29 September. 13° 18”S, 08° 17” E. Course = 156°. Speed = 14 knots
The sea swells are definitely larger today than they have been since the second day out of Halifax—maybe even higher. The captain, a Brit with 35 years at sea—someone who runs a very, very tight ship—told Nick Immarino, our executive dean, that we may be in for “a bit of a bumpy ride” over the next few days. A storm is brewing off the SW African coast, and we’re heading into it. If it moves out to sea quickly—we’re in the southern hemisphere, where low-pressure storms rotate clockwise and move from east to west—we may skirt its edges. If it moves slowly, the ride could, indeed, get “bumpy.”
So far, the seas have been very calm for almost the entire voyage. We had a few 8’- to 10’-foot swells in the northwest Atlantic that were moving directly across the ship—port to starboard—and causing 10° to 15° rolls, enough to cause books to fall off shelves and coffee cups to slide across tables. The swells today are definitely larger, but they’re coming more closely to head-on, or bow-on, so the roll isn’t quite as dramatic . . . yet. The curtains sway in and out, my shaving cream is rolling back and forth on the bathroom shelf, and voyagers are holding onto the stair railings a little more tightly. So far, though, most sea legs are holding up.
As I said, Captain Jeremy runs a tight ship. And it’s a ship that seems constantly to be undergoing cleaning and repair. After coming from Ghana, where preventive maintenance is a foreign concept, the constancy of work on the MV Explorer is a wondrous thing to behold. Deckhands seem to be everywhere at almost all times. At 5am, if I’m unfortunate enough to be awake, I hear them swabbing the deck above my cabin and see the water cascading down my window into the ocean. When I’m eating on the 5th deck aft, a deckhand is there scrubbing part of the area, or scraping chips away from the metal lining under the rails, or varnishing the wood tops of the handholds. As I walk through the ship, I pass crewmembers wiping down and sanitizing the stair rails, or vacuuming and polishing the common areas, or rearranging into symmetrical, identical clusters the tables and chairs students and faculty have moved around to get better WiFi reception or to huddle on some interesting topic. I think we’re staffed by 200 compulsive personalities . . . or maybe just one compulsive captain. But no one on board has anything but praise for the tidiness of the ship.
That tidiness was disrupted on Saturday, Neptune Day. Neptune Day is a traditional celebration onboard any ship crossing the equator, celebrated, I’m sure, more exuberantly on some ships than on others. On the Explorer, it’s exuberant.
The idea is to initiate into the fraternity of “shellbacks” those who have never before crossed the equator on the sea; before the initiation, we’re mere “pollywogs.” The initiation on the ship started at 0800 (8am) with a parade through the ship’s narrow halls of King Neptune’s honor guard, all dressed in togas, wearing aluminum-foil helmets, carrying spears and tritons, and banging on cymbals and garbage-can lids to make sure all pollywogs were awake and ready to greet the king.
At 0900, we were summoned to the 7th-deck pool area, where King Neptune (Captain Jeremy, costumed in fish-scale loincloth, wearing a gold crown, and sporting a bright-green complexion) and Queen Minerva (Asst. Dean Rita, also green and decked out in queenly robes) entered from below and paraded to their thrones at one end of the pool. Then all pollywogs lined up for the initiation ritual.
The ritual begins with an anointment of green or red slop, about the consistency of uncongealed jello, mixed up in the kitchen and dished onto pollywog heads by two members of Neptune’s retinue. The anointed pollywog then leaps into the pool, rinses off, climbs out, and is greeted by another member of the court holding a fish. A kiss on the fish’s moist lips entitles the baptized pollywog to be dubbed an official “shellback.” Dean Bob Chapel, in toga, did the dubbing. The final step is to kiss the rings of King Neptune and Queen Minerva. To seal the deal, several of the new shellbacks also have their heads shaved—we now have about 100 students, faculty, and staff onboard in various degrees of baldness, from Mohawks to hemispheres to the full monty.
I stood on the sides and took pictures. I rationalized that I had gone through a fraternity initiation 40-or-so years ago that more than covered me for any future ritual. Besides, I had a mild touch of Kunte Kinte’s revenge from Ghana. And the weather was drizzly and cool, at least cool for the equator. So I stayed dry and well entertained. Pictures will be on Facebook.
The swells are getting bigger. And I just saw a humpback leap out of the water (really!) as if to say, “batten the hatches.”
29 September 2009
26 September 2009
Day 33--In port at Tema, Ghana
25 September. In port at Tema, Ghana
Today, Bob Chapel, Jim Cooper, and I were joined by a student from Minnesota, Brett, for 18 holes of golf at what Golf Digest touts as “the best course in Ghana.” As Jim said, that’s like identifying the best hockey player in Equador.
Jim’s comparison was spot on. The course, Achimota, was built by the British colonialists in 1934, and I can picture the Brit golfers, in their tam-o-shanters and pantaloon pants, sitting in the clubhouse drinking bitter after a round on a beautifully maintained golf course. That picture is no more.
The Achimota layout isn’t bad. It has a few hills, a couple of water holes, and very nice vistas of the surrounding Ghanaian towns. But the course, the clubhouse, everything, is the worst maintained I’ve seen. The tee boxes were alternating patches of green grass and red clay. The fairways were all clay, pocked by tufts of dry grass. The greens were, indeed, green, though, again, blotched by many bare spots. And they obviously hadn’t been cut in several days. “Fuzzy” would be a too-kind description. And the layout crossed several very busy streets, where our caddies had to serve as traffic cops in order for us to get from one green to the next tee.
Golf-course living doesn’t have the same meaning in Ghana as it does in much of the rest of the world. The course was lined with the shacks built of old wood, cardboard, cut branches, and corrugated metal that comprise the homes of millions of Ghanaians.
