thousand of them which were discovered within the last decade. Recent news articles spout conflicting opinions about the future of the delta, some in favor of mass preservation of the area, and others hoping to develop it with more extensive infrastructure. With 10 million tourists who have already visited this year, I'm not surprised the Mekong Delta is high on media radar.

I'm also not surprised at that striking number of tourists -it's a beautiful place. It makes for relaxing days of floating down canals on sam pam rowing boats while munching on sweet lychee fruit, swaying side to side in hammocks above the water to the sounds of banjo bands behind, and strolling through the waterside marketplaces. There is locally farmed honey and coconut candy called Que Dua to taste.

Life moves a little slower on the delta. It's simplistic. Neighborly. Archaic even. These photos remind me of the authenticity of that place, and the fact that it should be savored.

City Verve

2010-05-26T10:30:00.000-07:00

I got lost in the Bin Thang marketplace today. It's an explosion of trinkets, t-shirts, bags, fabrics, perfume, scarves, souvenir boxes, buddha figurines, candy, posters, shoes, purses, bracelets, paintings, plates, dresses, robes, and anything else you might want to buy cheap and haggle cheaper. I've never seen more stuff packed into one place before.

I met a friend: Lei Lei. She told me Tiger Beer t-shirts and wrote Vietnamese phrases in my journal. She kept passing me in the market and tapping my shoulder, saying "ello friend!"

The crowded marketplace is much like the crowded city streets of Ho Chi Mihn. It's a frantic environment- excessive signage, spiratic bursts of color, flashing lights, thousands of motos zooming by, crammed shops, street vendors yelling wildly into crowds and steam sizzling off food carts from every direction.

I met another friend, but I never did get his name, or much conversation out of him at all. He saw me walking, or attempting to walk, across the crowded street and came quickly to my aid. He left his moto alongside the brick wall of an alley and then darted into the street in front of me. He raised his arms up and held up his hands as if to stop traffic on both sides, never losing his steady pace. The zipping motos didn't ever stop for him, but they did manage to veer around him, and I followed closely behind to safety on the other side. When we got there he shook my hand with both of his, flashed me a toothy grin, and turned around with his arms up to cross back. Then he disappeared into the verve.

Good Morning, Vietnam

2010-05-24T13:22:00.000-07:00

I miss the sensation of getting rocked to sleep by waves –and waking up in a place I’ve never been. From the inside of the large cruiser, the waves were usually so mild, and combined with the sound of gentle splashes against the side of my small porthole window as it filled with scenes of water and then starry sky, they soothed me to slumber that I didn’t know possible. On those nights when I could only see water and sky around me, the ship felt small. And then it would pull into port and rest aside vessels of similar caliber, and it felt a little more significant. And then the ship drifted from the ocean and squeezed into a river with walls of lush vegetation immediately surrounding it. Folks along at the riverside with rolled up pants looked wide-eyed at the immense transportation slowly passing by. And then the ship felt massive. I was more than aware of its presence that first morning in Vietnam. In the next week I would become painfully aware of my own presence as well.

Grabbag

2010-05-20T16:10:00.000-07:00

Like most spontaneous traveling, my time in Malaysia was a sundry mix of experiences, so eclectic that it's been difficult to organize them into succinct posts. The journal pages are not only scattered, but scribbly due to documenting during moving traffic and transportation. So, I'll just go with it. Here are my last few takeaways from the land of the flag with the sun and the moon...

I learned to use chopsticks for the first time at that food court, right after my discovery of Tiger Beer. Despite my love for Asian food growing up, I'd never been able to master those little bamboo widdles that always made grains of rice seem so daunting. With the help of a patient friend and a determined "when in Rome" attitude, I conquered them that day.

Into incense? Imagine these babies outside of your house.

Family-style meals make for some interesting dinner companions, who sometimes even invite themselves to your table.

And finally, before the ship docked, en route to Vietnam, I wrote these words:

At the end of each port, I always seem to have the same conversation with a local I've befriended: "I love this place. I don't want to leave."

TOURIST turned traveler

2010-04-29T11:55:00.000-07:00

The days after visiting India gained velocity –traveling became a rush against the clock as we docked from one Asian country to the next for the following few weeks, taking the days at sea in between each port to alleviate sleep deprivation and travel-worn, tired feet. India marked the physical halfway point in our journey ‘round the globe, and the thought that we were now turning around ignited our stamina to see and do everything possible. As a result, journal entries became more and more scattered; statements quickly turned to phrases and jots. Like all travel experiences, those crazy days have required some significant processing time. After all, it’s been more than a year since the voyage and I’ve only documented the first half… and I’ve only skimmed the surface.

Before the whirlwind begins, I’d like to take a step back from Malaysia tales and return across the Bay of Bengal to India, to the day I realized how not to travel, and the day that inspired the creation of this blog.

The last two days in New Delhi have been a blur of sights and sounds and buildings and tour guides. Traveling in a large group is getting intense, and half the time we can’t even get out of the bus that reads “TOURIST” in huge block letters across the front. This is not experiencing culture- it’s a human zoo with a metal barrier.

