War Remnants and Water Puppets

We tackled Saigon on foot again on day 2 with the only the help of our map and the shuttle bus to the city center. Our first goal: find the Golden Dragon Theater and buy tickets to the Vietnamese water puppet show for that evening. We zigzagged through the sprawling Tao Dan Park and somehow found the theater on the opposite corner. Mind you, we didn’t have an address. It’s been empowering to figure out (through all these ports) if we stumble around long enough, we usually find what we’re looking for!

Our next stop: the War Remnants Museum. Miraculously, it was about a five minute walk from the theater. We spent the next 6 hours in a convenient little corner of the city for the museum, park, theater, and dinner. Easy!

The War Remnants Museum commenced on September 4, 1975. All the themes clearly exhibit an anti-war sentiment and anti-American involvement, which is understandable considering that the museum opened right after reunification. There are probably a range of views among my readers about the Vietnam War, so I want to issue a disclaimer right away. I simply wish to report to you what I saw at this museum and how the exhibits affected me. In no way do I want to offend anyone, especially those who were involved with the war.

The main floor of the museum showcased “historical truths” – North Vietnamese propaganda and statements from other countries taking a stand on the war. Upstairs the requiem exhibits, including a collection of war documentary photographs taken by 134 journalists from 11 nationalities, displayed disturbing depictions of the war.

 The most distressing exhibit for me to view was grisly photographs of the effects of dioxin, aka Agent Orange. A stark silence hung over the hall and I saw more than one observer wiping away tears. According to this exhibit, the U.S. Air Force sprayed 72 million liters of toxic chemicals (44 million liters of dioxin) over Vietnam from 1961-1971. Many of the photos illustrated individuals with grave, unfathomable deformities. Dioxin’s effects can be transmitted to many generations through damaged DNA of exposed people. For example, there was a photo of a 25 year old woman, who was exposed to dioxin at age 12, holding her 10 month old son. The baby was born with half an arm and a severe acne-like rash. It didn’t occur to me until I processed this later that the high number of crippled beggars we saw in Ho Chi Minh City could have suffered from the dioxin exposure. Their physical disabilities were unlike any I’ve ever witnessed in my life.

The “DOVE” Children’s Room provided a place for Vivian and William to play, instead of viewing these exhibits, and for that I was grateful.

We returned to the park for a snack break and “time out” from touring. (Early on in the voyage we gathered the importance of play time everyday with the kids when in port! The confines of the ship drive us all nuts, but it’s especially hard on children. It’s been a blast comparing and contrasting parks in each country!) Tao Dan Park hummed with activity on this Sunday afternoon. Huge deciduous trees cooled the sandy playground while loads of kids swarmed over the modern play equipment.

We saw people playing badminton, more than one group kicking around lengthy (Vietnamese?) hacky-sacks, and dancers waving click-clackers.

Soon it was time to walk over to the Golden Dragon Theater for the 5:00 water puppet show. The puppets were actually marionettes. (The last time I saw marionettes perform was 19 years ago in Salzburg, Austria. Any of my readers remember that show?) How shall I describe this phenomenon? It’s unlike any performance I’ve ever seen. Unfortunately, none of my photographs turned out. A little bit mysterious, a little bit campy, and very touristy (the brochure reads “Not watching Vietnamese Water Puppet Show means not visiting Vietnam yet!”), it’s a show that we won’t forget. William was a little intimidated by the dark auditorium, but once the show started he got caught up in the magic. The stage was filled with about 3 feet of murky water. Throughout each scene, marionettes of people, fish, and dragons splashed, cavorted, and danced in the “pool.” Even though we ended up in the back row, we still had a great view, and we couldn’t detect the strings of the marionettes. Six musicians lined the sides of the stage and they played their instruments and vocalized for the puppets. The entire performance was executed in Vietnamese, but the story line was simple enough to follow. At the end about 10 puppeteers came out to take a bow in the waist-deep water!

We wandered the streets long enough to get hungry but not too long to get cranky before we found a beautiful restaurant that I regret not getting a photo of. I inhaled my pho (topped with bites of pork and a giant prawn in the shell) and fresh mango juice. The kids loved their chicken kebabs but picked at their sugar-coated fries. Jason played it safe with fried rice and a beer.

In Vietnam it got dark between 6 and 6:30, as soon as the sun set. There’s no twilight to speak of. This was the first time we’d been out at night since Cape Town, so we felt like party animals at about 8:00, meandering back to the posh Rex Hotel to catch the shuttle. 

We couldn’t stay out too late, since we planned to hop on a bus early the next morning for a half-day trek to Mui Ne. On our way we stopped to watch some guys racing their remote-control cars. This was a serious race, complete with an illuminated track. I don’t need to tell you who was most enamored by this. Gotta love free entertainment!

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Good Morning, Vietnam!

The MV Explorer chugged up the Saigon River for a couple of hours to reach Ho Chi Minh City in Southern Vietnam. We spied a few interesting fishing boats, but it wasn’t as picturesque as the Amazon River sail.

A welcome committee awaited our ship at the berth in Ho Chi Minh City, as well as lots of parents who’d arranged to visit the college students for a SAS sponsored trip.

 Saigon was renamed Ho Chi Minh City after reunification, but the residents still refer to it as Saigon. This was the first time I’d been to a communist city since East Berlin in 1988, and this bustling, colorful city didn’t match my stereotype of communism. In our pre-port lecture on the ship, we learned how the government opposes religious activities and Internet activity is monitored in the Internet cafes. For example, you can’t organize protests online. We were also warned not to take photos of government buildings, bridges, the military or police, and any protesters. As I look back through my photos, I think I violated that law since I snapped pics of the city hall and reunification palace. Oops!

It was easy to hop on the free shuttle bus that ferried us from the port to the Rex Hotel in the middle of downtown. Saigon’s buildings are an energetic blend of the past and present. Aside from the architecture, the vrooming motorcycles and scooters grab center stage. Some 4 ½ million motorbikes zip around the city all day and evening. Like in India, motorbikes are the mini van of choice in Saigon. No kidding, I saw a motorbike with two adults book-ending four kids! They do wear helmets, and oftentimes, surgical masks to block the pollution, which didn’t seem bad at all after Chennai.

Once the shuttle dropped us off, we explored Saigon on foot everyday. It’s a pedestrian-friendly city with wide sidewalks (sometimes too wide – occasionally motorbikes cruised down the sidewalk!) and the provided maps were easy to read. Warm and humid weather was tempered with a cloud cover and occasional sprinkles, which made the heat more bearable.

Navigating the streets with the velocity of the motorbikes proved a bit tricky; there are few traffic lights and even fewer walk signals. On the advice of our interport lecturer (who’s lived in Vietnam for 15 years), we followed his tips to cross safely: look both ways, nab an opening, stick together, and walk slowly, but don’t stop! It’s like the parting of the Red Sea, as the motorbike drivers instinctively understand how to maneuver and dodge around pedestrians! We’d been warned that Saigon would be similar to the traffic in Chennai, but I didn’t think it was nearly as crazy.

Hey, which way to the grade school carnival?? This photo shows a motorbike transporting dozens of plastic bags filled with goldfish!