And it rained. On about the 14th tee, a thunderstorm rolled in, with heavy winds and a downpour. The caddies knew several families living in the homes lining the golf course, so they found an opening in a chain link fence, and we scurried to a metal lean-to attached to one of the homes. We stood there on the clay, under the leaking roof, drenched, studying up close the living conditions in which so many of the people live their entire lives. Like the bus ride, it was immersion—literally, in this case—in a very alien culture.
After finishing the round—unforgettable for the sights, though forgettable, certainly, for the quality of golf (including my own play)—we rode back to the ship through the traffic of Accra and onto the only 4-lane road in Ghana, the Accra-to-Tema motorway. Enroute, as I watched Accra go by, I wondered what it is in the West African culture that makes what we call “preventive maintenance” such an unknown concept. These are some of the friendliest people I’ve met. They’re certainly industrious, working from dawn well into the night to build their roads, to sell goods, to travel from place to place. In the case of Ghana, the economy is strong and getting stronger (they’ve discovered oil off the coast), the political system is stable, and, according to what we’ve seen and heard, the middle class is growing. But they don’t seem to place a priority on maintaining their roads, their buildings, their parks, their infrastructure. The condition of Achimota was dramatic evidence. Granted, maintaining a golf course shouldn’t be a high priority for a developing country that needs so much more. But when so little—some water and a lawn mower—would make such a big difference, one has to wonder “why don’t they?” Certainly one of the reasons is that this is what they know. That proverb—until you leave your home, don’t praise your mother’s cooking—holds. And it goes both ways: to those who have never left home, and to us onboard this ship.
Tomorrow we cross the equator. Neptune Day.
Today, Bob Chapel, Jim Cooper, and I were joined by a student from Minnesota, Brett, for 18 holes of golf at what Golf Digest touts as “the best course in Ghana.” As Jim said, that’s like identifying the best hockey player in Equador.
Jim’s comparison was spot on. The course, Achimota, was built by the British colonialists in 1934, and I can picture the Brit golfers, in their tam-o-shanters and pantaloon pants, sitting in the clubhouse drinking bitter after a round on a beautifully maintained golf course. That picture is no more.
The Achimota layout isn’t bad. It has a few hills, a couple of water holes, and very nice vistas of the surrounding Ghanaian towns. But the course, the clubhouse, everything, is the worst maintained I’ve seen. The tee boxes were alternating patches of green grass and red clay. The fairways were all clay, pocked by tufts of dry grass. The greens were, indeed, green, though, again, blotched by many bare spots. And they obviously hadn’t been cut in several days. “Fuzzy” would be a too-kind description. And the layout crossed several very busy streets, where our caddies had to serve as traffic cops in order for us to get from one green to the next tee.
Golf-course living doesn’t have the same meaning in Ghana as it does in much of the rest of the world. The course was lined with the shacks built of old wood, cardboard, cut branches, and corrugated metal that comprise the homes of millions of Ghanaians.
And it rained. On about the 14th tee, a thunderstorm rolled in, with heavy winds and a downpour. The caddies knew several families living in the homes lining the golf course, so they found an opening in a chain link fence, and we scurried to a metal lean-to attached to one of the homes. We stood there on the clay, under the leaking roof, drenched, studying up close the living conditions in which so many of the people live their entire lives. Like the bus ride, it was immersion—literally, in this case—in a very alien culture.
After finishing the round—unforgettable for the sights, though forgettable, certainly, for the quality of golf (including my own play)—we rode back to the ship through the traffic of Accra and onto the only 4-lane road in Ghana, the Accra-to-Tema motorway. Enroute, as I watched Accra go by, I wondered what it is in the West African culture that makes what we call “preventive maintenance” such an unknown concept. These are some of the friendliest people I’ve met. They’re certainly industrious, working from dawn well into the night to build their roads, to sell goods, to travel from place to place. In the case of Ghana, the economy is strong and getting stronger (they’ve discovered oil off the coast), the political system is stable, and, according to what we’ve seen and heard, the middle class is growing. But they don’t seem to place a priority on maintaining their roads, their buildings, their parks, their infrastructure. The condition of Achimota was dramatic evidence. Granted, maintaining a golf course shouldn’t be a high priority for a developing country that needs so much more. But when so little—some water and a lawn mower—would make such a big difference, one has to wonder “why don’t they?” Certainly one of the reasons is that this is what they know. That proverb—until you leave your home, don’t praise your mother’s cooking—holds. And it goes both ways: to those who have never left home, and to us onboard this ship.
Tomorrow we cross the equator. Neptune Day.
Day 32--In port, Tema, Ghana
24 September. In port at Tema, Ghana.
When I think of West Africa in the future, I’ll think “red dust.” It’s everywhere: on the roads, surrounding the shops, on the floors of homes, in the gardens, on the front “lawns.” The red clay that must underlie this entire part of the continent becomes a rock-like foundation covered by a thin layer of fine sand-like dust during the dry season. And everything that moves—cars, cycles, women carrying huge baskets on their heads, small children playing around their tiny homes—everything raises a red cloud that eventually descends, falling on furniture, fruit stands, cars, busses, even the women and children. Because paved roads are so few and sidewalks are nonexistent, the clay and dust are everywhere.
Ghana certainly seems to have a little less red clay than the other two countries—Togo and Benin—I visited. But that’s only because Ghana’s relative affluence has allowed it to plant more trees and shrubs than its neighbors. On Tuesday morning after the ship cleared customs, I joined a small group of our voyagers on a visit to the African University College of Communication. The college dean, an American named Reggie Jackson (not the same) now living and teaching in Accra, invited us to a reception at the college, and Bob Chapel accepted the invitation. The college sent a bus to carry 30 of us to their campus in the center of the city.
