I long to be with the ocean again. To hear the water sing as it crashes along the shore. To feel the sweet rocking of the waves. To see sea gulls dancing above the water. To have salty sea spray coat my glasses. To hear the silence of miles of open water. To see the width of our world. To feel silken breeze wrap around my body. To see a lonely piece of plastic bob by the ship. I long to be with the ocean again.

I want to be on a ship again. To see unbroken horizon in blinding blue. To taste salt upon my lips. To see rivers of stars painted across the night sky. To listen to 900 voices and know they are the only human voices for miles. To feel engines churning as I drift to sleep at night. I want to be on a ship again.

I miss the ocean. I miss seeing the shining, silver flash of the ocean behind proud sky scrapers. I miss seeing the deep, clear, syrup blue of the Pacific. I miss seeing the ocean’s murky, aquamarine waters part around islands. I miss seeing the ocean’s black rolls of velvet on stormy, grey days. I miss seeing the ocean like a silver mirror before dawn’s first light. I miss seeing the ocean black, reflecting an ivory moon. I miss the ocean.

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For all those who are wondering, I will continue to be writing even though I am home. Thank you for sticking with me these months and I hope you continue to check back here. Much love.

Cambodia:

When I first saw Dewin she was trailing behind me like an afternoon shadow. It took her a few moments to approach me. I was battling off the older women who were marketing their goods (Alli Baba pants only 3 dollars! Come, come. Follow me!) when she crept up beside me. It seems to be a universal tactic used through out southern Asia, bombard the white tourist with so many pleas that they eventually give into one person to get the rest to go away! In India, I had learned that not making eye contact and saying No, Im not going to buy it. No. was the best strategy. Their was nothing left open to interpretation then. However, its when the pleas come from the height of my hip that I have trouble sticking to that strategy.

Ten post cards for a dollar Madame, was said by a voice as tender as a tulip in early spring. I looked down on the child lopsided bangs, dirt on her cheeks, and bare feet. A monk dressed in tangerine and cranberry walked by us. His eyes were fixed on the stones of Angkor Wat. I looked up at the temple. It was magnificent. Five tall spires, intricately carved reliefs, a view at the top that rivaled the Niagara Falls in inspiring awe.

She kept pleading with me, her English surprisingly good for a four year old Cambodian child. I cant say no to children like I can with adults so instead I stared talking at her, positive she could understand part of what I was saying even if it was only my tone. I told her about my brother, Chris, an easy subject for me when I speak with children. I told her about one of our kite flying adventures and mimed out how tall he was. I jumped so show her how high. She stared at me but didnt giggle like I hoped she would. Thats when I realized I might have to switch strategies. Her bangs looked like she cut them herself because they are lopsided. Her black hair was so thick you could see its width. Occasionally while we are walking she falls back into her chant, One for a dollar, madame? Ten for two dollars? Shes like a robot during these moments. I didnt want her to keep trying to sell me the post cards.

I plopped myself down on the dirt road in my new purple alli baba pants. Ginger colored dust painted my hands and I gently reached for the postcards. Dewin handed them over and slowly I began to count them in English. She had three packs of post cards, each with ten postcards in them. The heat was stifling. I felt like I was sitting in the back of an over heated bus unable to tell the driver to lower the heat. With great care I laid out the postcards, one, two, three, she picked up the counting with me, four, five, six, seven we were a counting duet sitting in the orange dirt in Cambodia. I laid out all three of the postcards and Dewin and I counted to thirty. Thirty! She was maybe, maybe four years old and could count to 30 in English! How impressive was that?

I wanted to gush to someone but no one was around. Thats when I got the idea. I wouldnt buy the post cards from her though, positive that some adult would just take the money from her once I was gone. But, I explained her, if you teach me to count to ten in Khmer, then Ill buy you a soda.

Dewin just stared up at me and I held my fingers out. One, I said holding up a finger. Whats one in Cambodian uhh Khmer? I asked. Dewins eyes were deep brown, like the dirt is at home after a heavy rain. She blinked and said moy. She led me through all the way up to ten but just as quickly as she told me it the words were gone. I kept repeating them though and the two of us chanted, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, in Khmer as we searched for a café. As we walked down the dirt road, I would occasionally stop counting in Khemer. Then Dewin would start her begging again, One for a dollar, madame? Ten for two dollars? The only way I could find to shake her out of it is for me to start counting in Khmer. Then she would look up at me, counting on my fingers, and correct me, moy, bi, bay, boo-in, bram, bram-mauy, bram-bi, bram-bay, bram-boo-in. I used my fingers to help her decipher my butchered words (and keep track).
Her bare feet were calloused I noticed. Little plumes of dust bloom in between her toes with each step. She was dressed in all pink. They looked like pajamas.

I kept approaching different vendors asking if they took credit cards. Every time we walked into the cover stores, I took Dewins hand. I dont know if she would have followed me in otherwise. No, no, they said, we dont take plastic here. A monkey hooted in the tree over head. Eventually we found our way to the Angkor Wat Café. It was the nicest place around with tile floors, a souvenir shop, and air conditioning. The air conditioning felt so lovely after the heat. I was getting desperate though. I needed to find a place to either A. get cash or B. accept my credit card. I didnt want Dewin to think I had been lieing to her.

It turns out that the even the fancy Angkor Wat Café didnt take plastic. We walked back outside together. I think I was more upset than Dewin. Maybe she didnt ever really understand me in the first place? We walked out to the side of the road. A cow wandered by. One of its ears was shredded. The cows hoofs left crescent moons in the dust. Dewin repeated the numbers to me a few more times and I did my best to remember them. I sat on the side of the road watching rickshaws speed by, counting in Khmer. The packages of postcards lay on the ground.

I felt guilty by not being able to give her something in exchange for the lesson, not remembering the simple numbers would be even worse. After a few moments another girl approached us. She said, Dewin is my sister and our mom wants Dewin to come home now. The older girl, the sister, was tall, nearly my height, with a teal shirt on and dusty sneakers. The older girl looked at Dewin and I with a slight smirk on her face. Her hair was frizzy and poorly braided, not the braid done by a mother. Without a secondnt hesistation Dewin stood up and retrieved the package of postcards from the ground.

A fruit vendor moseyed by us. Leeches, mangos, watermelons all sat on top of each other in a mock dog pile. I tried to smile at the older girl. It came out all funny though, my lips got stuck on my teeth. I didn’t believe her excuse. I didn’t believe she was Dewin’s sister. The little girl with lopsided bags smiled at me before turning and walking away. In her hand she held the three packages of post cards.

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The Traveler’s Trot:

Heres one thing I bet you the other blogs dont tell you about. The shit.