Saigon boasted its own version of a rickshaw: the man-powered pedicab. We didn’t ride on any, as they only carry one person at a time. After we got back on the ship we learned of two different people who had their backpacks ripped off them while riding a pedicab!

When it comes to money matters, we have to adjust to each new country’s currency. Let’s just say my mental math has improved with all these conversions! However, in Vietnam, about 21,000 dong (pronounced dom) equals $1 USD! We felt like millionaires toting around all those big bills.  I never did quite get the hang of converting the dong (too many zeros!!) Lucky for me, Jason’s good at being in charge of the cash.

Vietnam is a budget shopper’s paradise! We let ourselves get swallowed up in Ben Thanh, an enormous indoor market selling all kinds of food, clothing, shoes, purses, jewelry, crafts, luggage, and art. I noticed that Vietnamese entrepreneurs (not just in the market, but everywhere we went) immediately “shadow” you the instant you start casually looking, but they don’t say anything until you initiate by asking a question. Most everyone speaks a little English, but not too clearly. The bargaining aspect can be exciting, but exhausting if you’re not on top of your game.

Vivian and I accompanied Ellen, who was searching for a mother-of-the-bride dress, to a dress shop, as Saigon is known as the place to buy a custom-made dress at a reasonable price. You can bring your own fabric or buy theirs, and present a photo of a dress from a magazine. The tailor takes your measurements, and voila! 48 hours you’ve got your dress. At least it’s supposed to work that way in theory. When Ellen picked up her dress, it was two sizes too big, so it had to be altered on the spot. I just bought a dress off the rack and the seamstress adjusted it in one place, free of charge.

As for the Vietnamese food, Ngon Cua! (It’s delicious.) Generous bowls of steaming Pho (pronounced Fa), noodle soup with your choice of chicken, meat, or seafood and often vegetables, is one of their signature dishes.

I loved the Café Sua Da, the Vietnamese iced coffee. Strong black coffee blended with sweetened condensed milk and poured over a tall glass of crushed ice slurps down like coffee ice cream! There were no Pizza Huts or KFC’s, but the kids fared well enough with chicken kebabs, rice, or fries. Although one restaurant served the French fries coated in sugar – that was a first!

Coming up next post: the War Remnants Museum and the water puppet show!

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Singapore: Strictly Superlative

 Well, I’m a bit behind on my posts due to a variety of reasons: less time at sea=more time playing in ports, unreliable Internet access on the ship, and recovering from pneumonia only to be slammed with more debilitating seasickness. So, here we go….let’s recap our singular day in Singapore.

Singapore sharply contrasted our time in India and we didn’t have a huge agenda since it was another one-day port. Many times it felt like we were spinning our wheels, but at the end of the day we’d covered quite a bit of territory and had some fun!

Singapore struck me with its clean modernity.  Crisp, angular high rises soared above immaculate, tiled sidewalks; you won’t find a speck of trash anywhere. Perhaps you’ve heard about all the strict laws in this Malaysian city-state? Littering and eating/drinking on public transportation are against the law and will score you a hefty fine. Drug users net the death penalty. Gum chewing is now allowed but frowned upon (see the no littering law.) Given its militant stereotype, we reminded the kids to be on their best behavior.

Singapore, also known as the Lion City, felt like the teacher with the stern reputation and we were nervous students prepping for the first day of school! But after a little time in the classroom, you realize, hey this teacher’s actually nice and all her rules and procedures make the students feel safe and secure. That’s how we felt about Singapore within the first hour; it’s so sanitary, aesthetic, and organized. Everywhere we went there were lots of attendants to ensure order, from elevators to subways and monorails.

Singapore has transformed itself from an obscure fishing village in the 1800’s into a modern metropolis famous for its skyscrapers. Our necks craned upward, as we gaped at the sleek, almost futuristic design. We hopped on a shuttle from the terminal to the city center; then decided to take the subway out to the marina, one of Singapore’s newest and most prominent shopping and entertainment districts. Hey, the Nice family needs to keep up its reputation of hip sophistication, right?!

We floundered a bit in the subway (Mass Rail Transit) station getting correct change and figuring out which stop we needed. Once we streaked across town, the MRT popped us out conveniently, about a 10 minute walk from our destination. We aimed to find the Marina Bay Sands Hotel, known for having the tallest rooftop swimming pool in the world.

We stumbled into the uber-chic Marina mall, blown away by the grand stores and even more grandiose prices. We quickly realized that costs in Singapore are double that of the U.S.! The food court where we grabbed lunch, was decidedly upscale, with delicious food (lots of Japanese, Chinese, Malaysian, and Thai choices) and prices to match. When I checked the receipt from Crazy Burger, it cost $24 for two kids’ meals and Jason’s 12 oz. bottle of Tiger beer!  We wandered around, checking out the shiny Ferrari store and watching the gondola rides in the mall, before finding the escalator to the hotel lobby. The photos don’t do justice to the panache of the place.

We learned that the luxe Marina Bay Sands Hotel cost more to construct than the entire Las Vegas strip! It’s been so successful it paid for itself within the first two years.

 We bought tickets to the Sands SkyPark, where we could check out the world’s highest pool. This photo of the concept model hopefully gives you a good idea of what the entire complex looks like, especially the rooftop pool.

We jetted up 56 stories to the Sands SkyPark for dramatic cityscape views. Besides it’s reputation as a global hub for finance and banking, Singapore is also the busiest port worldwide, in total shipping tonnage. All the ships in the harbor looked like players from the game Battleship!

 Unfortunately, the pool’s reserved for hotel guests only, but there were a few areas for us to  gawk at the rich and richer, enjoying their elevated swim and poolside drinks. Whaddya think???!

After about an hour at the SkyPark, the rain started to fall, and it was time reassess our itinerary for the day. As with our time in Mauritius, one-day ports can be a bit frustrating, because there’s this pressure to do as much as possible in the span of a few hours. We hadn’t done a ton of research, mostly due to the short time between India and Singapore.

After studying the map and considering our options, Jason suggested we head to Sentosa Island. Sentosa (which means “peace of mind” in Malay) Island is  a kid-friendly, resort-entertainment (complete with a man-made beach and zipline!)  island near the port. It seemed the most logical way to finish out the afternoon and evening. The rain had stopped by the time our taxi deposited us in the middle of the island, and the equatorial sun burned through the cloud cover again.  It didn’t take long to reckon that there was zilch on the island we could afford to do (nothing cost under $50/person!) so we amused ourselves riding on the free monorail to the four different stations and explored each area.

The last stop, the waterfront station, made us feel like we’d been transported to Southern California with its Disney-esque buildings, characters, and themes. There was even a Universal Studios!

The monorail delivered us to the terminal mall where we killed an hour before getting in line to make on-ship time. A huge Borders-like bookstore seemed like it’d be a great place to finish off our Singapore dollars. All the books were individually wrapped in plastic, in line with Singapore’s obsession for cleanliness. But those sterile, pristine books and magazines were slapped with ludicrously high prices ($14 for Oprah magazine? I don’t think so!) So we settled for a few snacks at the grocery store instead.

So, we skimmed the surface of luminous Singapore! Then we had just two swift sailing days before gearing up for our next port. Up next: Vietnam.