The college, which was started only 4 years ago, is housed in what looks like an old Holiday Inn: a plain, cement, 3-story, rectangular gray building surrounded by a red clay courtyard. As we pulled into the courtyard, a troupe of dancers and drummers, dressed in bright-yellow-and-red costumes, hustled into position and began serenading us with Ghanaian music and dance as we stepped off the bus and were escorted to three rows of chairs assembled under an entryway.
We sat there tapping our feet, clapping our hands, and, for the next ten minutes, being thoroughly enchanted by the wonderful entertainment. The lecture on Ghanaian music Scott DeVeaux had given on Sunday night gave us a grounding in what we were hearing: opposing 4-beat and 3-beat rhythms, the two layered on top of each other, accented by bells and rattles. Meanwhile the dancers—4 women and three men—danced around frenetically to the complex beats and sounds. We couldn’t have ordered a more perfect introduction to Ghana.
The rest of the visit to the college was equally delightful. The school treated us to a delicious meal of Ghanaian food—red and white rice, fish, chicken, and very tasty, very hot sauces—then we were enlightened by the college’s vice president for institutional advancement talking about Ghanaian culture, including traditional proverbs. The one that hit me as particularly appropriate was the following: “Until you leave your own home, don’t praise your mother’s cooking.” We’re seeing and sampling the world’s kitchen firsthand.
Yesterday, Wednesday, we boarded a bus for what turned out to be an odyssey across West Africa, beginning in Tema, Ghana, crossing east through Togo and Benin to the city of Cotonu. The drive covered several hundred miles, crossed two international borders, and passed along a moving diorama of sights that, like Marrakech, were out of a Discovery Channel documentary. It’s hard to know where to begin in describing the people, villages, people, farms, people, cities . . . did I mention people? . . . we passed. Most of the people are moving, going from somewhere to somewhere on foot along the roads, almost all dressed in traditional multi-colored sarong-like dresses for the women and equally bright pajama-top shirts on the men. And all but a few women were carrying goods on their heads: coconuts, loaves of bread, the day’s wash, a tower of baskets, live chickens cinched for market, a tray of candy for sale to stopped cars and tour busses.
As the women came toward us, often we could see the bottom of a tiny foot splayed under each arm. Then, as she passed, usually turning her head under the basket to talk to a neighbor or look at us as we drove past, from a multi-colored sling on her back emerged a tiny black head and two bright eyes, turning left and right to take in the passing sights and sounds.
Those who weren’t walking sat in roadside stalls selling everything from fruits and vegetables to televisions and refrigerators. When I saw the first of these stalls, some built of stone and brick but most cobbled together from palm fronds, pieces of old wooden signs, branches of trees cut down as support posts, woven straw, and corrugated metal sheets, I thought we were seeing the kind of temporary stands we see along the roads in US farm states during harvest. But as the string of stands continued mile after mile, becoming dense in the larger towns and cities, I realized that these were the permanent storefronts of the Ghanaian, Togoese, and Beninoise merchants. More than storefronts, most also serve as homes for the merchant and family. Where, in the US and most other developed countries, we may shop in brick-and-mortar stores and strip malls, The West African strip mall is a string of roadside stands, with all merchandise displayed outside, some, but not all, under a metal or palm awning.
The heaviest concentration of the shops was at the two border crossings: from Ghana into Togo and Togo into Benin. The travel service that set up our local tours assured SAS—and us—that they would be able to expedite the border crossings. Not the case. Crossing out of Ghana was delayed because several travelers had mistakenly requested single-entry visas, which would have prevented them from returning to the ship after our 2-day drive. That issue took about an hour to settle. Then, at the border crossing into Togo, the customs agents insisted on having customs forms for each of us, again something the tour company said was unexpected.
At this second crossing, we waited 90 minutes for the tour operator to complete the necessary forms. While we sat, we watched the stream of cars, trucks, and pedestrians, encumbered with their head-borne cargos, pour across the borders in both directions. We also saw bribes change hands—frequently—done in an almost ritualistic way, neither giver nor receiver looking at the grease. But after the transfer, the gates opened and the traveler passed as if he or she had simply slowed momentarily at a yield sign.
The signal for “give me something” is putting the thumb, fore- and middle fingers together as if they’re holding a tiny piece of chocolate and moving the hand to the mouth repeatedly. It’s like saying “feed me,” except it says, instead, “feed my pocket.” We saw the gesture often during the 2-day trip. But at the borders, the sign is unnecessary; the frequent travelers clearly know the rules.
Besides the shops and endless string of pedestrians, the ride to and from Cotonu was a drive along a palm-lined coast, beautiful enough to make a resort developer sweat with excitement—except, that is, for the piles of litter and debris heaped close to the more populated areas and along the beaches. Apparently public trash pickup is rare or expensive in these countries because, once the litter reaches some commonly understood height, it’s incinerated . . . on the spot. So, besides litter, the drive was lined with frequent burn spots, some still smoldering. Between the diesel trucks spouting fumes, the motorscooters burning cheap (and illegal) Nigerian gasoline sold in liter bottles in roadside stands, and the smoldering piles of incinerated litter, the air of West Africa is certainly among the world’s most polluted.
After the border delays, a stop for lunch and the necessarily creeping speed required by numerous potholes, speedbumps, and red-clay detours, the drive that on a US interstate highway would have taken no more than 3 hours saw us crawling into Quadah, Benin, 8 hours after we left the port of Tema.