There is a lot of shitting on this ship. Call it what you will (the runs, shit, diarrhea, poop, travelers trot, crap, number two) but everyone gets it. And frequently. When I finally decided to go on SAS it should have occurred to me. I had traveled before. You cant travel to a third world country without getting the runs. So when youre going to 12 "developing" countries it can practically be guaranteed, youll have diarrhea at least 4 or 5 times. However, when I was researching SAS none of the other blogs mentioned it! Well Im here to tell you people, if youre going to travel youll get it. If youre going to participate in Semester at Sea youre going to get it a lot.

Dr. Bill (one of our on ship doctors) has totally desensitized the ship to the word diarrhea. He just throws the word diarrhea around on power points, in conversation, and randomly! How we discuss diarrhea on SAS! We even had a whole power point dedicated to it before India. Its a fact of shipboard life. Occasionally you walk into one of the public bathrooms and its locked. Maybe you wait thinking that person will come out but after five minutes of nothing you realize oh they probably cant get back to their bathroom and they have diarrhea and you move on to find another bathroom. Common occurrence.

At home you would NEVER own up to having *whisper, whisper* diarrhea. But here its treated with a shrug and maybe an ehh no big deal. Because everyone is dealing with it. YES, your professors, faculty, friends, roommate, academic deans, the dependents the LLLs, the LLCs, the crew, everyone! Its nothing to be ashamed of, it means you ate well in the country we were just in. In a way its something to be proud of… although just because you might be proud of having diarrhea doesnt mean you shouldnt take tums, immoudium or peptobismal. No, you should take it and you should even take pepto when you arent sick. It can actually prevent diarrhea and isn’t that wonderful!

So any future SASers who are reading this now know youve been warned: If you go on Semester at Sea you will get diarrhea. Now excuse me, the porcelain god is calling me.

P.S. Diarrhea

So I didn’t finish this before I had to check out of my hotel, but I figured something is better than nothing!

 

She was maybe four years old and could count to 30 in English. The little girl was selling postcards that I wouldn’t buy from her, positive that some adult would just take the money from her once I was gone. “But,” I told her, “if you teach me to count in Khmer I’ll buy you a soda.”

Her bangs look like she cut them herself because they are lopsided. Her black hair is so thick you can see it’s width. Occasionally while we are walking she falls back into her chant, “One for a dollar, madame? Ten for two dollars?” She’s like a robot during these moments. The only way I could find to shake her out of it is for me to start counting in Khmer. Then she looks up at me, counting on my fingers, and begins to correct me, “moy, bi, bay, boo-in, bram, bram-mauy, bram-bi, bram-bay, bram-boo-in.” I used my fingers to help her decipher my butchered words (and I need a way to keep track). Her bare feet were calloused I noticed. Little plumes of dust bloom in between her toes with each step. She was dressed in all pink. They looked like pajamas.

When I first saw Dewin she was trailing behind me like an afternoon shadow. It took her a few moments to approach me. I battled off the older women who were marketing their goods (“Alli Baba pants only 3 dollars! Come, come. Follow me!”).  It seems to be a universal tactic used through out southern Asia, bombard the white tourist with so many pleas that they eventually give into one person to get the rest to go away! In India I had learned that not making eye contact and saying “No, I’m not going to buy it. No.” was the best strategy. Their was nothing left open to interpretation then. However, it’s when the pleas come from the height of my hip that I have trouble sticking to that strategy.

“Ten post cards for a dollar Madame,” was said by a voice as tender as a tulip in early spring. I looked down on the child lopsided bangs, dirt on her cheeks, and bare feet. A monk dressed in tangerine and cranberry walked by us. His eyes were fixed on the stones of Angkor Wat. I looked up at the temple. It was magnificent. Five tall spires, intricately carved reliefs, a view at the top that rivaled the Niagara Falls in inspiring awe.

She kept pleading with me, her English surprisingly good for a four year old Cambodian child. I can’t say no to children like I can with adults so instead I stared talking at her, positive she could understand part of what I was saying even if it was only my tone. I told her about Chris, an easy subject for me when I talk to children. I told her about one of our kite flying adventures and mimed out how tall he was. I jumped so show her how high. She stared at me but didn’t giggle like I hoped she would. That’s when I realized I might have to switch strategies. I don’t know how I got the idea to exchange soda for Khmer counting lessons.

I plopped myself down on the dirt road in my new purple alli baba pants. Ginger colored dust painted my hands and I gently reached for the postcards. Dewin handed them over and slowly I began to count them in English. She had three packs of post cards, each with ten postcards in them.

 

 

I know this isn’t in order and I still owe you blog entries about Cambodia and Viet Nam but I wanted to post something.

The walls of the Forbidden City looked like the skin of an apple, a cranberry, and autumn. People were pushing like it was a mosh pit only without the music. Sunlight bounced off of yellow painted tiles making the roofs look like wheat. Their were short little Asian people who elbowed you at the hips because they werent tall enough to reach your sides. There was no waiting in line, no order to anything. Short, fat little Asian women jockeyed around me to see the thrones and treasures hidden inside. Emma didnt like the throngs of people. I didnt either, but I still elbowed the short haired man who was stomping on my right foot so I could get a glimpse of what was hidden inside the dark-as-a-closet throne room. The Forbidden City was rougher than I expected it to be. A wrinkled, big-eared man pushed me into the wall so he could get by. I kicked the back of his shin as he mowed his way through the crowd. Maybe I should have brought a taser?

Emma and I were trying to find our way to the North Gate. Our group was meeting in twenty minutes and we had no idea where we were. Emma was a short, paled skinned, blue eyed Cuban-
American. She was sarcastic (This definitely looks like Communism to me), imaginative (the reason all of these pots are so big is because Chinese use to be giants but were cursed by a wandering shaman to be short for the rest of their days) and friendly (Nii How Ma!). Part of me liked her just because were both from Cuban-Americans families. I can reminisce about foods I miss and she instantly knows what Im talking about. I dont have to explain why black beans and rice is so delicious (little slices of onions and green peppers dancing on top the bubbles daring you to stick a finger in. And I always do! Then stuff them into my mouth piping hot with the black bean sauce curling down around my fingers.)

As we wandered down the grey stone paths, a man with baggy clothes beckons to us. He bounced a little on his toes before calling out to us, hello! Are you college students?

I looked at Emma. Her brows were furrowed in a classic, huh? face.

Were having an art exhibition. He said, scurrying over to us, Come its over here!

There was no one over there though. After the mobs and mobs of people if there was an art show going on then shouldnt there be at least a few people over there?

This guy was going to take us down an alley way and sell us into white slave trade! An old, white couple meandered by us pointing towards part of the Forbidden City. They were holding a map. We should have follow them if we wanted to get out. If we followed the man advertising art exhibits wed probably just get mugged. There is definitely no art exhibition around the corner.