To elaborate on the intensity I described, I’d like to add that the bus reading “TOURIST” was filled with at least 50 American students, and it followed another bus with the same capacity and the same demoralizing word slapped across the front. It was a scorching day with no clouds in the sky. The windows of the bus wouldn’t come open. Someone threw up that morning, and the stench had permeated throughout the entire vehicle. I was doused in sweat and could only focus my thoughts on how rewarding a tall glass of ice water, or maybe a cold brew, sounded. As the bus jumped from Agra to the Taj Mahal to the Fatehpur Sikri village, I watched them float across tattered, foggy windows. Although I spotted all of the famous buildings that the tour guide pointed out, my memories from that day still consist of tang and discomfort on that mucky bus.

When we did get out of the bus, street vendors swarmed us… And for good reason: The “TOURIST” label was practically an invitation to attack us with trinkets for sale. Most of the desperate vendors couldn’t have been more than ten years old, and all I could wonder was whom they would bring their magnet-sale money home to that night, or if there was home to go to at all.

I decided that if I have a label I'd like it to be "traveler" instead of TOURIST. I knew I was missing out on conversations, (bearable) scents, sounds of the city, smiles with passersby, and the like by sitting sedentarily watching it all go by. I had flashbacks of the huge bus that invaded the favelas in Brazil, and the standardized lion-hunting safari drive in South Africa. In all of those situations I was just sitting in some sort of transportation, removed from the activity around me. It was one of those epiphany, “a-ha!” moments –I didn’t want to be an audience to the bustling streets of India; I wanted to be a participant.

I kept writing frantically. As I formulated my plan for this blog, the oh-so-overused cliché kept running through my head. “Live for the journey, not the destination.” I overuse it here once more because although chestnut, the phrase reminds me to slow down a bit and take it all in.

I think this blog will help me to tell all my stories –and it will get me started on my future journey. It will be a “travel” blog about virtually anything I do. Let’s face it –traveling means waiting in lines, getting lost, experiencing mass transit, getting confused, feeling uncomfortable and doing a hell of a lot of sitting. You don’t have to be in a new country to do all that. Traveling can happen anywhere, and the results are transformative. I think I’ll call it “En Route” or “In Transit” until I can come up with something cleverer. Endless possibilities because I’m always headed somewhere –I’ll be in transit my whole life.

So now with a breath of fresh air, so to speak, back to Malaysia, and the following countries, and beyond. I continue to journal to this day, and I'm excited for the evolution of Global Osmosis (a much more fitting title than "In Transit," if you ask me).

The Petronas Towers

2010-04-27T17:31:00.000-07:00

"A visit to Kuala Lumpur wouldn't be complete without a visit to the infamous Petrona Towers, the second-tallest buildings in the world, surpassed only by Taipei 101 in Taiwan," -or so the travel books say.

I never made it to the top of the skyscrapers, but I did lay on the pavement below.

"Lip-Sweat Warrior Water"

2010-04-25T21:31:00.000-07:00

It’s water. Deliciously frothy, light and crisp lip-sweat warrior water.

I wrote this statement stuck to a plastic chair in the mucky humidity of a fishbowl food court in an outside shopping mall, pillows of steam clamming my face from every direction. The pillows are drifting from lines of food stands of all sorts. One for curry, one for dim sum, one for sushi, one for fresh fruit, one for pad thai… the list goes on.

And then, in the middle of it all, is a food stand dedicated to Tiger beer. Just Tiger. In 22 ounce bottles. Only 22 ounce bottles.

It’s on tap in seven countries, and available in 60, but I could only find it in those big bottles. They would immediately accumulate a layer of watery condensation, much like the beer inside.

Typically I’m more of a dark brew devotee, but there was something about the Tiger that I couldn’t put down. Apparently there’s something in the water, too, because Tiger has been internationally recognized by brewmaster’s associations since Heineken crafted the first batch in 1930. It won the 2004 World Beer Cup and the 2005 Wine & Spirit International Beer Challenge. And it won me over the week I visited Malaysia.

Family-Style Feasting

2010-04-16T06:37:00.000-07:00

Deep-fried prawns and a round of Tiger Beer. It seems as if our menu orders arrive before we can even sit down on the plastic chairs in the restaurant. The cheery man, presumably the owner, serving us moves hastily to deliver the Heineken-crafted Singapore beers and a plate of sizzling hot seafood onto the plastic sheet covering the lawn table at which we’re seated. There are three of these tables; one of them serves as a cash register where the owner sits behind a box of bills, pretending to read his newspaper, but actually peering over its edge to see that any empty plates are quickly cleared and any dwindling beers are replaced. He never asks us if we need another 32 ounces; he just keeps them coming.

Much like the beers, the heaping plates of food that we order seem to come out of nowhere. We’re dining in a long, skinny concrete room with high ceilings and what looks like open garage doors on either side. There are no windows, the closest bathroom is probably two blocks away and there isn’t a back room or a food prep area. We don’t even smell food from where we’re sitting.

We don’t hesitate, though, to order a large meal from the mystery kitchen, and we certainly don’t mind all the beer on this burning hot day. After a few days in Malaysia, we’ve realized that tiny concrete hole-in-the-wall lawn chair parties are a Pangkor Island local treat not to be missed.

The owner doesn’t hesitate in bringing out our feast: shrimp cabbage salad with orange slices, thick black rice in lemongrass curry, bamboo shoots and chicken, green bean noodle soup, and spicy scallops swimming in coconut water. The once-oversized table is now laden with carefully arranged fresh ingredients that we transfer to our plates family-style with a drizzle of chili paste that we wash down with Tiger swigs. Food coma is inevitable.