Quadah’s notoriety comes from its role as Portugal’s link to the slave trade from the 16th to the 19th centuries. The old Portuguese fort still stands in Quadah, though we couldn’t get in because the guide for the fort had already left for the day. Still, our guide on the bus, Remi, narrated a trip around Quadah, covering the Python Temple (an old ring of stucco buildings serving as a home for a dozen or so pythons, revered in the Voodoo religion, the most prominent religion in Benin) and the Sacred Forest, home to the spirit of an early chief who, according to legend, turned into a tree upon his death. Details on the statue erected to the chief would imply that he must also have left an extensive family. “Erected to the chief” is the appropriate phrase; it caused some flushed faces among the girls and triggered the guys’ cameras.
By far the most moving part of the day was driving down the path taken by captured Africans being led to the slave ships that, for 400 years, loaded their cargo off the Benin beaches. At the beach, UNESCO has built a memorial stone gate, called “The gate of No Return.” On the shore side is a fresco atop the monument showing long lines of Africans parading away in chains toward the beach; and on the beach side, the fresco shows their faces looking out at the waiting ships. The horror and inhumanity of that “peculiar institution” is truly a dark stain on our history. We all felt it on that Benin beach.
After the visit to the gate, we got back onboard the waiting bus for the remaining one-hour ride to the Hotel du Lac in Cotonu. The drive took us onto unlit streets packed with people, motorbikes, cars, and trucks—some with headlights, some without—milling home at the end of the work day. I’ve never seen such congestion and seeming chaos. Yet the Beninoise seem to know the unwritten rules of when and how to pass, of whom does and doesn’t have the right of way, and of how to make it through seemingly impossibly narrow passages.
Thursday morning, we reboarded the bus and rode for about 90 minutes to a lakeside dock, where, surrounded again by vendors and little children either trying to sell something or simply extorting a handout, we boarded narrow, unstable boats for the ride out to the village on stilts: Ganvie.
Ganvie was founded 350 years ago by natives fleeing the slave trade. To avoid capture, they went out into the middle of a shallow lake north of what is now Cotonu and built a village—homes, stores, today even bars and restaurants—on wooden platforms supported by cut tree branches anchored into the lake bottom. Today, 35,000 people live in Ganvie, a population larger than Libertyville’s. They go about their daily business—traveling to market, selling, buying, attending school—in small dugout canoes, the Ganvie version of a gondola.
As we floated through the village, small children came out from their thatch-roofed shacks and danced, waving at us, on their porches. As I watched them on the very edges of the entryways, I wondered how many infants must crawl onto those porches each year and disappear into the brown, silty, polluted waters of the lake. Of course, people adapt to their environments—as we’ve seen on dramatic display throughout West Africa—so perhaps the overall mortality in Ganvie is no worse than it is among the rest of the population. I didn’t ask.
Words can’t do justice to the sights of a place like Ganvie, so I’ll leave most of the telling to the many pictures and videos I took. Suffice to say that the visit to Ganvie, the earlier stop at the Port of No Return, and the visual documentary that we passed enroute to and from the stops made the 23-plus hours spent on a bus worthwhile. But the next time, I’d fly.
The drive back to Tema and the ship was slower and longer than the drive out. We made it through the Benin-Togo border in relatively speedy order—30 minutes—but waited, parked, at the Togo-Ghana border for more than 90 minutes because of the same visa snafu that had delayed us on Wednesday. This time, though, it was clear that the customs agents wanted payment. And our tour agent, the owner of Land Tours, refused to pay because, of course, a bribe to get 45 Americans across the border would amount to a large dent in her revenue stream. Finally, a series of phone calls from the agent to her husband, a successful businessman in Ghana, to the Ghanaian minister of Education, to the director of customs and immigration broke the logjam, and much to the chagrin of the border agents, who saw a princely sum slip through their palms, we went on our way at about 5:30pm.
Four-and-a-half hours later, after a ride on a road that would make some of the mountain roads in Colorado look like interstate highways, our bus, covered with red dust and carrying 45 very weary students, teachers, and seniors, pulled up to the MV Explorer. Home had never looked so good. Bob Chapel, who was duty dean, greeted us at the gangway, and the students hi-tailed it to the 5th deck, where the crew had set up a late-night buffet. I, instead, went to the faculty lounge, where the world’s best bartender, Mandy, made me a Tanqueray & tonic and poured out a dish full of nuts. After telling the tales to Mandy’s customers, I finally went to my cabin and into bed. We had started the day with our 7am departure from Cotonu. I went to sleep by 11pm. Fourteen of the intervening 16 hours I had spent sitting on a West African bus. It’s all part of the adventure.
When I think of West Africa in the future, I’ll think “red dust.” It’s everywhere: on the roads, surrounding the shops, on the floors of homes, in the gardens, on the front “lawns.” The red clay that must underlie this entire part of the continent becomes a rock-like foundation covered by a thin layer of fine sand-like dust during the dry season. And everything that moves—cars, cycles, women carrying huge baskets on their heads, small children playing around their tiny homes—everything raises a red cloud that eventually descends, falling on furniture, fruit stands, cars, busses, even the women and children. Because paved roads are so few and sidewalks are nonexistent, the clay and dust are everywhere.
Ghana certainly seems to have a little less red clay than the other two countries—Togo and Benin—I visited. But that’s only because Ghana’s relative affluence has allowed it to plant more trees and shrubs than its neighbors. On Tuesday morning after the ship cleared customs, I joined a small group of our voyagers on a visit to the African University College of Communication. The college dean, an American named Reggie Jackson (not the same) now living and teaching in Accra, invited us to a reception at the college, and Bob Chapel accepted the invitation. The college sent a bus to carry 30 of us to their campus in the center of the city.
The college, which was started only 4 years ago, is housed in what looks like an old Holiday Inn: a plain, cement, 3-story, rectangular gray building surrounded by a red clay courtyard. As we pulled into the courtyard, a troupe of dancers and drummers, dressed in bright-yellow-and-red costumes, hustled into position and began serenading us with Ghanaian music and dance as we stepped off the bus and were escorted to three rows of chairs assembled under an entryway.