I dont know what made me take that first step. Their was no comforting light or voice whispering to me that I should follow him. All my instincts were screaming at me to turn around and walk the other way. We followed him though; through a red doorway into a stone courtyard then up some stairs into a room. The room we walked into was silent. It was quiet like a Broadway theater is quiet immediately after a performance. That one second everyone breathes in before they stand and cheer. I looked around and there were paintings everywhere. There was about a hundred thousand paintings. Paintings were hung on the walls, stacked on desks, leaning against book cases, paintings propped together as tables, or as coasters, rolled up paintings, others draped off of chairs. Some were on canvas, some on rice paper, some on silk. The room was so colorful felt like we had walked into a carnival.

There was about sixty small, maybe one foot by one foot paintings hanging on the wall directly to my left. Emma wandered in to look at some of the silk paintings that were hanging on a chair. Out of all of the paintings their was one black and white paintings. The paintings was of a little girl. She was maybe nine years old in the picture. She was grinning and holding up a piece of red string in front of her face. The string looped around her fingers to form a red star. There was three other red ascents in the black and white portrait. Two, little red ribbons tied at the end of the girls pig tails and a little red star on her fuzzy hat.

The points of the stars framed each of her eyes and the center of the star framed her mouth. She was smiling so wide in the picture that the corners of her eyes were crinkling. She looked like everything I imagined a little communist girl to look like. She was happy, seeming to be content with her life. For me, raised in the States, it was so strange to see that in association with a communist symbol. She was just a little girl too and to see her displaying such propaganda was a bit disconcerting. Obviously someone else had brainwashed her into believing in communism the same way I believed in democracy.

I looked at her hands. Her fingers bowed out in an almost cartoon look. They were doughy and plastic-y especially were her fingers met the palm of her hand. The string was fuzzy like someone had run a brush backwards over it, pulling up all the little strings. It was very nicely rendered, as my drawing professor at home would say.
I turned away then. I walked on because I figured how would I get a painting like that back on the ship, let alone on an airplane? And Id have to do it without damaging it to! No, I decided it wasnt a practical purchase.

A college student from Xiian showed me around the room. He brought me over to his portraits and laid them out for me to see. They are all originals by Xiian University students. There are no two exactly the same here. He held up one of an old man with wrinkles so deep I felt like I could have crawled inside one and played hid and go seek. Then another of a naked woman breast feeding and another still of a Chinese ballerina stretching her leg out on a pole. The morning sun shone down on her and you could see the light shine through the fabric of her skirt and reflect off her leotard. Even though they were all gorgeous paintings, I kept wandering back in the direction of the red star girl. I showed him my red star girl. I really like this one. I told him.

Its 400 yuan, he replied. I did the mental math in my head. 100 yuan is 15 dollars so 200 is 30 dollars meaning that 400 yuan is sixty dollars. I sighed and let him bring me back over to some cheaper paintings. Other groups started to filter into the room while he was showing me reels of silk paintings that were only 100 yuan. One of the great wall in the winter, one of a plum flower. None made me feel anything though. Emma was staring at a picture of a tiger, should I get that painting? I asked her. Which one? she asked. I pointed out the black and white little girl. I think I really just wanted her to say yes so I would feel justified in buying it.

Do you like it? She asked. I nodded. Well, would you look at it while your home and remember the Forbidden City? I nodded again. Then I think you should get it. We only have two ports left and you have extra money. I agreed, glad that she had the same reasoning that I did.

I decided Id get a cheap rice paper painting as a gift and the red star girl for myself. They took credit cards. I had the money. It was an original. I hadnt purchased any souvenirs in China.
I was buying that painting.

Im buying the painting of the little girl, I told him. My guide nodded and brought me back over. The wall lined with all the paintings one foot paintings had a hole in it. One was missing from the line up. Then I realized it. The spot were my little girl was, was empty.

Where is my painting? I asked. And then I caught another college student wrapping up my painting in brown paper. The paper crinkled like someone was flipping the pages of a newspaper.
Wait, I called, What are you doing?

The college student with me asked in Chinese what the guy was doing. The wrapper turned and said to me in English, someone else has bought this. You cant have it. I felt like a toddler after theyve had their pacifier taken away. I was unreasonably, irrationally upset. I didnt know what to do. I stood there staring at the brown wrapped square. But thats. thats my painting. I stammered, Its an original. I wont be able to get another of her.

No. But that lady, the wrapper pointed out a Chinese woman, has already paid for it. You cant have it.

My guide looked at me. I was chewing on my lip. I felt like I was lost in a big city and didnt know which direction to turn in. I didnt know what to say, what to do. From the corner of my eye I could see Emma purchasing a silk painting of a tiger. She handed over her credit card and I thought that should be me.

Wait, wait one moment. We have similar ones. The Xiian student said.

He disappeared behind a wall of paintings and I just stood there. My watch read 11:22. We only had 8 minutes to find our group. I was pushing it. Emma was fidgeting by the door.

While I was waiting I turned to get a better look of the woman who had bought my painting. She was young maybe late twenties, early thirtys with long black hair. She was taller than normal for a Chinese woman. Maybe 56 or 57? I could almost pretend the woman who bought my paint was a Chinese American woman. In a way, I would have preferred her to be American than Chinese.
I was angry with her. She didnt have to debate whether or not she could afford it or if she wanted it enough. She knew she could afford it. I was angry she had jumped at the opportunity so fast and I hadnt. I had to rationalize it out. I hadnt even taken a picture of the painting before it was wrapped up.

My guide came back with two more similar pictures. One was of a baby holding a red star with the same red ribbons and red star hat. The baby seemed flat. His pudgy little fingers held the star out in front of his chest. Not in front of his face. The star was also skinnier. It was barely a star, more like flattened triangles. I didnt like it so they showed me another one. The second one was of a teenage girl. It was long, a rectangle rather than a square. The girls face was an oval and she wasnt smiling. She held the star in front of her and she just looked through it. Their was no emotion in her gaze though. Her eyes appeared dead. The painter hadnt done as good of a job with her. I shook my head. Their was nothing deeper to this painting.

But it was the exact same style. The same price. Why couldnt I like it as much? I hung it on the wall. I went back and forth with myself for a while. I didnt love it though. I handed it back to the student. If I didnt like it even a little bit as much as the first painting it wasnt worth me spending sixty dollars. I said, no, no I dont want it.

Thats when the Xiian students realized the were going to missing out on selling me two paintings because the shoulders dropped a little bit. The offered me a few other paintings but I was firm I had wanted the first painting and no I didnt want a painting of the great wall, a mountain or a panda. If I didnt really want it I wasnt going to buy it. They just shook their heads.

The Chinese woman was sitting around with her friends talking. My painting was wrapped up in paper propped against her chair. She wasnt looking at it. Then Emma turned to me and said, we have four minutes to get to our meeting point. We really have to go.

I walked out of there really upset, more upset than I should have been. I wanted that painting. That girl spoke to me I walked out of the room with all the carnival colors but I still saw that little girl smiling at me from behind her red star. As we were headed to the meeting point I pushed at the shorter Chinese tourists around me. I sneered as they toppled into each other. Im just blending in, I thought.