A violent burst of island rainstorm begins outside the warehouse-esk tunnel. We can see steam rising from the hot streets. Another round of Tiger please. And some coconut ice cream with durian fruit to top it all off.

10.28.2008

2010-04-12T02:52:00.000-07:00

I can't find the words to describe the most memorable sunset I've ever experienced. But I did just find the pictures.

A Vindication for Audacity

2010-04-04T01:17:00.002-07:00

I spent my last afternoon in Chennai at Mocha, a hookah bar clad with tapestries and dim hanging lights and gem-toned embroidered pillows to lounge on. Friends and I posted up outside to sip chai tea under a the green canopy and write some postcards.

My message to my family couldn’t fit in the scarce white space on my postcard, so I composed a letter in my journal instead. Here’s an excerpt.

This trip has taken me so far from my comfort zone in so many ways –just as I had hoped. Before the first port, I made it my goal to take a risk in every country, or at least try something new. I would do something that terrified me, or something that I would absolutely refuse to do at home.

I hiked LenSois and jumped off cliffs in Brazil. I get nervous while precariously hiking because I don’t know where to put my feet and II was once terrified of heights because of what jagged, deathly edge I could land on. I surrendered to all that, though, and finished the six-hour, potentially treacherous hike in its entirety. I marched to the top of the rocks, and dove fearlessly into the dark waters... And I lived.

I went sand boarding in Namibia. I’m the shameful Coloradoan who has never skied or snowb.oarded in her life. When my traveling group in Africa decided to board down a sand dune, there was no way I could continue being so lame. I lugged my heavy board up the dune and crashed, tumbled and struggled the entire way down... And I loved it.

I went skydiving in South Africa. At this point, I was a self-proclaimed thrill-seeker, an adrenaline junkie. I had newfound confidence from jumping off cliffs and falling down sand, so I decided the best option for this port would be jumping out of an airplane. I can honestly say that those four minutes of soaring through the sky and falling toward Table Mountain were the most alive I’ve ever felt.

Now I’m writing from India, where a week ago I was raring to go on the next adventure that would speed my heartbeat and mess up my hair.

But India didn’t have any extreme sports or natural structures that I could jump off of. Although I felt overwhelmed with the intensity of the traffic and crowds of people, I never felt fearful. There was only one instance when I felt especially out of my comfort zone.

A friend and I wanted to buy silk scarves and saris, so we hailed a rickshaw driver and eventually broke past the language barrier to explain to the driver that we wanted “shopping.” He bobbled his head, which we took as “yes I know exactly where you want to go.” When he drove us to St. Thomas Basilica, we realized that the bobble head meant “I have different plans for you.”

He drove us to a variety of destinations, and in between each stop we tried to tell him where we wanted to go, each time in a different way –hand gestures, different words for shopping and scarves, drawing stick figures on our arms with a pen – and each time he bobbled his head back and forth, grinned happily and zoomed down the highway. He would pull hastily to a hault at his next stop and wave for us to follow him. He speedily ran everywhere he went. We would shake our heads and submit to his strides. This went on for several hours.

At the mercy of our rickshaw driver and unable to communicate, we never did make it to the shopping center. We did; however, observe a prayer grotto, visit remains of the tsunami damage on the shore, enjoy a snake charming show down a dusty dirt path, and sip spicy tea while at a carpet-weaving lesson in a rug and silk shop. We even arrived back to the ship on time.

Well, it seems that I did find my risk. I trusted a man whose language I did not speak to transport me through a country I’d never been to before. I kept getting back into the rickshaw after each stop, well aware that I had no clue where I’d be going next. I risked getting lost and missing the ship’s departure. Now that I write about it all, my heartbeat is pumping a little faster. The windy rickshaw ride tangled my hair, too.

Q and A with the Working Women's Forum

2010-03-08T10:04:00.001-08:00

India’s census information reveals that just over a quarter of the women in the country are employed by the labor force. Most of these women are cultivators, or somehow involved in the agricultural industry. One third of them are self-employed. (http://ideas.repec.org/p/ess/wpaper/id2064.html)

In a country where one is likely to see only one or two women out of every five men on the street, the stats about women’s employment make complete sense. One out of five is not a documented fact, but merely a personal observation from roaming the streets of Chennai. I concluded that the many women I did not see were indoors, at home doing unpaid domestic work.

I was wrong. At the end of the day I found a great number of them at the Working Women’s Forum. And they probably would have been irritated to know that I thought they’d been cooking and cleaning all morning.

The Working Women’s Forum (WWF) is an Indian grassroots nonprofit that helps women get grants to start their own businesses or go to college. It also provides job training and banking education, so that women can take control of their finances and eliminate debt. It helps them get involved with unions, sign up for inexpensive healthcare and provides education about reproductive rights and care.

The group of women at the organization dressed in vibrant wrap dresses, or saris, and many of them had gold jewels pierced into their noses and ears. They came into the conference room like a rainbow peeks out from the rain, their gems sparkling in the light from the windows. They were incredibly gracious, absolutely insisting that fellow travelers and myself sit in chairs while they all teemed onto the floor. They were also incredibly warm; they communicated with their huge smiles, which I received and reciprocated. None of us spoke each other’s language. I felt welcome nonetheless.