We sat there tapping our feet, clapping our hands, and, for the next ten minutes, being thoroughly enchanted by the wonderful entertainment. The lecture on Ghanaian music Scott DeVeaux had given on Sunday night gave us a grounding in what we were hearing: opposing 4-beat and 3-beat rhythms, the two layered on top of each other, accented by bells and rattles. Meanwhile the dancers—4 women and three men—danced around frenetically to the complex beats and sounds. We couldn’t have ordered a more perfect introduction to Ghana.
The rest of the visit to the college was equally delightful. The school treated us to a delicious meal of Ghanaian food—red and white rice, fish, chicken, and very tasty, very hot sauces—then we were enlightened by the college’s vice president for institutional advancement talking about Ghanaian culture, including traditional proverbs. The one that hit me as particularly appropriate was the following: “Until you leave your own home, don’t praise your mother’s cooking.” We’re seeing and sampling the world’s kitchen firsthand.
Yesterday, Wednesday, we boarded a bus for what turned out to be an odyssey across West Africa, beginning in Tema, Ghana, crossing east through Togo and Benin to the city of Cotonu. The drive covered several hundred miles, crossed two international borders, and passed along a moving diorama of sights that, like Marrakech, were out of a Discovery Channel documentary. It’s hard to know where to begin in describing the people, villages, people, farms, people, cities . . . did I mention people? . . . we passed. Most of the people are moving, going from somewhere to somewhere on foot along the roads, almost all dressed in traditional multi-colored sarong-like dresses for the women and equally bright pajama-top shirts on the men. And all but a few women were carrying goods on their heads: coconuts, loaves of bread, the day’s wash, a tower of baskets, live chickens cinched for market, a tray of candy for sale to stopped cars and tour busses.
As the women came toward us, often we could see the bottom of a tiny foot splayed under each arm. Then, as she passed, usually turning her head under the basket to talk to a neighbor or look at us as we drove past, from a multi-colored sling on her back emerged a tiny black head and two bright eyes, turning left and right to take in the passing sights and sounds.
Those who weren’t walking sat in roadside stalls selling everything from fruits and vegetables to televisions and refrigerators. When I saw the first of these stalls, some built of stone and brick but most cobbled together from palm fronds, pieces of old wooden signs, branches of trees cut down as support posts, woven straw, and corrugated metal sheets, I thought we were seeing the kind of temporary stands we see along the roads in US farm states during harvest. But as the string of stands continued mile after mile, becoming dense in the larger towns and cities, I realized that these were the permanent storefronts of the Ghanaian, Togoese, and Beninoise merchants. More than storefronts, most also serve as homes for the merchant and family. Where, in the US and most other developed countries, we may shop in brick-and-mortar stores and strip malls, The West African strip mall is a string of roadside stands, with all merchandise displayed outside, some, but not all, under a metal or palm awning.
The heaviest concentration of the shops was at the two border crossings: from Ghana into Togo and Togo into Benin. The travel service that set up our local tours assured SAS—and us—that they would be able to expedite the border crossings. Not the case. Crossing out of Ghana was delayed because several travelers had mistakenly requested single-entry visas, which would have prevented them from returning to the ship after our 2-day drive. That issue took about an hour to settle. Then, at the border crossing into Togo, the customs agents insisted on having customs forms for each of us, again something the tour company said was unexpected.
At this second crossing, we waited 90 minutes for the tour operator to complete the necessary forms. While we sat, we watched the stream of cars, trucks, and pedestrians, encumbered with their head-borne cargos, pour across the borders in both directions. We also saw bribes change hands—frequently—done in an almost ritualistic way, neither giver nor receiver looking at the grease. But after the transfer, the gates opened and the traveler passed as if he or she had simply slowed momentarily at a yield sign.
The signal for “give me something” is putting the thumb, fore- and middle fingers together as if they’re holding a tiny piece of chocolate and moving the hand to the mouth repeatedly. It’s like saying “feed me,” except it says, instead, “feed my pocket.” We saw the gesture often during the 2-day trip. But at the borders, the sign is unnecessary; the frequent travelers clearly know the rules.
Besides the shops and endless string of pedestrians, the ride to and from Cotonu was a drive along a palm-lined coast, beautiful enough to make a resort developer sweat with excitement—except, that is, for the piles of litter and debris heaped close to the more populated areas and along the beaches. Apparently public trash pickup is rare or expensive in these countries because, once the litter reaches some commonly understood height, it’s incinerated . . . on the spot. So, besides litter, the drive was lined with frequent burn spots, some still smoldering. Between the diesel trucks spouting fumes, the motorscooters burning cheap (and illegal) Nigerian gasoline sold in liter bottles in roadside stands, and the smoldering piles of incinerated litter, the air of West Africa is certainly among the world’s most polluted.
After the border delays, a stop for lunch and the necessarily creeping speed required by numerous potholes, speedbumps, and red-clay detours, the drive that on a US interstate highway would have taken no more than 3 hours saw us crawling into Quadah, Benin, 8 hours after we left the port of Tema.
Quadah’s notoriety comes from its role as Portugal’s link to the slave trade from the 16th to the 19th centuries. The old Portuguese fort still stands in Quadah, though we couldn’t get in because the guide for the fort had already left for the day. Still, our guide on the bus, Remi, narrated a trip around Quadah, covering the Python Temple (an old ring of stucco buildings serving as a home for a dozen or so pythons, revered in the Voodoo religion, the most prominent religion in Benin) and the Sacred Forest, home to the spirit of an early chief who, according to legend, turned into a tree upon his death. Details on the statue erected to the chief would imply that he must also have left an extensive family. “Erected to the chief” is the appropriate phrase; it caused some flushed faces among the girls and triggered the guys’ cameras.