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Cherry, Mango, Cashew

Wow, the predictions rolled in about the family photo taken in front of the enormous tipped boulder (in my last post.) Thanks to Molly, Amy, Suong, Michele (no cheating on Google!), and Katie for some good guesses! But I loved the prediction from Liz Warmbier’s 1^st period class at Dayton Junior High: They predicted it was in India and where the film Jurassic Park was filmed. They also questioned if it was volcanic. In fact we are standing in front of Krishna’s Ball in Mamallapuram, that at one time seven elephants tried to push over and couldn’t succeed.

On our outrageous drive from Chennai to Pondicherry, we had to stop at Mamallapuram, a famous sandy stretch of land home to grandiose ancient temples. Mamallapuram sits about midway between the 200 km between Chennai and Pondicherry and we needed to get off that ride and get our wits back.

The minute we drove into the village, a guide hopped in the car next to me in the backseat. Our driver’s body language indicated he didn’t think this was a good idea, but the guide seemed knowledgeable and friendly, and what did we know? That must be how they do it here. Not too many shockers on our 4^th day in India; by now we were getting seasoned.

Mamallapuram boasts eloquent remains of monolithic temples and shrines from the 7^th century. You read that right – 7^th, not 17^th century! Monolithic, I learned, means carved from one stone. The photos don’t adequately show the intricacies of these colossal hand-carved structures. Since they were never completely finished (not that I could tell) or consecrated, no worship is carried out there. Our guide wore out his welcome in the first 15 minutes with his over the top explanations and insistence that he take photos. When we learned how much he wanted to charge for a one hour tour, we begged off and he took our offer of 200 rupees. Then we explored the five monoliths on our own, seeking the shade as often as possible. Since the temples are unoccupied and free of the bustling activity of a place of worship, they conveyed a sense of serenity and agelessness.

We also searched for the illustrious shore temple, the most eminent temple in Mamallapuram. After asking for directions and several dead-ends, we wished we hadn’t fire our guide. The monkeys offered an unexpected sideshow during our quest.

 Finally we learned the shore temple was actually a 15 minute drive away, off the main highway. Clutch decision time: do we continue rummaging around in our precariously overheated state (always a risky move with the kids), and negotiate a new price with our driver or call it a day (in reality 1 ½ hours) and push on to Pondicherry, where we knew a pool was waiting? The parents out there can probably guess which path we took! At the time, it was the best decision, but the independent traveler in me lamented that we didn’t go for it when we were so close.

As you know from the last post, this drive was torturous and when we finally found Mango Hill Hotel, relief washed over us. Tucked away from the main road (we missed the sign) and sandwiched between indigent villages, this French owned inn served as an oasis! I fell in love with the charming brick and white exterior and open air tiled interior.

The art deco vibe was enhanced with French film noir framed posters and classic black and white Hollywood photos. Fred Astaire beamed a smile at us as we opened the door to our room. Kudos to Jason, who found the place online and took care of making our reservation in advance!

Our huge room boasted a spacious balcony, air conditioning, lime green walls and rich red accents, and a decadent gold ceiling with recessed lighting around the perimeter. The kids spied a tiny lizard slithering up the wall one morning!

The gorgeous, overflow pool welcomed our weary, sweaty souls and became a haven the next couple days. In the center of the rectangular pool rose a cashew tree “island” that the kids immediately named Gilligan’s Island. It became the favorite destination, as it had an underwater bench to rest on and inhale the sweet scent of the cashew blossoms (reminded me of orange trees that grew in my grandparents’ Arizona backyard.)

We enjoyed some great French and Indian food at Mango Hill, as they make their own bread, grow their own fruit and vegetables (we saw the banana trees beyond the pool), and make their own ham and cheese on site. The menu had basics like spaghetti Bolognese and French fries for the kids and the continental breakfasts (fresh squeezed o.j. and mango juice!) appealed to all of us.

On our first night two other couples, Marshall and Ellen (we traveled with them in Ghana), and Bob and Melody, joined us at Mango Hill, which was really fun. Thank goodness for the portable DVD player, so we could enjoy some adult conversation while the kids watched movies. Marshall, Ellen, Bob and Melody had just spent the day in Pondicherry so they gave us all kinds of advice for the next day, which we followed to a tee. We even hired their driver!

The next morning Marshall, Ellen and I went for a run. Marshall and Jason had already ventured out once in Chennai. India is probably the least runner-friendly country we’ve encountered. As we jogged down the road right outside Mango Hill, it reeked of what I thought was dog poop. No wonder – there were piles and piles littered alongside the road. I commented on the stench and Ellen corrected me as to the origin of the poop, and it wasn’t from an animal. Ugh! The run continued its unpleasantness as we found the main road, and shimmied along a nonexistent shoulder. Luckily, the traffic wasn’t as crazy at 6:30 in the morning. Soon we peeled off and jogged through a sleepy little village, searching for beach access. Our hope for a nice jog on the beach didn’t pan out. Garbage and hundreds of dead fish littered the surf and we really had to watch our step. Thirty minutes later, we returned to Mango Hill, out of breath and somewhat speechless. Nonetheless, we accomplished our goal of running in India!

By now we’d learned to tackle our days in India in small doses, so our itinerary for Pondicherry followed suit. Armed with Marshall’s recommendations (Ashram, temple, park, Pizza Hut), our driver helped us execute the next 4 ½ hours. He didn’t understand much English, and his bobble looked like he shook his head no, but it really meant yes (a typical Indian mannerism.)

Pondicherry retains its French colonial architecture with cobbled streets, shuttered windows, and pastel colorwashed buildings. The former capital of French India, it’s an eccentric blend of charm and chaos. We focused our limited time in the French quarter near the beach. Our driver delivered us door to door at the Aurobindo Ashram and suggested (even though he couldn’t articulate it in English, we got the jist) we leave our shoes in the car, since all visitors to ashrams and temples must remove their shoes.

My knowledge of ashrams stems from what I read in Eat, Pray, Love: a quiet and peaceful retreat where spiritual and yogic seekers go to meditate and be closer to their guru. Nobody’s allowed to take photographs or talk in the ashram. We essentially walked through a beautiful, reverent courtyard full of fresh flowers and lots of people praying and meditating in silence. The “Mother’s” room was full of photographs of her and books she’s written.

We walked down the street to the Hindu temple (yep, we all walked barefoot on a street in India, but Pondicherry was cleaner than Chennai!) In this temple we were allowed inside, but the best attraction stood outside. An elephant, controlled by an attendant with a stick, positioned himself as a guard next to the temple’s entrance. Any one of us could have taken a turn plunked down on the elephant’s back (I think) but we were content to observe the scene.

Our driver must have been keeping a close eye because he met us as we strolled up the street before we could wonder where to look for him. Next stop was a picturesque, leafy park with play equipment, benches, and dazzling flowers in bloom. Just about every bench had someone reclined on it and snoozing away.

From the park we walked to the beach to the towering Gandhi statue. On our way back we observed a construction crew pouring concrete. Look closely at the photos – what a sight!

For lunch I’d been outvoted (again) in favor of Pizza Hut. Pondicherry’s Pizza Hut soars above American Pizza Huts in terms of atmosphere, menu selection, and service – and the pizza tasted familiar. That lunch stop made the kids exultant and definitely helped power them through the rest of the afternoon.