Via translation, the women engaged us in a question and answer session. They asked questions about what jobs women do in the United States, and what roles they fill in families. They wanted to know if men or women controlled household funds, and what single moms did in our culture. When it was our turn to ask questions, here are some of the responses we got in return.

Who works more in your families- women or men?

Women, by a long shot. Many women come to the forum because their husbands aren’t working and they need to sustain their families. Women often work their jobs and then come home to care for children, cook and clean. We don’t know how we find all the time, but we make it work.

What do your husbands think about your involvement in this organization?

Many of them encourage us to come and get involved. Others are threatened by our empowerment. But no matter what, they shut their mouths when we bring home money at the end of the day.

Our mother and father-in-laws present greater opposition. They are more traditional, and feel as if their sons need to be the heads of the household.

When do women in India usually get married?

Usually around the age of twenty, but the socialized limit is 21. One woman here got married when she was ten.

And how many babies do they typically have?

We are different than many women because we know about family planning now. We all hope to have one or two, so that we can provide better for less people. The Working Women’s Forum sponsors a family planning project that many of us volunteer for.

The WWF provides the means to get loans, but do they ever give out actual funds?

No. Sometimes women’s immediate response to cash in hand is to bring it straight to their husbands. That defeats the point.

What are some of the biggest challenges that you face in your every day lives?

The same challenges that you face. Sure there are financial issues, violence, poverty, our children, and many other social problems that lack public solutions, but our biggest challenges are internal rather than external. One woman here pushes a breakfast cart for her job. She is often scared that she will be robbed, and sometimes the police wont even let her set up for her sales. Each woman’s challenge is different than the next.

What keeps you coming back to the WWF?

The sense of community. These are our friends, and we bring our children.

What are you doing at WWF today?

(They pull out a bottle and pass it around for us to smell.) We’re teaching a workshop on how to make aromatherapy products and make profit off of them.

Our day at WWF ended with a shared cup of caramel-flavored chai tea, and a hoopla of dancing and singing with the ladies. We hugged and kissed everyone on our way out. I left hoping to one day exhibit some of the strength, and complete gorgeousness, I found in that room.

To learn more about WWF and get involved, go to http://www.workingwomensforum.org/index.htm.

Sunset Slippers

2010-01-31T00:40:00.000-08:00

If you’ve seen a picture or a postcard of the Taj Mahal, then you’ve seen the Taj Mahal. You’ve even seen it in its prime.

If you were to see it with your own eyes, it would be much like the postcards that I sent out from India, except the postcards don’t have masses of people in them. Thousands of people walk around barefoot or cover their shoes with gauzy bags to protect this notorious space from their tread. Some of them kneel to pray, and others kneel to get the right camera angles. The immaculate tiled walkways are swarmed with tourists and tour guides, lovers and families, the old and the young. Even with chatter and camera flashes in the background, the scene seems to go silent at sunset just when the planet aligns with the sun to cast a orange glow on the grandiose structure. The orange becomes purple as the sun softens into horizon. And it is brilliant.

So it’s possible to see the Taj in its prime via postcard, but that piece of paper could never allow you to feel it. Standing on that brick is humbling; it makes you fell small, and young. Gazing at those colors and that design is perplexing. And wearing those slippers is itchy, but certainly completes the dazzling experience.

The experience is one inspired by Mumtaz Mahal, the wife of emperor Shah Jahan. As the love story goes, the emperor told the empress on her deathbed that he would build a structure symbolic of their love. One year later, the devoted widower began designing the marble tomb with patterned gemstones.

Maybe it’s the massive headcount on the premises, or perhaps it’s the charming origin that creates the Taj’s majesty. There’s a power about that place that no camera could capture. But it makes sense that we’d all like to take a little sliver of it home... I brought the booties.

Lion Hunting

2009-12-21T11:35:00.005-08:00

I rode in a safari jeep for nearly 12 hours through Kruger National Park, eyes peeled for a fierce, majestic wildcat...

I finally spotted one behind a sheet of glass at the MGM Hotel
in Las Vegas.

I'm still not quite sure how I feel about all this. At least safari made for some good photo opps.

Kiddos

2009-12-21T10:57:00.001-08:00

They are curiously charming, and charmingly curious.
They are collectively chaotic, consistently capricious and candidly cheerful.

They are children. They are kiddos, adolescents, bambinos, bambinas innocents, cherubs, crianças, niños pequeños, infants, enfants… No matter what we call them, they are representatives of youth, and sweet immaturity. They remind us fondly of our own naivety. And they remind us how to play,

The squirts I spent time with in Sea Wind, South Africa are dancers and singers.

They play dress-up.

And they fall asleep in your arms when they’ve had enough.

These little lambs were especially tired on this day because a slew of new playmates from Semester at Sea crowded their classroom. We were there to take data for the school’s nutrition surveillance program sponsored by Operation Hunger, a local nonprofit.

We took each of the 86 students’ weight, height and arm circumference measurement and graphed their nutritional intake as a bell graph. The top of the curve represented ideal weight, which most of the girls reached. Most of the boys, however, fell below the curve. One program volunteer explained that boys are often more malnourished than girls because they have more freedom throughout the day to go out and play with friends. Girls are required to stay home and help their mothers with household chores, thus they have greater access to food.

Most of the children suffering from malnutrition in the school are experiencing Kwashiorkor malnutrition, a condition attributed to older siblings receiving more food within families and characterized by gaunt arms and legs, and bloated bellies.