By far the most moving part of the day was driving down the path taken by captured Africans being led to the slave ships that, for 400 years, loaded their cargo off the Benin beaches. At the beach, UNESCO has built a memorial stone gate, called “The gate of No Return.” On the shore side is a fresco atop the monument showing long lines of Africans parading away in chains toward the beach; and on the beach side, the fresco shows their faces looking out at the waiting ships. The horror and inhumanity of that “peculiar institution” is truly a dark stain on our history. We all felt it on that Benin beach.
After the visit to the gate, we got back onboard the waiting bus for the remaining one-hour ride to the Hotel du Lac in Cotonu. The drive took us onto unlit streets packed with people, motorbikes, cars, and trucks—some with headlights, some without—milling home at the end of the work day. I’ve never seen such congestion and seeming chaos. Yet the Beninoise seem to know the unwritten rules of when and how to pass, of whom does and doesn’t have the right of way, and of how to make it through seemingly impossibly narrow passages.
Thursday morning, we reboarded the bus and rode for about 90 minutes to a lakeside dock, where, surrounded again by vendors and little children either trying to sell something or simply extorting a handout, we boarded narrow, unstable boats for the ride out to the village on stilts: Ganvie.
Ganvie was founded 350 years ago by natives fleeing the slave trade. To avoid capture, they went out into the middle of a shallow lake north of what is now Cotonu and built a village—homes, stores, today even bars and restaurants—on wooden platforms supported by cut tree branches anchored into the lake bottom. Today, 35,000 people live in Ganvie, a population larger than Libertyville’s. They go about their daily business—traveling to market, selling, buying, attending school—in small dugout canoes, the Ganvie version of a gondola.
As we floated through the village, small children came out from their thatch-roofed shacks and danced, waving at us, on their porches. As I watched them on the very edges of the entryways, I wondered how many infants must crawl onto those porches each year and disappear into the brown, silty, polluted waters of the lake. Of course, people adapt to their environments—as we’ve seen on dramatic display throughout West Africa—so perhaps the overall mortality in Ganvie is no worse than it is among the rest of the population. I didn’t ask.
Words can’t do justice to the sights of a place like Ganvie, so I’ll leave most of the telling to the many pictures and videos I took. Suffice to say that the visit to Ganvie, the earlier stop at the Port of No Return, and the visual documentary that we passed enroute to and from the stops made the 23-plus hours spent on a bus worthwhile. But the next time, I’d fly.
The drive back to Tema and the ship was slower and longer than the drive out. We made it through the Benin-Togo border in relatively speedy order—30 minutes—but waited, parked, at the Togo-Ghana border for more than 90 minutes because of the same visa snafu that had delayed us on Wednesday. This time, though, it was clear that the customs agents wanted payment. And our tour agent, the owner of Land Tours, refused to pay because, of course, a bribe to get 45 Americans across the border would amount to a large dent in her revenue stream. Finally, a series of phone calls from the agent to her husband, a successful businessman in Ghana, to the Ghanaian minister of Education, to the director of customs and immigration broke the logjam, and much to the chagrin of the border agents, who saw a princely sum slip through their palms, we went on our way at about 5:30pm.
Four-and-a-half hours later, after a ride on a road that would make some of the mountain roads in Colorado look like interstate highways, our bus, covered with red dust and carrying 45 very weary students, teachers, and seniors, pulled up to the MV Explorer. Home had never looked so good. Bob Chapel, who was duty dean, greeted us at the gangway, and the students hi-tailed it to the 5th deck, where the crew had set up a late-night buffet. I, instead, went to the faculty lounge, where the world’s best bartender, Mandy, made me a Tanqueray & tonic and poured out a dish full of nuts. After telling the tales to Mandy’s customers, I finally went to my cabin and into bed. We had started the day with our 7am departure from Cotonu. I went to sleep by 11pm. Fourteen of the intervening 16 hours I had spent sitting on a West African bus. It’s all part of the adventure.
22 September 2009
Day 30--In port, Ghana
22 September. 5° 38” N. 00° 00.06” E. Speed = 0 knots
We’re finally docked at the port of Tema, Ghana, barely into the Eastern Hemisphere by six one hundredths of a minute longitude—a few meters.
The docking process took an unusually long time this morning. At each previous destination, we’ve watched the final feet of slack in the mooring lines tightened precisely at the scheduled arrival time: 0800. Not so today. First, we circled outside the port for over an hour waiting for a large auto-carrier to clear so we’d have room to maneuver and dock. The carrier cleared by 0845, and we headed into the port, crossing swells that rocked the boat by at least 30 degrees port and starboard. Coffee cups and plates slid from one end of tables to the other, rescued by the quick reflexes of 20-year-old hands.
Once inside the breakwaters of the port, the crew maneuvered the ship into position for what looked like a simple nose-in approach—like pulling into a parallel-parking spot where only one car stands along an otherwise empty curb. In today’s case, the lone “car” is a 500-foot-long container ship.
Without knowing what the captain had in mind, we appeared to overshoot the spot and slid instead alongside that lone container carrier. Then we parallel parked, backing into the dock, rotating the bow toward the curb, and slipping sideways to the longshoremen waiting to catch the ropes that would lash us to the stanchoens. The gangway was finally in place by 0915, an hour and 15 minutes later than scheduled.