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Don’t let this fool you though aside from this China was a blast! I’ll have to write some more about the great wall!! Lots of days at sea coming up! (meaning I’ll have time to write!)

Currently, Im sitting at a round table listening to the roar of the waves. Plums of ocean spray fly past the window like a rain storm without a cloud. India is so far away now. We arrive in Hong Kong tomorrow. Yet when I think back on India several scenes stick out in my mind.

The first day I did a service project, to paint a community center for the Dalit children. The twenty five college students were handed buckets of watery paint and shown where to paint. We werent told where we could leave our backpacks so I still had mine (stocked with enough water to hydrate a family lost in a desert). Every time I painted fat drops of paint flew off the brush and landed on the ground. As they dried the paint got thicker and darker in color. I would slowly continue to paint trying not to drip to much on the floor. A bearded, shriveled man would ran up to me yelling, faster! Faster! Like this! The paint brush slid across the wall like a child flew down a greased slide. Gobs of paint sprayed my face and hair. The brush was thrust back into my hands and the man stood waiting to see me do it. I thrashed my arm out towards the wall like he had done and most of the paint got on me, some on the wall, but mostly on me. However, the shriveled man nodded and said another, faster! before wandering off to check on another slow poke student. He had to come back over to me several times, each time his shout of faster! became a little bit rougher and his demonstrations got less paint on the walls. By the time I decided I was done painting inside, Im sure the bearded man had labeled me a problem painter, someone who wouldnt paint fast and sloppily, but neatly and slowly, and here in the slums that was not ok.

The rickshaw drivers yelled at each other as they swerved in and out of traffic. Kelsey, Taylor and I were smashed in the back of a auto rickshaw. Caitlin, Sara and Annie were cramped into the one driving next to us. The two drivers waved their hands in what I assumed was rude gestures. For all of you who dont know, an autorickshaw is a small box, smaller than a smart car that up to 6 people can fit into. You have to play twister to get everyone in (Kelsey, your arm is jammed in my side!) but it is infinitely cheaper and a lot more fun than a regular taxi. The rickshaw doesnt have doors so you can let the polluted air roll across your face. By the time you get out you want to wash out your eyeballs, but when the rickshaw is moving you dont notice. Your mother was a whore! my driver yelled to the rickshaw with the other half of our group. The image of a cow nibbling at a bag flashed outside the cab. I crane my head back to see if it was a real cow. It was. Two buses box our rickshaws in between them. Our drivers curse some more and we go single file through the shrinking passage way. We make it out and cruise along the sidewalk for a few minutes. Boys driving motorcycles pass us. On the backs of their motorcycles are women with long, black braids and luminescent colored outfits. The women look as though they were posing for a portrait. Our cabbies started yelling again and we sped up passing two little girls peddling bicycles up a hill. I laughed before yelling out, only in India! Speeding down a road cracked from heat I get a resounding yes! from both rickshaws.

The sky is dark like a sweet, summer grape but flickering, fluorescent lights leads us on towards the Ganges. Groups of short Koreans and Chinese pass us. They are dressed in all white. Brown spotted cows lay underneath awnings off restaurants and shops. I adjust the grey scarf wrapped around my head. (Head scarfs are good for many things other than hiding a womans face. For example as I walked to the Ganges in the darkness of predawn I used mine to hide my bad hair day, shield myself from the hawkers AND keep the stink out. It would lose some of its fun if I had to wear one all the time, but for India it made me blend in a LOT better.) A woman was selling garlands of purple flowers for a 200 rupees by the boats. A bony, brown preteen was climbing across the tangle of wooden boats sitting on the river. In his hands he held a basket of homemade, white candles. Our group boarded a blue boat. I had to pull myself over three other boats to get on it. The boy with the basket bee lined for our group. He scrambled over a white boat before boarding climbing over the side of our boat. Only 10 rupees, he whispered. Most of our group shook their heads at him, but our trip leader, Dustin, reached in his pocket and handed the boy a scraggly looking ten note. The boy smiled and gently handed Dustin a candle. You light it and send them off on the river, the boy with the basket explained, you light it for someone in your life. Dustin nodded. The boy wandered over to me and I did the calculation in my head 45 rupees is a dollar. 10 rupees is insane ten cents? Yeah about that. I pulled out a note of my own and handed to the boy. He smiled at me and I whispered a thank you. It was a white, mound candle with purple flower petals cradled in a small wooden boat. Only about five people bought the candles and after a few minutes the boy with the basket scrambled off to the next group. I held the candle in my hands as we sailed down the Ganges.

You buy from me! 12 for 200 rupees! I make you good price! T-shirt! I have your size! M size? I dont want it was my catch phrase as I walked to the Taj Muhal. I turned on my patented Liselle death glare at anyone who didnt understand that I did NOT want their trinket the first time I said it. Mostly the hawkers were older men (no women at all) and grade school children. The road to get to the Taj is orange and lined with monkeys hiding in green trees. Buildings of red sandstone hide the Taj from view until the last moment. Magnet, Madame? Snow globes ten for 40 rupees!

No thank you, I say to the snow globe seller before turning my attention to the little boy selling magnets. I told him that I liked his magnets but I didnt want to have to carry them with me through the Taj. Snow globe for 20 rupees, Madame! I turned to the snow globe seller. He couldnt have been more than 16. Im not going to buy them. Try someone else. He didnt move so I glared at him. He left then. I turned my attention back to the magnet seller. He was small, maybe seven or eight and he reminded me of my brother. His bangs hung in his eyes as he pleaded with me, Ill give you a good price if you buy now. He slapped the magnet against the metal board that was holding them explaining how strong they were. I asked the price and he started listing discounts, if I bought three he would give them to me for 400 rupees. I laughed at each of his suggestions before telling him I only wanted one and would have to think on it. He sighed and I promised when I came back out I would look for him to buy my magnet from.

Everyone always promises, Madame. The boy said. No, no, I replied, I promise. He looked me up and down before turning his back on me. He peeked at me from over his shoulder on his back was a bubble letter 40. My number is 40, he said, letting me get a good look at his back. I nodded and he turned back around. His face was heart shaped when he smiled, ok, he said, you come find me. My name is Bicki. Then he pointed down at his clothes he was wearing a red shirt, black shorts and red flip flops and number 40. He made me repeat it back to him several times. I went into the Taj and forgot about Bicki for an hour. When I came out though a little boy with a shaved head approached me selling magnets. I explained to him I was looking for someone. Bickis name tripped out of my mouth and I searched the crowd of people for a little boy in red and black with a number 40 on his back. From the corner of my eye I saw a small form dodge out from between two people, Madame! He called, You came back! It was like he was greeting a long lost sibling and I smiled at him, Hi Bicki! I exclaimed. Bicki was a great hawker he started the price for 1 magnet at 500 rupees (about 11 bucks USD) and it took me about twenty minutes to bargain him down to 300. In the end though I didnt mind paying 8 dollars for the marble magnet. I gave it to him knowing he was ripping me off and when I boarded the bus I saw a preteen selling the exact same magnets for 50 rupees. Oh Bicki, I smiled, you are a fantastic hawker.