30 million children in Africa are undernourished. To learn more about Operation Hunger’s attempt to combat this statistic, go to http://www.operationhunger.co.za/index.html.

Sunday Brunch

2009-12-17T22:17:00.000-08:00

I’m six beers deep rummaging through a 3-foot by 3-foot blue plastic bucket of chicken seeking to devour my next piece of meat. It’s a challenge to get past the many hands grabbing into the bucket; I’ve got to act fast to feast on the rapidly disappearing pile of poultry.

There are one hundred plus hungry mouths surrounding me and they’re all smeared with barbeque sauce, and dripping with beer. We don’t have napkins, or silverware, or even chairs. Our standing, at this point stumbling, bodies pack the entire township block for Mazoli’s barbeque. Booming beats and freestyle rap rhythms sound in the background. Smoke from sizzling meat fills remaining light in the sky just before sunset.

An hour prior to the raging feast, I was cheering bottles with students from the University of Cape Town. I even made drunken, pathetic attempts to spout out rhymes to rap music with some locals clad in shoulder boom boxes.

An hour before that I walked across the street to use the facilities. I had to meander through the masses crowding the street, shoulder bumping dancers and stepping on rappers’ toes.

An hour before that we ordered our protein bucket. My comrades laughed at me when I asked for a menu. The waitress took our order and asked where we might be sitting. “We’ll be around,” says my buddy Ned.

Ned has been in South Africa for half a year now. He’s study abroad at UCT and showing us around while our vessel is docked at the Waterfront. Ned casually suggested that morning that we go to a Sunday barbeque. It sounded low-key.

Ned brought us to the convenience store down the road upon arrival at the township. He pointed out that most of the people filling up the block were coming straight from church. He grabs a six-pack off the shelf, and I suggest we split it at lunch. Through chuckles he responds, “Get your own—you have some time to kill. I’m not sure you know what you’re getting yourself into. We’re going to a brai, for Christ’s sake!”

Falling for the First Time

2009-11-18T00:44:00.005-08:00

Travel stories wedged into those short four months at sea slowly surface in a variety of forms. When I told the story of skydiving in Cape Town over Table Mountain, I was speaking to a crowd of people at a Toastmaster’s meeting. Here's the speech:

I’m sitting in a plane with the side door wide open, clear goggles squeezing my ears together, engine noise blaring behind me, legs dangling off the side, and heart racing because I’m about to jump! I’m about to free-fall from 10,000 feet.

I'm about to go skydiving.

Some of my friends had dared to dive in Namibia and they raved about what an exhilarating experience it was. Some of my other friends had heard that it was cheap in South Africa. I’d never really even thought about skydiving before… not that it seemed unappealing, it had just never entered my mind.

But now it was all anyone could talk about. It was exhilarating and cheap: sold. I jumped on the bandwagon.

Last week when I researched “skydiving” I found out that it’s more common name is “parachuting.” I also found out that choosing where and when to skydive is a crucial decision that one should consider before they even decide to go. Some companies are not certified and others have higher accident rates, so many articles recommend researching which companies have more experienced instructors. Jumping from thousands of feet can be a dangerous activity and one should make sure he or she is in good hands. The average death due to parachuting is 30 out of every 100,000 jumps.

I definitely missed all those memos.

In fact, I didn’t even think about the risks or technicalities involved. I was only going to be in Africa for a week and I was going to do something outrageous while I was there. While we sailed on the ship, we were only allotted 2 hours of internet time for the entire semester. Needless to say, I did absolutely no research for my upcoming adventure. I googled “Skydive South Africa” and chose the first link on the list. I opened the website’s contact information page and immediately signed offline so as to avoid using up any extra internet time. I called the number, made reservations, and that was that.

Skydive South Africa is a member of the Parachute Association of South Africa, a governing organization that keeps parachuting companies certified and safe. The organization’s website says that all first-time skydivers are required to sign a safety waiver before they jump. When I arrived at the jump site, a friend taped me signing this waiver in a “Hi Mom and Dad” style video. What I didn’t know at the time was that they should have been there with me. Legally, persons under 21 who skydive in South Africa need written permission from their guardians.

The Parachute Association’s webpage also explains that first timers must take a 6-hour instructional safety class before they even go up in the plane. I think my entire skydiving process- including driving to and from the site—took about half that. The guides strapped me into some coils and carabineers and practically threw me onto that rickety little puddle-jumper. Before I could even blink I was in the air, plane door open, with my instructor in my ear telling me it was time to go.

Most people are slightly scarred, if not terrified, to fall thousands of feet. There is a great deal of fear and anxiety that goes along with this extreme sport, and understandably so. It’s dangerous…especially if you haven’t done your research.

But honestly, I don’t think I would have ever gone if I had to search for the right location with specialized instructors. My experience was intensified because I had limited resources and only a few days to plan. But even if you are home with unlimited internet minutes, I’d say follow your gut and be spontaneous. And not just when it comes to parachuting… we could all use a little impulse here and there.

So back to the airplane. I did a tandem jump, which means that someone attached to your back pulls the parachute for you. Julianne, my instructor, told me to put my arms above my head and let my body fall naturally whenever I was ready. There was no hesitation- I was only going to get nervous if I thought seriously about what I was doing.

I raised my arms… and fell.