All that was interesting to watch, but not as interesting as the show we were treated to while circling outside the port. As I sat outside the 6th-deck garden lounge drinking coffee with one of the lifelong learners, a young girl two tables away suddenly screamed, “Look! Wow!” Everyone on the deck stood and turned to see two humpback whales crashing down into the water. The 50-or-so passengers eating breakfast leaped up and rushed to the rail, arriving just as first one then the other whale, no more than 100 yards off the portside stern, surged out of the water and, like the insurance ad, rotated onto its side, seemed to wave its fluke at us, then crashed back down and disappeared into the foam. It was a synchronized swimming demonstration, two beautiful animals in perfect formation performing to the absolute delight of the crowd. The whales continued the dance for the next 10 minutes, leaping out of the water and crashing back down to our shouts, screams, and cheers.
I’m sure the show will be viewable on YouTube today. Cameras were everywhere.
So now we’re firmly tied to the Tema dock, again in an industrial area. This place feels very different than Casablanca, though. The smiling longshoremen waiting to lash us in laughed, sang, and waved as they watched the crew maneuver the Explorer toward them. It was a very different greeting than we saw in Morocco. Annie might say, “I think I’m going to like it here.”
We’re finally docked at the port of Tema, Ghana, barely into the Eastern Hemisphere by six one hundredths of a minute longitude—a few meters.
The docking process took an unusually long time this morning. At each previous destination, we’ve watched the final feet of slack in the mooring lines tightened precisely at the scheduled arrival time: 0800. Not so today. First, we circled outside the port for over an hour waiting for a large auto-carrier to clear so we’d have room to maneuver and dock. The carrier cleared by 0845, and we headed into the port, crossing swells that rocked the boat by at least 30 degrees port and starboard. Coffee cups and plates slid from one end of tables to the other, rescued by the quick reflexes of 20-year-old hands.
Once inside the breakwaters of the port, the crew maneuvered the ship into position for what looked like a simple nose-in approach—like pulling into a parallel-parking spot where only one car stands along an otherwise empty curb. In today’s case, the lone “car” is a 500-foot-long container ship.
Without knowing what the captain had in mind, we appeared to overshoot the spot and slid instead alongside that lone container carrier. Then we parallel parked, backing into the dock, rotating the bow toward the curb, and slipping sideways to the longshoremen waiting to catch the ropes that would lash us to the stanchoens. The gangway was finally in place by 0915, an hour and 15 minutes later than scheduled.
All that was interesting to watch, but not as interesting as the show we were treated to while circling outside the port. As I sat outside the 6th-deck garden lounge drinking coffee with one of the lifelong learners, a young girl two tables away suddenly screamed, “Look! Wow!” Everyone on the deck stood and turned to see two humpback whales crashing down into the water. The 50-or-so passengers eating breakfast leaped up and rushed to the rail, arriving just as first one then the other whale, no more than 100 yards off the portside stern, surged out of the water and, like the insurance ad, rotated onto its side, seemed to wave its fluke at us, then crashed back down and disappeared into the foam. It was a synchronized swimming demonstration, two beautiful animals in perfect formation performing to the absolute delight of the crowd. The whales continued the dance for the next 10 minutes, leaping out of the water and crashing back down to our shouts, screams, and cheers.
I’m sure the show will be viewable on YouTube today. Cameras were everywhere.
So now we’re firmly tied to the Tema dock, again in an industrial area. This place feels very different than Casablanca, though. The smiling longshoremen waiting to lash us in laughed, sang, and waved as they watched the crew maneuver the Explorer toward them. It was a very different greeting than we saw in Morocco. Annie might say, “I think I’m going to like it here.”
21 September 2009
Day 29--Offshore Cote D'Ivoire enroute to Ghana
21 September. 04° 06” N, 03° 58” W. Course = 088°, Speed = 16 knots.
We’re now about 300 nautical miles (NM) north of the equator and 300NM west of the prime meridian, which puts us about the same distance northwest of what the Ghanaians call “the center of the world”: the point where the two lines cross, dividing the northern from the southern hemisphere and the east from the west.
The air has been very heavy for the past 3 days, feeling very tropical, even though the temperatures haven’t gone much above the low 80’s Fahrenheit. It’s been the kind of weather that makes the westerners onboard—those from the arid states of New Mexico, Nevada, Wyoming, Utah, parts of California and Colorado—race for the air-conditioned rooms and those from the deep South walk outside and say, “Home!” But the air, regardless of temperature or humidity, hasn’t kept the students away from their 7th-deck pool and solar haven, which is teeming with young sun-worshippers from early morning ‘til the sun goes down. They seem to take a break only to go to classes, then they hustle back to the 7th deck and, like solar panels programmed to track the sun, slowly rotate their chairs and chaises through the day to get maximum rays. To be young, vain, and foolish . . .
I spent much of last week grading: watching students in my public speaking class deliver their “This I Believe” speeches and grading the journal entries of my intercultural communication and business communication classes.
The speeches were (almost all) wonderful. The seven students clearly had spent some time thinking about, constructing, and practicing the speeches, and the prep showed. I asked them to deliver a speech similar to the ones I’ve heard on the NPR series “This I Believe.” That series asks listeners to submit brief essays describing an idea, person, place, thing, . . . whatever . . . that holds a special place in their lives. Some of the essays are profound, some are light, some are funny, some are very sad. But all are personal and reveal something about the writer. I figured asking the class to do the same would be a good way to help them relax by talking about a subject they knew well. And they could focuse on some of the delivery techniques we’ve been discussing and practicing. It worked very well. One student talked about growing up in Haiti and about the resilience needed to adjust from the hardships of Haiti to the hardships of NYC. Another talked about discovering his dyslexia through the honesty of a 5-year-old pianist who showed him the “right notes” by holding a mirror up to his music. And another talked about kiteboarding in the Dominican Republic—made me want to try it. They were all interesting and provided great workshop fodder.