For our last destination, we aimed to visit Auroville, a new age-y commune referred to as the “City of Dawn.” Established in the late 1960’s, it’s the legacy of the Mother (from the Arobindo Ashram that we just visited.) After watching a short video and perusing the visitor’s center, we learned this: “Auroville belongs to nobody in particular. Auroville belongs to humanity as a whole. But to live in Auroville, one must be the willing servitor of the Divine Consciousness….(The Program is based on) research through experience of the supreme truth of a life divine, but no religions.” Got it?

We were lucky enough to hit Auroville on the right day during the right time to get free tickets to view the “Matrimandir”, a pavilion that translates to “Mother’s Shrine.” Before locating the trail we meandered through an outdoor exhibit that showcased Auroville’s commitment to conservation, recycling, and solar energy (which didn’t seem too cutting edge to us as native Oregonians!)

We then walked for about 25 minutes down a tranquil path shadowed by banyan trees. These peculiar trees produce aerial roots which grow down from the branches and take root to form new trunks.

Along the way, Auroville residents coasted by on bikes or meditated off the path. Once we reached the Park of Unity where we could view the Matrimandir, scents plumeria and hibiscus floated over us. What do you think of this Matrimandir? The construction on it began the year I was born and finished more than 20 years later. Only Auroville residents are allowed inside.

We liked our driver so much we hired him to take us back to Chennai the following morning. But he must have gotten a better job, because his business partner showed up in an Ambassador. Ambassadors were manufactured by the masses in the 1940’s and 50’s and used to be the standard family sedan in India. As we tumbled into the backseat and didn’t find any seatbelts, those Oh, No!!! thoughts surged through me.  I couldn’t take a repeat drive of two days earlier. Except for the driver not knowing where the harbor was once we arrived in Chennai, we survived just fine. The air conditioning worked great and no one threw up. All’s well that ends well.

I wish I could accurately articulate our India experience…if I keep trying, my posts will result in a book!  My impressions overall topped out positive, especially of the people. They’re so intelligent, hearty, and resilient. It’s incomprehensible to me how they can stand living with such filth and trash (everyone looks clean and presentable for the most part.) Indians value education, especially college. There are four medical schools in Chennai alone! A big billboard read “Education is another word for happiness.” The middle class (mostly in the cities) has grown exponentially the past 20 years due to the expanding economy (in 1991 import trade barriers were removed, moving them into the free market.) More than a million Indians are millionaires, but many live on less than $2 a day. It’s estimated that a quarter of India’s population lives below the poverty line. Compare this statistic to the 93% who lived in destitute poverty in 1985!   

Make no mistake, this is a dynamic country that will continue to evolve and progress, but still hold on to its traditions and values that characterize its identity. India: intense, inexplicable, incredible!

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Rickshaw: The Ride of a Lifetime

Before we ever set foot off the gangway in India, we’d heard a lot about the insane traffic in Chennai and the reality lived up to our expectations. The streets of Chennai hum with various modes of transportation, none of which follow the rules of the road. Cars, local buses, tour buses, scooters, motorbikes, and rickshaws crowd two or three lanes, but the lines may as well not be there, because no one drives in a lane. The motorbikes seemed to be the most popular, and it’s unbelievable how a family of 3 or 4 can stack together on one bike. Women gracefully ride sidesaddle in their saris on the back of a motorbike or a few drive their own. Note the woman holding a little baby in the photo!  A helmet law exists but maybe 10% of drivers and riders don a helmet.

Our first two days in Chennai we observed this phenomenon from the safety of our air conditioned tour bus. On our third day we explored the city on our own so it was time to hop in our own rickshaw. Before we left I shot some views of the city and port from the ship.

Smog so thick I could taste it clouded the air, the worst day so far. Already a dusty film coated the ship’s rails and a grimy film skimmed the surface of the pool. We covered ourselves in sunscreen, mosquito repellent, and braced ourselves for the grungy heat.

How to describe a rickshaw? Basically, it’s a 3 wheeled go-kart-like vehicle that puts along at speeds from 25-40 mph, or as fast as traffic will allow. The driver sits in front alone, and the about 3 people can squeeze in the backseat. There are no windows (except for the windshield) or doors, although a skinny bar on the right provides a little barrier between the passenger and the frenzied road.

We found a driver, Dhyalan, outside the security gate, after some negotiation. Dhyalan sported a shock of black, wavy hair, red and white painted between his eyebrows identifying himself as a Hindu. He decorated his windshield with Hindu stickers, another indication I observed how religion is such a cornerstone of Indian society.  He wore a dhoti, a cross between a skirt and a diaper, and no shoes. Like most Indians, he spoke some English. The regional and primary language around Chennai is Tamil, not Hindi.  All the signage is in English and Tamil.

Jason requested Dhyalan that he not drive too fast, and then we piled in the backseat with William on his dad’s lap.  As we merged onto the main thoroughfare, cars and motorbikes screeched past our rickshaw, harrowingly close enough to touch. Smelly exhaust and all kinds of murky pollution flooded our lungs, but it was a harrowing rush to cruise through the midst of such chaos…better than any thriller roller coaster! A cacophony of horns constantly honk and blare, because no one stops. It’s like whoever honks first or the loudest gets the right of way.

We were stopped in traffic, when all of a sudden the rickshaw sputtered then stalled. Dhyalan jumped out and started pushing the rickshaw over to the median. Remember, No. One. Stops. My heart shot to my throat when I realized what was happening. We had run out of gas! Dyhalan told us to stay right there as he grabbed an empty 1-liter water bottle and took off jogging down the street. That’s it; we’re about to become road kill, I thought. We snapped photos to pass the time and not alarm the kids. About 5 minutes later, Dyhalan came running back with the water bottle full of fuel. Then he yanked the coil, lawn-mower style to start the ignition and we were back in business!

As Steven Tyler sang, we were “livin on the edge!” Really, Dhyalan took good care of us that day. He didn’t drive too fast or recklessly. He waited for us an hour while we explored the Pondi bazaar and then another two hours at the Spencer Plaza.

Shopping at the outdoor bazaar among the locals garnered us a fair amount of attention and the constant haranguing by shopkeepers to enter their stores became tiresome quickly. Vivian and I picked up a couple of scarves and William found some cars, without forking over too many rupees. (The exchange rate was 45 rupees=$1.00, all those big bills made us feel loaded!)

Spencer Plaza offered some relief with a/c and less badgering. Plus, the kids were elated to find a KFC in the mall. Did I mention Jason and I ate some terrific Tandoori food? Nan (Indian bread) is to die for! Kind of similar to a tortilla, but with a thicker, chewier texture and more flavor.

 “Mall” is a relative term in India. Yes, it was indoors, on three floors, with a variety of stores (hey that rhymes!) and a small food court. But the similarities ended there. Spencer’s low ceilings, dim lighting, grimy floors, and decrepit entrances/exits gave me pause in the first five minutes. I’d say I felt safe about 99% of the two hours, so it was a positive experience overall. We heard later a newer, Western-style mall exists in Chennai but I’m glad we experienced Spencer’s.