The littlest girl was wearing a yellow tunic and her friend, a maroon one. The bus let us off on a parched road. Chocolate? Dollar? They begged me. Fields of yellowing grass fled from the road and a lone tree grew on top of a pile of orange boulders. I sighed. The children get to me the worst. Their bare feet slapped the dirt road as they trailed behind me, dollar, Madame, dollar? I looked down at them before holding out my hand, dollar? I asked them. Both girls froze and looked up at me. They didnt respond so I smiled and asked again, dollar? dollar for me? I point at myself. The girls giggle before parroting back, dollar for me? and sticking their hands out. I put mine on top of theirs, no, no! Dollar for mmeeee? They laughed and walked with me down the road. The orange dust turned my feet tan. They think its hilarious that IM asking for a dollar. I keep asking them for money until they stop asking me for money. Then because I dont understand Hindi and they barely understand English I start babbling to them. Most of my tour group has gone ahead so I talk to them about the karate school, mimic a kiap for them, tell them a story about Judys house and one about my little brother. When I have to go inside the fort a guard waves a baton at them and they flee back into the fields. I assumed that would be the last I saw of them, but when I came out they were standing by the road with a white piece of plastic, one dollar, madame? they said holding it out to me. I sighed, whoever their boss was he must have told them if I wasnt going to give them a dollar they should try to sell something to me. I took the circle of plastic from them. I put it in one hand and switched hands behind my back. They stared at me and I stuck both of my hands out, which is it in? I asked wiggling my fists. They didnt get it at first so I got another student to demonstrate picking a hand after that they were all guesses. We played all the way from the fort to the bus. I got on smiling, glad that I had been able to move away from begging and onto something more fun. As my bus rolled away both little girls waved vigorously to me from on top of the orange boulders. I smiled and waved back at them.

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Room 3093

I’m hashing out the last of these for you guys! I’ll be in Singapore tomorrow and I did not want to have South Africa, Mauritius AND India hanging over my head

Mauritius

Shocked by the amount of Hindu temples and women in saris (which seems silly now post-India).

Did a high ropes slash zip lining course. I knew a couple of people on my trip (Kirsten and Bobby) which was cool. Got eaten alive by mosquitos. I really liked zip lining. High ropes ehh not so much. I fell several times the harness caught me, but it is not a feeling I want to repeat.

Bobby, Kirsten and I were in the same area so we took some pictures and complained about the mosquitos together. When we got back to the main lodge we got lunch and sodas and chilled while the people behind us on the course slowly trickled in. We talked about what we would have liked to know about SAS pre-trip the internet, dependent children and dock time all came up.

Went to the beach at the end of the day. Kirsten, Bobby and I split ways. I swam in the Indian Ocean. It was the first time in my life I had ever touched the Indian Ocean. The water was blue and you could see your toes at the bottom. It sort of reminded me of Dominica. On our way back I saw Bobby had gotten really, really, really drunk while we were at the beach. It was the drunkest Ive ever seen a person. He was vomiting during the beginning of the ride back but later became unresponsive. When we got back to the ship he had to be carried from the car to the ship by four guys. They didnt even get him on the ship, the med crew whipped out a wheel chair and started wheeling him to the nearest car. His feet kept flopping under the wheel chair and scraping along the ground. A medic kept pulling them out for him. He was grey. Not like oh shes ashen from fear gray, but his skin color was the same color as slate or really dingy laundry it was terrible.

Left Mauritius that night and SAS left Bobby behind in the hospital. Zip lining was fun, seeing a friend practically dead from alcohol? Not fun.

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Room 3093

Last two days of South Africa-

Feb 21, 2011

Went to the Aquarium with Genevieve. Really cool very much like the wild. The penguin tank even had a fake current!
Went to a Cheetah Reserve with Kelsi, Genevieve, Emmie and Peg. Lots of fun. Got to touch a Cheetah.
Saw a birds of prey show. Got to hold an owl!

Feb 22, 2011
On the last day Genevieve and I went sand boarding. I bonded with the sand like I never have before. (And those who know me know how much I despise the beach because of the sand. Give me the ocean any day.) I ate sand pretty hard the first two times but I got it after that. Genevieve was a pro, she didnt fall once, but shes from Colorado and has been snow boarding since she was a kid.

I couldnt wear my glasses because theyd break if I fell on them. So I couldnt see very well while I was doing this. It was scary being at the top of the dune looking down at an expanse gold. The only differentiation I could see was where the sand ended in the distance and turned into sky. Blue and gold. Sandboarding was how Id imagine snow boarding would be, but on sand. We had to wax the boards after every second ride which was bothersome. The ride was exhilarating though. It got my blood pumping like cliff jumping in Belize did. I could feel my heart speed up, could hear everything sound magnified, could feel every touch amplified. It was something I already want to do again but I still dont like sand.

Before we left I made a sand angel to commemorate sand boarding in South Africa. It turned out quite nicely. (Ill upload a picture when I get internet that can handle that much data transfer) When we left I had sand in my teeth, behind my ears, in my pants, boots, underwear. It was EVERYWHERE! When I got back to the ship I jumped into the shower. I turned on the water and the shower head fell off! I tried to stick it back on but the water pressure just kept forcing it off. Half wet and sandy all over, I called Annie and she said I could shower in her room. She said yes. As I was showering I imagined the universe was laughing at me and all I could think was not funny, Universe, not funny.

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03-15-11
I’m assuming you guys have heard of the devastating earthquake and tsunami that hit Japan last Friday. Well today the decision was made to change our last international port of call. SAS Spring 2011 will NOT be going to Japan. Currently we do not know what it will be changed to. The possibilities we were presented us was Seoul, South Korea; Taiwan or the Philippines. It is a complicated decision that involves both ISE, the Captain, and the staff on this ship. I’ll let you guys know when they reach a decision. I’m hoping for Seoul. How cool would THAT be?
Liselle

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Room 3093

Since we are very far behind on this blog, Im going to give you some snapshots and quick glances for the last two days in South Africa.
The afternoon after my home stay I set off on my own in Cape Town. I wasnt in the mood to be bogged down or shackled to a group. If I was going to head out on my own Cape Town, South Africa on a Sunday afternoon was probably the safest place to do it for the first time. I bought myself a ticket for one of those red double decker red buses. You know the kind. They are in every major city across the globe and take you to major cites around the city for a flat rate. You can jump on and off when you please for a full twenty four hours.