For three minutes that felt like 3 seconds my body catapulted across the skyline. Lips flapping and entire body tingling. I don’t think I blinked once. I didn’t breathe. I was screaming out of excitement and the indescribable, overpowering adrenaline flowing throughout every inch of me. It was the most alive I have ever felt.

And I think I am still coming down.

This article has since been published on the Art of Backpacking website.

Asking Open-Ended Questions

2009-11-08T13:50:00.008-08:00

One needn’t travel far from the Waterfront to realize that South Africa is indeed a country of contrast, of extreme degrees between people and their environments. A few miles from the Waterfront marks the edges of the township neighborhoods, what laymen’s terms can only call “ghettos” or “slums.” On both sides of the gravel pathways are shacks of slapdash bricks with holey, cracked tin roofs. Dust settles into the clothes drying on strings tied between neighbor’s windows. I see no adults anywhere, but children flock at my feet. Their smiles consume their entire faces.

Established in 1867, District Six is one of the oldest townships in South Africa. Until government declared it a white-only area in 1896, it was the only district that housed multiple races. I learned this at the District Six Township Museum, where I interviewed our guide and the only grown up I could find. Ivy was contagious. She called everyone baby and gave us big bear hugs when the day was over. I didn't know what to ask, I just wanted to talk to her.

Ivy taught me that the contrast between black and white is only the beginning of disparity in South Africa…

Me: Tell me about family structure here.

Ivy: Just like white families, men are the head of the house. A big part of black culture is to respect men as the dominant. It’s hardest for black women because we are inferior in our skin and our sex. South African black women are the most oppressed.

Me: Tell me about your employment.

Ivy: You know that image of a man on the couch reading the newspaper while his wife makes dinner? That is over baby.

Westernization has made women and men’s roles more 50/50. Well, maybe 48/52. Men are starting to share duties at home, and women are looking for better jobs.

Me: What do women do together outside of work?

Ivy: We don’t meet in the kitchen! We get together to keep up our spirits. We embroider, have tea parties, and talk.

Thanks for the in, Ivy. And more importantly, thanks for the bear hug.

A Slice of Europe... at first glance, anyway

2009-10-01T20:00:00.002-07:00

The southern tip of Africa is the merging of the Atlantic and Indian oceans, and thus the juncture of opposing waterfronts that create violent waves rocky enough to tilt the huge cruise ship in which I sleep. But not for long though; I’m abruptly awoken by a water glass siding across the counter and shattering in the sink in my cabin. I peer out the porthole to see only deep blue water and then only sky as the ship slants back and forth.

The orange ceramic mug that I bought in Namibia is still intact. I stumble between waves to snag it before it joins the glass shards in the sink, pull on my warmest wool cap and head outside into the chilly morning mist. I post up with my steaming coffee, eager to arrive in Cape Town. As we approach land, the port city emerges from the cloudy abyss. First I see the flat top of Table Mountain, and then crisp white and baby blue buildings appear in the horizon.

The sun rises as our ship slowly pulls into port. Baby seals, undisturbed by incoming vessels and people passing, bask in the first light on a wooden plank on the dock. We’ve arrived at the Victoria and Alfred Waterfront, a nautical metropolis that was once described to me as “a slice of Europe.”

I stand at the ship railing and gulp the now cold remains of my orange mug. The vision of a crisp, affluent Africa in front of me will soon be trampled by cultural stories, colorful people and distant neighborhoods that I visit in the following week.

Countries as Appetizers

2009-09-24T10:17:00.001-07:00

Of all the reasons to travel, trying new foods is high on my list. Much thanks to foodie parents, I’ve adopted the “try everything once” attitude that served my plate and palate well around the globe. On the last day in Namibia, I went back to to Kücki’s Pub for round two of the most delectable, garlic infused and dripping with cheese, melt-in-your-mouth oysters that were so good you had to close your eyes while you slurped them out of the shell.

They were a definite step up from the fried cheese dripping with maple syrup that I ate in Brazil, though even that was unexpectedly delicious.

Namibian adventures concluded with that plate of oysters, but the world sampling would continue in South Africa.

Starry Starry Night

2009-09-15T00:15:00.007-07:00

Of his many profundities, Vincent VanGogh said, “For my part I know nothing with any certainty but the sight of the stars makes me dream.” I’d like to think that he painted Starry Starry Night shortly after that statement. Although notorious and mass-produced around us, I do believe that its brush strokes have a mesmerizing, captivating effect; the piece is truly timeless.

VanGogh also said that when he felt the need for “religion” he would simply go and paint the stars. After camping in Africa, I think he’s on to something. And I think I'll write the stars instead...

The depths of remote and rocky Namibian desert yield stars galore, so many that night becomes day with the entire universe glowing above. When I close my eyes I still see that velvet blue sky speckled with yellow glimmers, free from trees or buildings or obstruction of any sort. Just thousands of bright dots above.

Flickering candles in white paper bags filled with sand illuminate the ground around me, creating ground paths to The Namib Marimbas band playing Namibia’s national anthem in the distance. I sit fireside between rock formations echoing the line of xylophones and drums. I awake in the morning wreaking of campfire soot, and wondering if I dreamed the entire scene.