The next morning I woke up to a raspy throat and stuffed nose, which I attributed to inhaling the vast amount of exhaust and pollution on the rickshaw the day before. (Little did I know my symptoms would soon worsen and the ship doc would diagnose me with early stage pneumonia four days later!) The kids had the sniffles, too. Fortunately, Jason had arranged for a private driver to transport us 3 hours south to Pondicherry, where we had reservations for 2 nights. We gathered our research and debated about the best way to get out of town (Train? Bus? Taxi?) – ultimately it was the right decision, even though I doubted it many times that day!

After taking the shuttle and navigating through security we found our driver waiting for us with an air conditioned, vacuumed SUV, heavily perfumed with air freshener. Dhyalan, our rickshaw driver from yesterday was ready to give us a ride, but when he realized we had another car, he clucked over us like a mother hen, opening doors for us and ensuring we were all set.

Ahh, but the sweet ride soon morphed into misery as we learned how rural driving differed from city driving. Pushing out of the monstrous Chennai and its outskirts, our driver became a deranged race car driver. He would floor the gas pedal, then release…over and over and over again. For three and a half hours. Poor William threw up not once, but twice. Bless his heart, he made it into a plastic bag both times.  The driver spoke very little English and even though we asked him to slow down he didn’t seem to understand. Worse than the motion sickness for me, was the psychological distress of narrowly crashing head-on, oh about 30 times. This is no exaggeration. In the city, Indian drivers ignore lanes and in the country they pass whatever is in front of them. So when all vehicles have this mentality on a 2 lane highway, it’s utter insanity for those of us who have grown up abiding the rules of the road.

So, I tried not to look out the windshield and instead focused on the surroundings. I’m glad we ventured a ways from Chennai, as it was the best way to see more of the country. We observed a lot more cows ambling down the road. And goats. And oxen with long vertical horns painted red, white, and green pulling a wagon loaded down with goods. Those little dots you see in the body of water are people wading in a shallow, enormous lake. Several times I had to blink hard and look closely at this “walking on water” phenomenon. Lakes aren’t supposed to be that shallow!

More trash littered the side of the highway than I witnessed in Brazil and Ghana combined. Case in point: after William threw up the first time, Jason explained that we needed to find a garbage can to get rid of the barf bag. Our driver pulled over and insisted that we toss it out the car. Which we then did again an hour later!

Honestly, I feel like I’m still processing (and will be for some time) all we saw, heard, smelled, tasted, and touched in India. It was something else. It’s a struggle to fully convey our experience –words and photos can’t captivate India’s essence. But I won’t stop trying!

If you, devoted reader, have read this far, you may be interested in the first ever Experiential Passage-sponsored contest. Make a prediction about this photo, a peek into my next post. You may find your name and prediction published on the blog!

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Let’s Hear It For the Boys

Awaiting us on our second day in Chennai was a service visit to two Y.M.C.A. schools and the Y.M.C.A. Boys Town, an orphanage for destitute boys. This would be our second SAS service field trip, and based on our positive experience at Father’s Home in Ghana, I was optimistic. Our group was uncharacteristically small: our family of four, one staff member from Taiwan, an elderly lifelong learner couple, and just three college students. As the trip leader I felt responsible to make it the best it could be. And that started with explaining to the college students (because they asked) what YMCA stands for! And in case any of my readers are wondering the same, it’s Young Men’s Christian Association.

Typically, SAS field trips provide a guide from a tour company, but this time our guide was George, the secretary (he’d be referred to as a principal in the U.S.) of the Boys Town. George asked me to take over the microphone duties on the bus, as he wasn’t at ease in that role. Those of you who know me know how I love to ask questions and get to know people, so George obliged me throughout the day and helped us all understand the important work Y.M.C.A. is doing for needy children in India.

Our day started at 2:00 p.m. and the first stop was at a school for children of “pavement dweller” families, also known as families who live in slums. The first person we met was Mrs. Swarna, the mathematics teacher, who warmly welcomed us into the computer lab.

 The dusty “lab” was a cramped, narrow room with three ancient machines, a teacher desk, and musty shelves. Mrs. Swarna and George encouraged us to make ourselves comfortable while about four pre-teen students clambered to bring us plastic chairs. Clearly stoked to be missing class, they made multiple trips to the lab to bring us refreshments (orange soda and biscuit-y cookies.)

Mrs. Swarna informed us with pride how 100% of her students for the past several years have passed their standardized exams. In her office she pointed out the plaque that displayed such remarkable statistics. As a teacher, this impressed me greatly, especially when I witnessed the simple and rough facilities. The sauna-heat weighed down on us for the hour we toured the school; it’s unfathomable to me how anyone could teach or learn in such a pressure cooker.

We visited several classrooms, from kindergarten to high school (age 15.) The kindergarteners stood up the minute we walked in their classroom and started singing nursery rhymes like “Hot Cross Buns” and “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” with such fierce exuberance I wanted to cry.  The intermediate students crowded doorways as we passed, smiling and waving, asking us to take photos, while the older students focused intently on their writing exams. As an educator, I was keenly aware of what a disruption our visit was, yet all the teachers treated us cordially.

Before we boarded the bus, we stepped into the kitchen to meet the cooks. Mrs. Swarna early on made a point of telling us how the school provided lunch everyday for all 1100 students, and each meal included an egg. Upon seeing the primitive “kitchen” I had to stifle a gasp. No counters, sink, refrigerator, range, cupboards, – nothin’. Nothing but an open fire pit, a chalkboard listing the week’s menu, and a heap of empty egg cartons piled in the corner. And yet, every kid I saw that day radiated health, hope, and joy. This image, and many others, wrestled with my American educational values throughout the week.

Our second stop was another YMCA school, but it served middle-class students up to age 17. Again, we settled into the computer lab/George’s office for more refreshments: biscuit-y cookies and coffee this time. Formerly, George worked as secretary of this school until he transferred to the Boys Home, so he was eager to share their good work. We visited a high school English class. Believe it or not, the young woman standing in front of the chalkboard is the teacher!

After exploring the second campus and its amenities (like the auditorium), we walked down the street to the YMCA Working Women’s Hostel. This at-capacity hostel provides affordable apartment housing and three meals a day to 82 single, professional women. The photos include shots of the living room and dining room. We had the opportunity to talk to the warden and meet her 9 year old daughter, Esther.

I was surprised to learn how the YMCA has developed such a stalwart presence in India; there are 400 YMCA’s  in the country, and 8 in Chennai alone to serve disadvantaged children. (I had to shake my notion of the Sherwood YMCA with its gyms, swimming pool, and day camps!) George did show us one of the four recreation centers in Chennai. He said the members like to come play tennis, volleyball, or shoot pool early in the morning or after work.

We continued our walk from the rec center to the Boys Home. George lives in a dormitory on the grounds, that was built for the 2004 tsunami refugees. By now I’d learned that George was married and they had a 1 year old daughter. Naturally I’d asked if we would get a chance to meet them, and he said, yes, at 6:00, after his wife would be done with her tutor job.

George ushered us into a large, cavernous sort of gym where about 60 boys aged 6-17 sat in five neat rows. He gave a brief introduction in Tamil, the regional language, and then invited us to individually introduce ourselves. We received roaring applause, as if we were rock stars.

At this point we divided all the boys into two groups; one went outside to play soccer with the indestructible “One World Futbol” we brought as a gift, and the other half stayed inside to play games with some of our group. It was time to reach into my elementary teacher toolbox, and have some fun.