I picked Hout bay which was an hour away to visit for the afternoon. The ticket only cost me 17 USD for the round trip. The trip to Hout bay took me through the city of Cape Town, past large monuments, a working Dutch 19th century windmill, a botanical garden and the wine lands. When I got off at Hout Bay wind whipped around the wooden shacks. People strolled on the white sand beach. The pop of fish frying tap danced on the breeze and the sun warmed my back. I wandered around Hout Bay for the afternoon. I went on a glass bottom boat to visit an island where seals live. The boat had two small panels of glass right behind the motors. You couldnt see anything out of it though. The seals were cool. Hundreds of massive seals packed onto two tiny, silver rocks. I could barely hear over the roar of the engines, wind and barking of the seals. When we headed back I stopped at a restaurant and got a fish fry. I met a mother and daughter from Johannesburg. We sat and chatted while eating our crispy fish.

I left Hout Bay and got to see the sun setting over the Atlantic. I met a couple from Alaska on the ride back and shocked them when I told them I had just been in Alaska the previous summer. The bus dropped me back off at the waterfront and I walked back to the ship.

My door had two orange sticky notes stuck to it both said LISELLE in large letters. I unfolded them to see they were from Genevieve and Kelsi. We were suppose to do try and go horseback riding when I got back so I should find them ASAP. I had completely forgotten. I called Kelsi from the room phone and told her Id be down in a second and we could discuss.

The place we had looked at to go riding was half an hour outside of Hout bay. Since I had just been there I told them it would be really expensive to get there and it probably would be too late. We decided to try to go the next few days and instead go to a comedy show. I used my handy blackberry to find a comedy place close to Cape Town. It was called Obz Theater and it was having a show that night. Since it was a Sunday we were nervous about not finding something so I called to make sure the website was legit. It was so we caught a cab over. The ride there was sketchy. We took a highway out about 15 minutes and when we got into the neighborhood it was empty. No one was walking around. The street lamps were all out. The night was grey and quiet around us. As we paid the cab driver told us not to walk around alone and call for him (he gave me his number) when we were ready to leave. The three of us nodded.

We walked into Obz and found a group of middle age men playing guitar to a small group of people drinking coffee and wine. We waited for a few minutes before I asked if the show was actually going on. The manager said it was. I went back to our seats. We were all nervous about what we had gotten into. Five to nine, a man in a suit came out and announced the show was about to start in the theater. Confused the three of us got up and started to follow him. We walked down a narrow alley and through a wall of red velvet. The alley opened up to a large room with a stage and rows of black chairs. There were other college aged people sitting waiting for the show to start. It was a much better vibe than the-reliving-our-glory-days jam sesh we had first walked into.

The show was all of the sex, race, and political jokes that you normally hear at comedy clubs, but it was in South Africa! Too cool. When one of the comedians found out the three of us were from the states he did a whole improv on Barrack Obama that was so funny it made me cry.
We had to find another driver to take us back to the waterfront. The first driver didnt answer his cell and I wasnt calling on my international phone twice. Kelsi and I walked a block down the street and found a driver with his taxi light still on. He agreed to take us back for 150 rand. Not a bad price in our opinion. I got back to my room that night and passed out on top of my bed. It was a little hard for me to believe that, that morning I had woken up in a township and now I was going to sleep on my floating university. Life is good.

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Room 3093

Hey all!
Sorry this has taken me so long to get to you. The work load seems like it’s tripled since we left South Africa. Just be warned that the writing is really rough and unpolished.
Happy reading!

Home stay

The ride to the township was only fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes. We went from high class hotels and gourmet food to single bed room, cement homes. Our group was split into groups of two. The girl I was grouped with was named Casey. She is an only child from Chicago and looks like a white pumpkin with legs stuck to the bottom. We were placed with a woman named Ellen. In Brazil we had an interport lecturer named Lulu who said that when you meet new people you should greet them like they are family you havent seen in a long, long while. I tried to channel her attitude as I greeted Ellen with a bear hug and smile. She laughed and slapped me on the back several times.

Ellen had a husband and a grown son. Her husband was away at a funeral and her son had moved out. She took us to a wedding. It was a friends daughter getting married so she had done a lot of the cooking for it. She told me we were lucky we were getting such good food. I laughed and replied that I was excited. The bride and groom were thrilled to see us. They asked if we would pose for photos with them.

Old women sat in a dim room. The air smelt of feces and something sweet. The talked in Xhosa to each other. Like I had greeted Ellen, I greeted them like they were family I hadnt seen in a while. It made them laugh and pat me on the back. Casey followed behind me. Her face looked like she was sucking on a lemon. She gingerly sat on a wooden bench and ignored the women around her. I turned to the woman next to me and struck up a conversation. She gave me the skinny on everything.

I received a plate of m(click)noso which is this puffy looking rice like item. The mqnoso had a yellow sauce drizzled on top of it with onions laid onto of that. The plate also had nyama (lamb). The meat was tender and flavorful. It had no sauce to accompany it but it didnt need one. A potato was also laid on the side of my plate. It was dyed yellow from the onion sauce.

While I was picking through the plate put in front of me I heard Casey explaining to Ellen that she was a vegetarian and couldnt eat anything that had touch meat. She sneered a little as she explained and asked, Didnt Semester at Sea tell you? I was mortified that she was acting like that.

I offered to help clean up after the meal and was told I could help wash dishes. Most of them had already been washed which I think is the only reason they let me. Casey whispered to me as I passed her that I didnt have to do that. Yeah I wanted to snap back I do. If I appeared at someones wedding in the states I would have brought a gift or card. Since I didnt know the only thing I could give them was my help. Instead I ignored her and rolled my eyes. I wasnt going to explain in front of the all the women.

We left the wedding in the early evening. The sun was sitting on Table mountain and Ellen said she wanted to take us to her mothers house. It was a 2 rand ride. Very cheap, she said.

I agreed and Casey reluctantly followed along. Ellen led us across train tracks and through a valley of garbage before we emerged on the road side. Taxis were swinging around the corner and we jumped into one. The three of us were all smashed into the back set of a cab and for the first time I felt like skin and bones in between these two women. And let me tell you I am many things but under 150 pounds is not one of them so this was a new experience.

The cab dropped us off at the entrance to the township and as we walked down the street Ellen explained that she hoped her brother and his wife were home. It took me a few minutes and several questions to realize that Ellens mother was dead and that it was her moms house but her brother was the one we were actually visiting.

Our visit was short, barely 15 minutes. I had enough time to take a few pictures and introduce myself to Ellens brother (whose name I dont remember). I dont know why we didnt stay longer, but before I would have like we were back in the cab headed to Ellens house.