Swakopmund

2009-09-01T01:41:00.018-07:00

From makeshift soccer games to sand boarding the massive sand dunes that surround the country, skydiving over the desert, or even driving speedy cabs along the shoreline, Namibians are people in constant motion. They contrast their barren surroundings and make even the smallest towns seem sizable with bustle. In between the towns is when I become aware that I am in one of the least populated countries in the world.

The cab ride from Walvis Bay up the coast to Swakopmund is one of my more vivid memories from the entire voyage, perhaps because I became surrounded by 360 degrees of sand instead of water.

Only separated by a thin strip of highway, the white beach merges into skyscraping sand dunes. We travel a half hour before seeing any verve; finally we notice a tattered ship rocking next to a sandbar. Our cab driver crushes our excitement about a potential pirate ship, or signs of any life in general, when he tells us that the ship has been wrecked for more than two years.

We zoom further North through sand and dust clouds to arrive in Swakopmund, a beach resort spot with no tourists. During the week to follow hundreds of American students would mob the town’s variety of hostels, shoreline market, and three small bars that quickly ran out of tequila but seemed to produce an endless stream of Jagermeister. Once a province owned by Germany. Namibia maintains many of its colonial roots.

At sunset we walk past half-timber style buildings to The Tug Restaurant pier, which I later read about in a SkyAfrica on a plane in South Africa. The magazine rates the eatery as one of the top ten in the world to enjoy the sunset. It’s truly breathtaking. It’s so mesmerizing, in fact, that all I can write in my journal that night is picturesque pier.

Almost a year later those are still the only words I can think of.

"Welcome to Walvis Bay"

2009-06-06T13:46:00.010-07:00

Men with what I can tell to be dreadlocks, or maybe braids, kick around a ball of duct tape, at least it looks like duct tape from where I’m standing. They wear navy blue jumpsuits, which have to be relieving in the chilly morning air.

A train steams by miles of trucks and wooden panels. The horizon of my vision reveals warehouses and a large water tower that reads “Welcome to Walvis Bay.” My gaze is brought back to the workers as they collide kicking the make shift ball. I unsuccessfully stretch on my tiptoes to distinguish their words. I’m seven stories above them, floating in the dock as the crew from my ship splashes its already shiny sides with fresh soap and water.

I repack my bag before disembarking the ship. I add socks and extra layers- it’s freezing here. When I reach the dock, the duct tape ball kickers have resumed their work packing nearby trucks. They smile and wave frantically at the hundreds of foreign students pouring out of the spotless ship that contrasts boldly with the dusty town.

My group and I walk about a quarter mile to the gates of the port. We walk past many more blue jumpsuits and wooden panels, past barbed wire and over metal tracks. When we reach the base of the welcoming water tower, I see a naked woman caked in dirt sitting in the road. Adorned with only beads around her neck, she nurses her newborn. She’s planted on one of many tapestries laid out in the street to display wooden bowls and masks and carved jewelry for sale. Her spot is across the street from a drive-through KFC.

As we sailed through the Atlantic the night before, I couldn’t sleep. In my dark cabin I scribbled in my journal…

I’ve never considered visiting Africa before this trip. I love that I don’t know what to expect.

'Slum Tourism'

2009-05-20T00:26:00.005-07:00

I recently discovered WorldHum, a very well-developed online travel magazine. I am so hooked.

Eva Holland, thank you for keeping it real with her article, "Brazilian Favelas, 'Top Model' Style." Her discerning commentary is almost too kind.

Obrugado or da?

2009-04-11T12:42:00.008-07:00

There was a certain degree of sadness in my writing as we sailed away from each port. Just when I gathered my bearings, met a friend, or just generally felt comfortable in a new place, it would be time to board the MV Explorer and venture to a new land of unknown.

As we sailed to Namibia I couldn't believe how much I had gotten out of only the first port. I left my journal with some final words of wisdom from South America...

I learned that Brazillians kiss long and hard with lots of tongue, often with many people per night. I learned that fried bananas are probably the only way anyone should eat bananas. I learned that to articulate 'thank you' in Portuguese, women say 'Obrigada' and men say 'Obrigado.'

And finally... I learned that smiles are universal, no matter the language of the mouths making them.

Obrigada, Brazil. You treated me well.

Capoeira Lessons

2009-03-18T17:38:00.011-07:00

This is my friend Diego Soledade.

He lives in Lencois, Brazil, which is a place that you should add to your list of places to go before you die if you are any sort of adventurer, climber, tree-hugger, or basically any type of person who enjoys the outdoors.

Diego leads precarious 6-hour, 10km treks to the Lencois waterfalls from the cobblestone town. He arrived at our hostile barefoot and stayed that way all day. This agile, energetic individual can do some amazing flips and flops from the cliffs that he's touring.

He's also incredible at Capoeira, an ancient Afro-Brazillian dance and martial arts ritual. You can check out the youtube link I've got up, or you can scope some of my pictures of Diego and his friends giving us a private show in the "Bob Marley Shrine Bar," as I like to call it, after the hike. I've never seen more Bob Marley images in a smaller space.

Letters Home

2009-03-17T13:55:00.005-07:00

I sift through journal pages and notice a common theme: letters.

My normal methods of communication ceased to exist during the trip; students were limited to a mere 2 hours of Internet for the entire voyage and my cell phone became a foreign object. In fact, I still forget it constantly after months of being home.

Far removed from my reality, in the middle of the ocean and unfamiliar territories, I think I reached out by writing to those whom I missed.