 I taught them “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes” and “Simon Says” to get them warmed up. The boys were totally into it and all went well until I asked the “house father” (the only other adult employee in the room) to get them in a circle so they could take turns saying their names. George apparently had stepped out and the house father didn’t speak much English. He didn’t have much classroom management either, because the boys quickly became unruly and weren’t listening to him. Anxious beads of sweat popped out on my forehead as I muffled a surge of panic, hoping things wouldn’t get out of hand.

Soon George returned and the boys definitely responded to his directions. They settled down and we got on with the business of playing “Duck, Duck, Goose” which was a big hit. After about a half hour, the groups rotated and we did it all again!

The boys had required study time until 8:00, then dinner. We peeked in the kitchen to see the meal prep. As at the Working Women’s Hostel, I noticed the cooks sit on the floor to peel and cut the vegetables. George also showed us the boys’ sparse bunk rooms.

By now our energy was fading (I tried not to feel irritated about a couple of the college students who chose to sit out instead of interact with the boys) and George invited us to his home to meet his wife and daughter, Karen. She graciously had a tray of glasses filled with Pepsi waiting for us in their modest one bedroom apartment. We perched a little awkwardly around their front room adorned with Bible scriptures, sipping our Pepsi, making small talk, and admiring little Karen. Looking back, those 20 minutes spent with George and his family will be a memory I treasure for a long time.

We headed back to the bus to ride across town to the main YMCA center for a special dinner. The estimated 30 minute drive turned into more than an hour and a half, thanks to rush hour traffic.

George apologetically tried to rearrange the schedule so we could eat first and have our “meeting” with the chairperson second. Hmmm, what meeting? I wondered skeptically. The field trip description never mentioned a meeting. At this point, William’s starting to implode from hunger, the heat, and fatigue.

We arrived to the center about 8:20 p.m. to a buffet dinner in a sparse conference room. They donned welcome garments on us and poured more orange soda and Pepsi. The chairperson gave a spiel about Chennai’s YMCA (basically everything George told us) and then asked me to say a few words. Sheesh, no one likes being put on  the spot, especially me, and I bumbled my way through it.

Finally it was time to eat. William (who was in full melt-down mode now) and Jason retreated to the bus to share a stale granola bar. Vivian (gotta love that girl’s adventurous palate) and I dug into spicy rice (basmati marsala with mutton, I later learned from George), shaved red onion in a sour cream dressing, and some sort of bright yellow grain that tasted like rice pudding. And our tummies survived just fine.  What a day – it’s been almost as exhausting to write about it as it was to live it. But I’d do it all over again.

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“Incredible India”

We recently wrapped up six days of intensity that only India can offer. The title of this post I’ve borrowed from the India tourism industry – “Incredible !ndia!” splashed across the tour buses and maps…and yes, India is incredible. I felt some, okay, a lot, of trepidation about India based on all the stories I’d heard. The heat! The filth! The noise! The traffic! The crowds! And I’m here to confirm, it’s all true. But I tried to keep in mind one of my favorite travel quotes:

Travel like Ghandi, with simple clothes, open eyes, and an uncluttered mind. –Rick Steeves

So, India, despite all its annoyances, moved me at the core. I hope I can do justice to this electrifying and complex country, based on my small, yet significant experience. If I can keep up, expect the posts to come fast and furious. I only have 7 more days at sea this month to record a lot of writing!

We docked in Chennai, the 4^th largest city in India with 7 million people, on Sunday morning. FYI, India tops the population charts at one Billion, second only to China. Chennai is located in southern India, on the eastern coast. It’s not the prettiest city, and the handful of crew members on the ship I talked to who are from India, look down their noses at Chennai. Half the morning was spent waiting in line to meet face to face with immigration officials. India has had a couple of terrorist attacks in recent years, so their security is extra tight. Immigration (and yes, I saw more than one official holding a giant gun) camped out for the week and checked our passports leaving and re-entering the gate. Before we returned from the ship every person got a body scan and sent the bags through an X ray scanner, just like at the airport. So, it was quite an ordeal each time we left the ship.

On tap for day 1 was SAS field trip, a city orientation. I have a love/hate relationship with these field trips. Oftentimes I end up resenting the money I spent and lack of freedom. But sometimes they offer an educational, enjoyable, and safe introduction to a country. The Chennai city orientation proved to be the latter. We navigated the madness of the streets from the shelter of our large and air conditioned bus. It was ideal for snapping lots of photos and observing with awe the amazingly crazy traffic patterns.

Our bus sidled up to the beach, where the sand stretches for eternity (about 500 meters) until it dives into the ocean. Our guide, Stanley, informed us it’s the second widest beach in the world and I don’t doubt it. Next to the beach hovers an impressive statue of Ghandi, who Stanley referred to “the father of our country.”

Some more quick facts about Chennai…Religion and spirituality play a huge part in India’s culture: 70% are Hindu, 15% are Christian, 13% are Muslim, and 2% claim “other.” The highlight of the tour was leaving the bus behind to walk through the city and tour the Kapaleeshar Temple.

Kapaleeshar was built in the 16^th century in the center of the city, making it the oldest and most conveniently located temple in Chennai.

Strolling the streets for the first time (really – every time) was an assault on the senses. (My friend Shannon, who’s been to India, noted that I’d experience the “best smells and the worst smells.”) Sure enough, aromas of jasmine, turmeric, sweet onion, curry, citrus, smoked fish, and incense drifted through the air, as well as rotten food, the stench of garbage, extreme body odor, and bodily excrements. It was overwhelming and bewildering.

Even though India has modernized to a great extent in the past 10 years, some things remain constant. Women still dress traditionally in saris. Richly colored swaths of cloth (often silk, and often bejeweled) graciously drape around the women, making them look regal and gorgeous.

 It’s not acceptable for women to reveal much skin, and we were strongly cautioned at the ship’s preport lecture not to wear tank tops and shorts. Sometimes I saw Indian women wearing a long linen-y tunic and flowing pants instead, but generally the sari is still their go-to outfit. Hindu men wear a diaper-like skirt that I didn’t get a full explanation about.

No one is allowed to wear shoes in Hindu temples. The streets are coated with grime; in no way did I want to walk barefoot, so I was lucky that another shipmate advised us to bring socks. We had to take our shoes off and store them in a separate shed next door to the temple.

Entering Kapaleeshar was a curious event, or rather non-event.  We were essentially in the temple courts that teemed with activity: prayer corners illuminated by candles, study groups reading prayer books, cows hanging out in a stable; lots of Hindus adorned with flowers milling about reverently. Branchy supports framed corrugated metal shade covers that shielded the hot, glary sun.

 Non-hindus were not allowed inside the actual temple that housed the gold deities (we figured this out when we read the sign), so other than peek in the doorway from a short distance, we had to settle for wandering the temple courts.

 Soon enough, thunderous bell incessantly clanged, so voluble we decided it would be a good time to look for the exit.

Stanley offered a simplified explanation to this seemingly inexplicable religion: Hindus believe in lots of deities (gods); for example the god of learning or the god of wealth. To drill it down, Hindus believe that good conquers evil.

Reincarnation (rebirth) is a huge tenet of the religion; how Hindus live their present life determines their next life. Living a righteous and pious life can move you up to better caste and the opposite could reincarnate you as an animal.