Children came back the home all night wanting to talk with us. I gave Ellen my thank you gift, a SAS hat, SAS plastic cup and a draw string bag. I had assumed she had young children so I also brought jelly beans. The jelly beans were a re-gift. I had received them on Valentines Day and spur of the moment decided to include them. They were a hit with the kids who shrieked when they found out I had sweets. I explained that they were all different flavors but a little girl, no more than four, got a cinnamon flavored bean and ran around the living room hollering spicy! spicy! and waving her hand in front of her mouth.

Eventually they all left and Ellen sat down with us. We chatted about her house for a while. She explained to us how it cost 10 rand to pay for the lights for 3 days. Sometimes she doesnt have enough money, but because she knew we were coming she had purchased the lights the night before so we would have light for our entire stay. To hear that she couldnt come up with 10 rand was shocking for me. I had assumed people made enough to live comfortably. I had spent 140 rand on dinner the first night. It was only 20 USD to me. Not a bad price. But thats not how it was for the people in the townships.

After Ellen had been talking with us for a while I asked Ellen, Ellen if you dont mind telling us, what was South Africa like for you during Apartheid? The question had been weighing on my mind all evening. I sat next to her on the love seat, twisted side ways so I could see her face.

She didnt say anything for a moment. Sweat broke out across her brow and she lifted her yellow shirt so that I could see her grey bra and fanned her face. It was terrible, Ellen said, Apartheid was very trying on black people. We couldnt have bathrooms in the house. You know? She explained that if you had children or stomach problems you had to walk to the communal bathrooms. Even at night, with children! She exclaimed, You know thats why Nelson Mandela was fighting. She said very seriously.

Yeah, I know, the words were pulled from my heart.

She spared no detail. At the office blacks had to have their own cups and plates, you know? We couldnt touch the white peoples stuff. They thought wed steal it or break it. She went on about Apartheid for several more minutes before she said, and its not really over you know? They are still trying to put us back in that!

I wasnt sure who they were but I nodded and asked what she meant. She explained how you have to pay your water bill every month to make it go on all the time. If you accumulate a debt of more than 50 rand the water is turned off. Instead you get a 5 gallon jug every morning and that is all the water the household gets for a day.

That happen to my neighbor you know? They have little kids.

Little kids use a lot of water, I said.

Yes! Ellen exclaimed, They like to flush the toilet! My neighbor runs out. By 2 or 3 oclock. And if its a Saturday and shes doing laundry they have no water to cook or go to the bathroom. Many times she comes over here because my water stays on all the time. I always give her water.
Our conversation flowed into the evening. Then the gate clanged and Ellen said, oh my husband is home. She got up from the couch and sat at the table. She started dong paper work.

I looked at Casey who was sitting across the room from me in a arm chair. We traded a look and I got up to greet Ellens husband. Best to make a good impression. I stood in the white kitchen as her husband closed the front gate. Hi I just wanted to introduce myself. Im Liselle, I said. The man was only slightly taller than me and thin. His face was wrinkle less and he had a slight beard.

Woah! I wish I was always welcomed home like that! Woah! He said shaking my hand. He recapped the moment before exclaiming woah a few more times. We moved into the living room and he kept talking, Woah! You are a star! Keep shining! Ill give you 75 percent! Casey was sitting cross legged on her chair. She didnt move to greet him. A moment later he corrected himself, No, no Ill give you 95 percent! Keep shining! Youre a star! Woah!

His attention turned to her. He asked what her name was a we talked for several minutes. He asked us to guess his age and I did what everyone does for adults, pretend to mull it over and guess lower than you really think. Thirty uhh. seven? I guessed.

KC? He asked, what do you think?

Forty five? She immediately guessed. Stupid girl I wanted to exclaim. Thats not how you play! Ellen was silently working on paper work at the table. I tried to include her into the conversation but she shook her head and smiled at me.

No, no he responded. He ragged on Casey for a moment, saying everything that I wanted to say to her. That she didnt think about her guess and just answered to placate him (well he didnt use that word but thats what he meant) and that is when I realized it. Hes drunk. He told me I was wrong, but he was quite taken with me and said he liked that I thought about it. He recapped our introduction again and asked Casey if she thought we could be related. Eventually I told him that I had to work on some homework. I said good night to him and Ellen who was still silently working at the table. Casey followed behind me.

The next morning I was up by 8 am. The ship has made me an early riser, I grumbled as I got ready. Casey was still asleep. I walked out into the living room and kitchen. No one was up yet. I could go for a walk. I mulled the idea around in my head before grabbing my shoes and heading out the door. I made sure to look the gates behind me. What is the point of having two metal gates that anyone can open?

The streets were still asleep. The morning light was harsh against my eyes. My walk was slow. I followed streets that I had walked the previous day with Ellen, going in a straight line so I wouldnt get lost. The few people that I saw were all dressed nicely and, I imagined, headed to church.

I passed a short, plump elderly woman as I was walking. I said good morning to her and she greeted me in Xhosa. I responded back that I only spoke English. She stared at me before saying, you look white, not like the color white but white like the race.
Thats because I am white, I said back, Im staying with Ellen for the night. I pointed out the house, right there.
And you came to see us? she asked. I nodded. Oh thats very good! I am so glad you want to see us. What are you doing up so early?
Im just going for a walk, I replied.
Well have a good walk! She said.
Thank you, I exclaimed as she waddled away.
The rest of my walk was very enjoyable. I took a few pictures of buildings and met some other locals. They all greeted me warmly. The walk was comfortable like I had wandered into Duchess, my regular Saturday lunch spot, and my Karate family was there waiting for me. It felt good that these people could see that I was white and wasnt scared to walk around their township. I felt glad that I was white so I could prove not all whites were like the South African whites that had imposed Apartheid on them.

I went back to the house to see if anyone was awake. Neither Ellen nor her husband were wandering the house yet but Casey was awake. I asked her if she wanted to join me on another walk. No, she said, I just want to stay in bed. I left sorta of happy that she didnt want to come with me. On my second walk I went in the other direction and kept going. I stayed out longer hoping that by the time I got back Ellen would be awake. Casey wasnt good company. The streets were starting to wake up by now. I wandered for 20 minutes then headed back. It was nice to have that quiet time.

Ellen was awake when I got back (thank god!) and she showed me how to make breakfast. It was called stavipup and was a dried flour that you could mix with water to make an oatmeal. She let me do it for Casey too (who still hadnt ventured out of the room yet). She let me put a little sugar in mine and Caseys. I used the teaspoon to sprinkle the white powder on top of mine. The little yellow container was almost empty and I hoped I wasnt using the last of her sugar. I only served Casey a little of the dried flour, assuming she wouldnt like it.

Ellen left to dress and Casey wandered in. I told her just to add a little water. She added to much water and had to add extra stavipup to thicken it. The obnoxious girl stuck the spoon in her mouth and chewed for a moment before whispering that it was disgusting. I replied that I had put a teaspoon of sugar in and I didnt think Ellen would mind if she used another. She nodded before taking the sugar container and pouring it over the bowl. My eyes widened and I bit my tongue. Unable to with hold my comment I took my breakfast into the living room.