I wrote the first letter the same day of the flip-flop drop. With wet feet I traveled on a guided bus to the outskirts of Salvador and Bahia to the Saramandaia community. These outskirts communities are called favelas, which roughly translated in English are slums. The word slums, however is not only degrading but also presents a connotation of poverty that cannot even skim the surface of the depths of the conditions in Brazil. It even suggests a level of ignorance that the people living there might possess. What these Saramandaians lack in what I might call “formal education”, though, they compensate for in innovativeness and street smarts.

Upon arrival we met the leaders of the Grupo Cultural Arte Consciente, a grassroots movement devoted to reducing violence among children in the favela. Many community members teach the children boxing, acrobatics, dancing, drumming and painting to foster their skills and promote neighborhood peace.

On the way to Saramandaia I saw a man flying a kite on the highway. I saw another man riding his horse, weaving in and out of zipping cars. Culture shock was quickly setting in… and this letter is proof of my boggled mind that day.

Dear Professor

Before I left for my voyage, you advised me to “document, document, document.” You told me to take endless pictures so that I might use them in my future journalism endeavors, and you reminded me to always keep my audience in mind.

I’m afraid that I have already failed your mission on the first day in port at the first port of the journey. I’ve landed in Salvador, Brazil. My lack of prior knowledge about Salvador has sheltered me to the extreme poverty that I witness as I walk the streets of this favela. Skeletal children walk barefoot in dirt, scraps of metal and what I gather from scent can only be human waste. Mothers and countless children crowd into windows of shacks to watch a large tour bus of Americans invade their grounds. Tattered, ripped clothing lines the fences for hang drying.

Colorful. Chaotic. Filthy. Crowded. Disheveled. Perhaps the most shocking element is that these people are alive. The bold graffiti they paint on any visible surface throughout their neighborhoods reflects the reality of their being. The artwork sings a song, it dances to their drums, it tells their story. Every inch surrounding them become their canvas.

In your classes I’ve learned that my main objective as a journalist is to tell someone else’s story in the most vivid way possible. My job is to jot quotations, snap photographs and create a tale with my words and images. These tales then become my artwork. I cannot do my job as a journalist today. In order for me to “document, document, document,” someone else’s reality becomes my artwork. And I don’t feel quite right about it.

I’m putting the camera away for now. Instead of my lens I will use my eyes. The only audience I can document for right now is myself. I might not be doing my job as a journalist, but I think I’m doing my job as a human.

For more information about Grupo Cultural Arte Consciente, email Alex ou Fabio at programarteconsciente@hotmail.com

Off on the right foot

2009-02-03T16:14:00.007-08:00

The MV Explorer, cruise ship turned floating campus, arrives first in Brazil. After a week of only seeing 360 degrees of waves and sky, 650 slightly seasick, disorientated students pour out of the vessel and onto the cobblestone pavement of the port in Salvador. I have a field trip scheduled, so I wait outside the ship for the rest of my group to arrive. I walk to the side of the dock, scoping out the surrounding boats and ships. How strange to see life outside my new little ship bubble. Another ship is pulling in next to mine and a rowboat of fisherman is anchored nearby. I flop down on the dock and pop my foot out to sit cross-legged when off flops my flip-flop into the ocean. Great. My first step into a new country is going to a barefooted one.

Before I even have a chance to react, one of the fishermen anchored for lunch dives away from his companions into the ocean and swims fluidly to rescue my floating flop! Tired from the swim, his strapping shoulders hoist him back onto his boat. Immediately he turns back to me, waving with a wide smile. He and his fellow fishermen mutter to one another in what I can only assume to be Portuguese.

On the way to my field trip in the bus I write, My reality is warped- where I am in unfathomable and these people are real and warm. No expectations… surreal results. Then I apologize to my neighbor for the puddle on the bus floor from my soaking wet shoe.

Embarkation

2008-12-27T13:11:00.008-08:00

I find myself on the ocean-view deck of Señor Frogs in sticky humidity stuck to random strangers. They wont be strange for long though; we’re hugging and handshaking as the excitement brims inside. Our world travel has begun and so have the chants: “S-A-S! S-A-S!"

Our arms are exhausted from carting massive body bags across the United States and through Bahamas customs today. We have just enough strength left to salt our hands, squeeze some limes and pour the tequila.

When the lights of the bar turn on we venture to the darkness of the beach. The hugging and handshaking continues as we dance in the sand and stare into the endless horizon. We confess newfound love to one another and announce that never before have we made friends faster. We are ecstatic; we don’t know what to expect. We are going on Semester at Sea.

Well, now that I look back on that night all I can think is how innocent I sounded. My writing suggests a sense of hope and anticipation, so much so that I realize my naiveté to the experiences I was about to have. When I thought of the globe, I could only picture artificial maps or the unfamiliar names I read in the “World” section of the New York Times. “Traveling around the world” was just a glorified expression; it had yet to be a collection of experiences.

I’ve found that traveling is all about the little details: the signs, the funny quotes, the logistics that always seem to get complicated, the conversations, the bus tickets, place names, directions, addresses, etc. etc. So I took my journal everywhere and scribbled it all down. And now I’m home and reading it.

Global Osmosis is my deciphering of the scribble. It’s also my attempt to relive the encounters that turned me into a writer. I hope you like it. And I hope you get the travel bug too.