Hinduism is considered a way of life, and is way more prevalent in southern India than the north. The caste system still hangs on as an integral part of the religion, particularly in rural areas. Hindus are strict vegetarians, evidenced by all the emaciated cows we encountered.

Some restaurants advertise “Non-Veg” if they serve any meat or poultry, otherwise patrons can assume it’s vegetarian only. Drinking alcohol is not an acceptable facet in their society, and the only places that serve drinks are hotels. I’ll stop now with the mini anthropology lesson, but it’s pretty fascinating, don’t you think?

Besides the temple and the smells, the other standout from our first day was the traffic. I just can’t adequately describe how fanatical it is. If there are any traffic laws, everyone obliterates them. Every type of wheeled transportation “shares” the road, but it’s every vehicle for itself. Horns constantly honk – that’s the one consistency that everyone seems to agree on. No one stays in the lanes; a mob of cars, buses, rickshaws, motorbikes and scooters crowd the streets, and the most aggressive dart and weave, in and out, close enough to scrape the paint off the next one. Even as I write this, I’m still trying to wrap my head around it! Coming next: riding in a rickshaw.

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A Minute in Mauritius

 Ten out of the last eleven days have been spent at sea between South Africa, and our next port, India. William losing his second front tooth offered a bit of excitement. That talented tooth fairy managed to find her way to cabin 4062 for the second time in a week AND leave some American coins.

Our one lone day on land, we docked on the island of Mauritius. I’d never even heard of this little speck of an island until I learned of our itinerary. Mauritius, one of three miniature islands in the Mascarene Archipelago in the Indian Ocean, lies several hundred miles east of Madagascar. We barely scratched the surface in the mere seven hours we had in Mauritius. This was the first time we’ve spent only one day in a port, and suffice to say, we’ve been spoiled with our extended stays. We all felt a little gypped with our brief layover!

 Mauritius resembles Hawaii with a lush, tropical setting. Its jagged volcanic peaks soar over coastal plains smothered in sugarcane leaves, waving like long green ribbons in the breeze. Originally settled by the Dutch, taken over by the French and later the British, it’s been independent since 1968. The official language is English, but most Mauritians are more comfortable speaking French. All the signage and literature we encountered was in both English and French.

We didn’t have an ambitious agenda except to experience one of its beautiful beaches. The ship docked outside of Port Louis, the main metropolis on the island. A spirited group of Mauritian dancers welcomed us as we walked off the gangway. We didn’t make it into the city, but it looked more major than I expected, with a skyline of tall buildings. Rumor had it that taxi drivers in Mauritius have a reputation for being sharks, and the importance of negotiating the fare before getting in the car. Luckily our preport lecture on the ship provided useful information about price ranges, etc.

The first taxi drivers we encountered off the ship badgered us for an all day commitment, rattling off all the extra places they could take us to, and insisted on a ridiculously steep fare. So we kept walking another 200 meters down the dirt road until found the main thoroughfare. We’d heard Mauritius was celebrating a Hindu festival with parades and extra traffic could clog the streets and highways. More taxi drivers lurked about, but we met Nishal, who had an easy-going and helpful approach. Realizing it would be safer than worrying about catching a ride back on time, we decided ultimately decided to hire him for the day and negotiated a fair price.

Our plan was to hang out at Flic en Flac, the closest public beach to Port Louis, but we weren’t sure exactly how far away it was. Nishal convinced us in his laid-back manner to “check out” Casela Nature & Leisure Park, which was on the way to Flic en Flac. “The kids will like it. You go look, and if it looks good, you stay. If you don’t like it, I will take you to Flic en Flac now.” We checked it out, it looked good, so Nishal waited in the parking lot for an hour and half while we explored the park.

 Casela boasted a animal park/zoo, zipline adventure, and quad mini safari. We kept it simple and wandered through the shady zoo, and of course let the kids romp on the awesome playground.

 We saw lots of exotic birds, lemurs, kangaroos, and tortoises of all sizes. Yep, tortoises! We could walk around the grassy, open space where several giant tortoises lounged in the mud or plodded their way across the ground. Touching Torty’s shell was the highlight of the morning!

True to his word, Nishal delivered us to Flic en Flac, offered some lunch recommendations, and arranged to pick us up at 4:30. We ate outside at a little Chinese eatery (I’ll give you one guess what the kids ordered) that far surpassed any American Chinese food I’ve ever eaten. The waitress brought coasters for our drinks and set them on top of our glasses. I naturally put it beneath mine but she put it back and informed me it was because of the bugs. Sure enough, before the end of our meal, the flies were swarming. Mauritius proved to be the buggiest place we’ve visited since the Amazon River, and Vivian and I sported the bites to show for it!

All we had to do was cross the street and roll out our beach towels. Flic en Flac exuded a down-to-earth, mellow vibe; it seemed like mostly locals were hanging out on this Sunday afternoon. We notice a couple of large, Coleman-esque, tents, (where I guess people had camped the night before), families enjoying picnics, and teenagers casually kicking around the soccer ball. Between the street and the sand, towering filao trees offered shady respite from the intense sun. Filao trees are some sort of evergreen with needles that resemble pine needles. And they’re sharp, as I learned when I tried to play Frisbee barefoot! Bordering the trees was a strip of Bermuda grass, which made it a very user-friendly beach.

 From my observation post (my towel) I watched the Flic en Flac world go by: to my left, a couple of guys strummed their guitars. Kids, parents, and grandparents swam in the sea. Further down the beach, a jovial gathering danced, chanted and played African drums. The life of a beach bum…it’s delicious.

When we weren’t tossing the Frisbee or examining pieces of bone-white coral, we spent most of our time in the ocean. The coral reef formed a natural lagoon with a very shallow, gradual drop-off, and no waves to speak of! The breakwater was probably a quarter mile out from the shore. William, honest to goodness, swam in the ocean for the first time! Like the Atlantic in Ghana, the Indian Ocean was comfortably warm. Floating on my back – outside noise muted – weightless on the buoyant salt water – transported me to the ultimate state of relaxation. The ocean cradled me like a hammock for a good bit of the afternoon. However, payback came later that night with a mild sunburn and water spider bites on my legs.

So, there’s my Mauritius minute. It’s doubtful I’ll ever return, given that it’s pretty much on the opposite side of the globe from Oregon, but who knows? It was lovely while it lasted.

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Robben Island and Simon’s Town

Our fourth day in Cape Town dawned with the promise of a beach day! The plan was to take the train to Simon’s Town, about an hour south, and check out the penguins at Boulder’s Beach. We stuffed the backpacks with towels, swimsuits, snacks, water, and sunscreen and finally left the ship, like a herd of turtles, midmorning. William had lost his first top tooth, so maybe we can blame our slow start on the tooth fairy!