I finished my breakfast and went back into the sink to rinse the bowl. Casey was sour faced and holding her bowl. I cant eat this, she declared. What should I do with it? After she wasted all of that sugar she wasnt going to eat it! I took a deep breath. My patience must be increasing with this. I responded that I wasnt sure and I would try to just finish it. In the end she ignored my suggestion and threw it away.

When we left I took a few pictures with Ellen and told her how grateful I was that she had opened her home to me. I got on the bus and put my backpack in the empty next to me. Casey walked by and I tried my hardest not to sneer at her. The home stay was really successful, excluding her presence. As we left Langa I smiled and put it on one of my places to come back to.

I woke up early set to go to Table Mountain. Taylor and Sara were planning on hiking it but I had a home stay in the afternoon so I was going to take the Cable Car up. The Waterfront was alive with people when we left at 10. I hadnt eaten breakfast and was hoping wed see a bakery or something on the way to the Taxi. We didnt.

The taxi we took was a Mercedes Benz. It was the nicest taxi I have ever been in. Table Mountain grew larger as our taxi sped through the city. Great pine trees raised their branches towards the sky. A long line of cars glittered on the shoulder.

Are those all for people hiking the mountain? I asked.

No, that is for all the people who are going to take the cable car, our taxi driver responded.

The ticket stand for the Cable Car was a cement building surrounded by souvenir stands, a café, bathroom and several taxi stands. The three of us got online. Even though Sara and Taylor were hiking up they were going to take the Cable Car down. When I got to the window I slipped my debit card underneath the glass.

One round trip ticket please.

Sara and Taylor both got their tickets also and we split ways. Since I was alone I was able to slither my way to the front of the crowd to get on a cable car. The hillside was brown, all of the grass dead from the heat. I had to crane my head back to see thick rocks jutted out from the mountain side. I was staring at tiny people hiking up the side of the mountain when I caught site of several other college students. One of them had a Semester at Sea t-shirt on. I went over to say hi. They asked if I was here alone and I explained that I came with friends but they were hiking but I couldnt because of my home stay. Kelsey, a girl with dark curly hair, exclaimed that she was also doing the township home stay. Her two friends were Austin and Jenny. Both of them were from my sea so I had seen them around before

I joined their group since Kelsey and I had the same schedule. We boarded the next car. It was an oblong shape car with windows on all sides so everyone could look out. The operator sat in the middle of the car on a raised platform. Our car was packed so tight my elbows were jammed against my sides with no space to move. We slowly began to pull out of the station and the floor began to rotate!

As we circled the car moved higher so all of the passengers constantly had a new view. Below us lay Cape Town stretched out like a sunbather. Buildings from the city trickled out from its heart to the slopes of the mountain and the sea shore. White clouds gently whispered over the top of the mountain and trickled down its sides like a table cloth.

When we arrived at the top and were ushered out all we saw was a concrete hall. A silver of light shone several feet down and when we got closer we saw it was a window. It was completely covered in blue. The view was all ocean and sky.

Woah, that is the most world Ive ever seen. I breathed.

Austin agreed. We stepped out of the doorway and I felt like I was in a blue out instead of a snow storms white out. Only if you leaned over the edge were you able to see the white city and brown earth below. It was more blue than I have ever seen. The color of robbins eggs, sapphires, ocean, blue berries, lapis, cerulean, aqua, turquoise, baby blue, morning glories, and winters frost.

The mountain top was crowded with tourists carrying cameras around their necks. Green shrubs swayed in the breeze. The path way was a soft grey color and very pleasing for an eye to look at. We wandered the paths taking photos and taking in the view. We discovered a café and decided to come back when lunch was served. We wandered the paths watching the clouds roll past us like sailboats on water.

Austin asked a couple if they would take a group shot of us. They agreed and snapped two photos of us. As they gave him his camera back they asked him questions. Were we studying here for the semester or on vacation?

We tried to explain to them about Semester at Sea to them. They were from the United States so they understood the typical college/university system (Thank God) and we just had to explain the program. They were tickled to hear the students were all from different parts of the country, studying at different universities and in different majors. We laughed explaining that it wasnt only students who sailed on the ship but life long learners, our administration and professors families. When we left them Jenny had promised to email them the information for becoming life long learners.

As our clocks hit 11:30 we strolled over to the café to grab a light lunch. Fresh pizzas were being pulled out of an oven, fruits were being sliced on a cutting board and hummus was being sat on ice. I grab a little of each and proceeded to the check out line. We saw two and two looking out at the vista. My hummus pizza was cheese and sweet. Im not sure if it was actually as good as I remember or if it was the scenery making it taste better than it truly was.

We went down the mountain after lunch. Cabs called to us from all sides. Austin and Jenny bargained with a cabby about getting back down the to the Waterfront for 80 rand (its 1 USD for 7 rand). They had gotten up for that much but no one was willing to take us down. The drivers knew that people taking taxis had no choice in price. They tried several other cab drivers but everyone was insistent 100 rand at least. After several minutes of searching we found a large taxi that offered 80 rand to get back.

Come my friends, get in. The driver said.
We need to leave now, ok? Austin asked.
Yes yes we will leave soon. As soon as we pick up some other people. Only five minutes. The dark skinned driver explained. His son sat in the front seat playing with a match box car. We nodded.

Our driver ran back outside and began calling to people offering them the cheap price down to the waterfront. No one agreed to go with him. We watched him call out for several minutes. He came back over to us again and Kelsey explained that we needed to leave immediately to make another trip. The home stay trip was leaving at 1:45 and it was 12:30. If we wanted to pack and maybe grab a shower we needed to be there now.

Five minutes later and still no closer to leaving Table Mountain Kelsey and I made the executive decision to split the extra cost to take a taxi and leave. Our driver yelled at us and tried to convince us to stay, but we were insistent.

We whipped down the mountain and into the city. I kept my eye on Jennys analogue watch. The slow progression of the hands reassuring me that Id make it back for my trip on time. While we were sitting at a stop light a man hissed at me from another lane. He was sitting in the drivers seat in a grey van. I blinked and looked down. My Vera purse was sitting in my lap. I played with the zipper. He kept hissing so I gave in and looked up.

Move your purse! Someone might grab it through the window!

Oh, I murmured. Thank you! I called out.

The red light turned and the hissing, helpful man was gone. When we got back to the Waterfront it was 1:15. Kelsey and left our money with Jenny and Austin and sprinted for the ship. I hadnt even begun to think about packing! I made lists in my head: glasses, pj t-shirt, clean underwear, brush, extra shirt probably not another pair of shorts, toothbrush and paste, toiletries? Would I get to shower?

I swiped in and waved to Kelsey. Twenty minutes no showering, I realized, just enough time to change and pack.