On the way to catch a taxi we decided to stop at the Clock tower and buy tickets for a tour of Robben Island the next morning, our last day. Come to find out, tickets were completely sold out, but there were openings for the 11:00 tour that day. Traveling has a way of presenting opportunities to flex our adaptability muscles, and today was no exception. We shifted gears, purchased the Robben Island tickets, and resolved to get an early start the next day and allow enough time to make it to Simon’s Town and back. There was enough time before loading the ferry to scoot back to the ship and unload our beach paraphernalia, so I left the Clock tower and headed back to the waterfront. Oh wait. The footbridge suddenly wasn’t there – we hadn’t realized it was a drawbridge! (The photo of the kids in front of the ice cream cone sculpture is very appropriate – we slurped down gelato, frozen yogurt, or ice cream everyday in Cape Town!) We ended up killing time, loaded backpacks and all, at the Clock tower mall (lots of diamond jewelry and expensive art) until we got in line for the ferry. A small world moment smacked me in the face when I met a woman from Newberg, Oregon…she commented on my Keens, which nobody wears unless they’re from the Northwest.

Robben Island, South Africa’s version of Alcatraz, was constructed by prison labor in 1955 to house criminals. It had actually been an island of banishment for 350 years for the mentally ill, chronically insane, and individuals suffering from leprosy. In the 1960’s, as apartheid ramped up, political protestors joined the convicts and were considered equally dangerous. Nelson Mandela was imprisoned for 27 years, 18 of those years were spent at Robben Island. His book, Long Walk to Freedom, was written in his cell. His manuscript wasn’t the only writing Mandela smuggled out; his letters to United Nations about poor prison conditions resulted in a media investigation in 1979, and the prisoners finally got beds in their cells. Here are photos of Nelson Mandela’s cell.

Our guide, Htoza Talakumeni, served time at Robben Island from1986-1990. He received a 10 year sentence for an “act of terrorism”, aka fighting against apartheid, and illegally leaving the country. The remaining prisoners were released by 1991. The tour included a walking portion of the prison grounds as well as a bus ride around the island. Overall the tour was a little choppy, difficult to hear due to the large group, and disorganized…it was way over the kids’ heads. However, viewing the cells had a profound impact. We walked into each tiny space, saw the photo of the inmate, read a personal narrative he’d written, and in many cases, studied a memento in a shadow box (that is a hairbrush in the photo) that signified a piece of their experience. In my opinion, that made it all worthwhile. It was humbling to consider how these brave people sacrificed their personal freedom to make a stand for the rights of all.

When it came time to board the bus it was jammed with standing room only. It was about 95 degrees and the driver told me it was a 45 minute ride around the island. To the chagrin of my family I climbed on an empty bus and inquired if we could join another tour. Ten minutes later the driver came back with a new guide, Craig, and we proceeded to enjoy our own private tour on the empty bus…Hey, it never hurts to ask! Craig provided quite a bit of insight, having lived on Robben Island from the ages of 16-20 (his mom taught the children of the prison employees.) Unexpectedly, we got a preview of penguins on Robben Island! The bus tour included several stops to stretch out the 45 minutes, but no disembarkation. The kids almost melted in the heat, but Craig’s commentary greatly interested me. We stopped at a view point to gaze at Table Mountain framing Cape Town 11 km across the ocean and noticed from the photo display that we’ve now visited two World Heritage Sights in Africa: Cape Coast Castle in Ghana and Robben Island in South Africa!  In the end I was glad we changed plans and made the effort to tour the prison.

We knew it was somewhat risky to head out of town on our last day. Onboard ship time is strictly followed (generally at 6:00 p.m.) and a long line (security officers search everyone’s bags) can complicate being on time. Luckily, staff and faculty don’t have to worry about dock time consequences like the college students do if we’re late!

Ultimately we decided frolicking on the beach with the African penguins was worth the risk. We arrived to the train station and bought our tickets about 10:30 a.m.After I snapped this photo, a railroad official informed me taking photos in the station was prohibited. Don’t tell anyone I’m posting it! Even though everything was in English, the train schedules didn’t post all the outgoing trains. We managed to find our platform and boarded the train soon after. The train reminded me of a New York subway, but only because of the interior and the graffiti. (But don’t you love the pro-education poster?)  

It rumbled along the tracks sluggishly and stopped at probably 10 little towns before we reached the town of Fish Hoek (we had figured out, with help, that our train didn’t travel to Simon’s Town, which was the end of the line.) Our car was deserted except for our family, a senior couple named Ron and Gretchen from the ship, and Thore, a surfer native to Simon’s Town. Thore didn’t hesitate to give us helpful advice, from where to change trains in Fish Hoek to where to find the best pizza, Café Pescado. It ended up taking close to 2 hours (instead of the estimated one hour) because of the layover in Fish Hoek, so we hit the ground running once we arrived in Simon’s Town.

As we briskly walked from the train station to Jubliee Square on our quest for Café Pescado, sleepy Simon’s Town charmed us with its glimmery harbor, gracious architecture, and cobbled lanes. That “gosh-I-wish-we had-more-time-here” feeling swept over me as I soaked up the essence of this coastal town nestled beneath Simonsberg Mountain. I felt a tinge of regret that we hadn’t stuck to our original plan to come the day before. At this point, we had a sliver of 2 ½ hours to accomplish what we wanted and make it back for onboard ship time.

Café Pescado lived up to its reputation with yummy wood-fired pizza. (And yes, William is eating chicken strips and fries, which have sustained him in 99% of the meals he’s eaten in ports.) We had wanted to walk to Boulder’s Beach, but at this point couldn’t risk the extra time. Jason asked our server to call a taxi for us. We waited in front of the café for a while and when none showed up, started hoofing it down the main drag. A minute later, our server caught up with us and explained that the taxi wasn’t available but his boss (the owner of Café Pescado) wanted to drive us to Boulder’s Beach! We turned around and walked into a nearby parking lot to meet Claire, a lovely woman who drove us 5 minutes down the road to the penguin colony. And she even offered to pick us up and return us to the train station! It was humbling to receive such kindness from strangers. I’m convinced guardian angels reveal themselves when we open ourselves up to new and potentially vulnerable situations!

Boulder’s Beach was a hoot! Those beguiling penguins strut their stuff on the boulders and waddle over the sand to the delight of the sunbathers. At one point we thought one spunky penguin was interested in our pile of shoes and backpacks as he toddled through our gear. Nope, our  belongings were simply blocking the route to his nest in the bushes! Jason actually took a dip in the chilly cove; he likes to say he swam with the penguins. Being the biology teacher, he also observed it was mating season as all the penguins were paired up. We could have spent the whole day letting these crackerjacks amuse us. Sadly we had to hurry to catch our train. Thank goodness for Claire – we made it to the station five minutes before the train pulled out.

Our return ride to Cape Town transpired during rush hour, so we came face to face with an authentic commuting experience with the locals. We were all bundled together in the car even as hordes of people pushed on and off at various stops. A pregnant woman with a one-year-old girl in a stroller sat down next to us and we conversed for several miles about kids, babies, and those universal topics moms can easily talk about. She lived in Salt River, about three stops from Simon’s Town, but had never been there. Connecting the dots, I could imagine, just a bit, what her life may be like in her township. Vivian hung on every word, and ogled at baby Esperanza. As I reflect back on our time in Cape Town, it’s clear that riding the train down and back to Simon’s Town added yet another dimension to our exploration of a little corner in South Africa.

 I’ve come to the revelation that events will unfold and moments will gel…… precisely how they are supposed to…. when we open ourselves up to the day. And trust.

We made it back to the line by 5:15 and crossed the gangway at 5:50. Whew! As the MV Explorer sailed out two hours later, Cape Town treated us to this gorgeous farewell sunset!

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