The journal entries were another matter. I asked students in both classes—intercultural comm. and business comm.—to describe one incident or observation during their visit to either Spain or Morocco, an incident that seemed to signal a dimension of national culture. I didn’t specify a length. “Whatever is necessary to help me see the incident and understand your conclusion” was what I told them. What I got from most students was littered with typical grammatical errors, some more sinful than others. But, worse, much was indecipherable. An example:
“It shed light on a low tolerance of uncertainty type of living, on a sense that
these rules were so important during Ramadan and it seemed that Islam was the only way.”
The writer’s point was that Moroccans’ strict adherence to Islamic traditions during Ramadan is a sign of their low tolerance for uncertainty. I was able to decipher that only because I knew the assignment.
Somehow, somewhere, this student, and many of the others, have determined that more is better: if you’re not sure of the idea, at least put lots of words on the paper. What they haven’t learned, or at least have yet to demonstrate, is how to express an idea clearly. Helping them learn that will be the semester’s challenge.
The good news is that, when I showed my students this example and others—anonymously, of course—they can identify the nuclear idea and can state it clearly. Can they do the same in their own writing? Therein lies the semester’s challenge.
Bob Chapel conducted the cultural pre-port meeting last night to help us prepare for the visit to Ghana. He had also put together and led the pre-port for Morocco, which was a straightforward Powerpoint presentation: talk, bullet points, a few pictures. This time, he decided he’d make it more entertaining. He was inspired two nights ago by “Semester at Sea Has Talent,” a live show modeled after “America’s [Britain’s] Got Talent” and including the same very wide range of abilities. One of the acts was a rap performed by 6 students; they became Bob’s muse.
Bob—Dean Bob—summoned me to his office to listen to the rap he had written about the upcoming visit. “We’re about to pay a visit to . . . Gha-NA. A country that’s located in . . . Af-ri-ca.” Et cetera. I gave him a hard time about the 10-minute-or-so-long rap-not-rap. But he had spent hours studying the guidebooks and talking to our interport lecturer and students. And he had assembled photos to illustrate the rap as he went along. So he was committed, undeterred.
And he was a hit. The rap-not-rap, performed to an electronic background of finger snaps and drum beats, accompanied by colorful photos, and performed by the Dean wearing his baseball cap backward, swaying to the beat, and drawing energy from the laughs and cheers, drew a standing ovation. That from an audience of “experts” who see all of us who are over age 30 as neo-neaderthals. Bob will be reveling in the accolades for days.
What’s more, he energized the crowd gathered in the union. So, when Scott DeVeaux got up to talk about and demonstrate Ghanaian music, with its bells, rattles, and drums that trigger involuntary foot-tapping and swaying, 15 to 20 students and faculty joined him in a traditional dance that circled the performance area for several minutes, hips swaying, arms waving, voices chanting. Everyone agreed the meeting had set a new standard, one that will be hard to match, perhaps impossible to beat.
For now, classes are over and the ship is preparing for the next port. Tonight we have what’s called the logistical pre-port: a meeting to talk about transportation, departure times for field trips, things we can and cannot eat or drink, when we must be back onboard, where and when to pick up and turn in passports, emergency procedures, and other practical essentials.
After the pre-port meeting, there’s poker in the dean’s office. Then bed. Then Ghana.
We’re now about 300 nautical miles (NM) north of the equator and 300NM west of the prime meridian, which puts us about the same distance northwest of what the Ghanaians call “the center of the world”: the point where the two lines cross, dividing the northern from the southern hemisphere and the east from the west.
The air has been very heavy for the past 3 days, feeling very tropical, even though the temperatures haven’t gone much above the low 80’s Fahrenheit. It’s been the kind of weather that makes the westerners onboard—those from the arid states of New Mexico, Nevada, Wyoming, Utah, parts of California and Colorado—race for the air-conditioned rooms and those from the deep South walk outside and say, “Home!” But the air, regardless of temperature or humidity, hasn’t kept the students away from their 7th-deck pool and solar haven, which is teeming with young sun-worshippers from early morning ‘til the sun goes down. They seem to take a break only to go to classes, then they hustle back to the 7th deck and, like solar panels programmed to track the sun, slowly rotate their chairs and chaises through the day to get maximum rays. To be young, vain, and foolish . . .
I spent much of last week grading: watching students in my public speaking class deliver their “This I Believe” speeches and grading the journal entries of my intercultural communication and business communication classes.
The speeches were (almost all) wonderful. The seven students clearly had spent some time thinking about, constructing, and practicing the speeches, and the prep showed. I asked them to deliver a speech similar to the ones I’ve heard on the NPR series “This I Believe.” That series asks listeners to submit brief essays describing an idea, person, place, thing, . . . whatever . . . that holds a special place in their lives. Some of the essays are profound, some are light, some are funny, some are very sad. But all are personal and reveal something about the writer. I figured asking the class to do the same would be a good way to help them relax by talking about a subject they knew well. And they could focuse on some of the delivery techniques we’ve been discussing and practicing. It worked very well. One student talked about growing up in Haiti and about the resilience needed to adjust from the hardships of Haiti to the hardships of NYC. Another talked about discovering his dyslexia through the honesty of a 5-year-old pianist who showed him the “right notes” by holding a mirror up to his music. And another talked about kiteboarding in the Dominican Republic—made me want to try it. They were all interesting and provided great workshop fodder.
The journal entries were another matter. I asked students in both classes—intercultural comm. and business comm.—to describe one incident or observation during their visit to either Spain or Morocco, an incident that seemed to signal a dimension of national culture. I didn’t specify a length. “Whatever is necessary to help me see the incident and understand your conclusion” was what I told them. What I got from most students was littered with typical grammatical errors, some more sinful than others. But, worse, much was indecipherable. An example:
“It shed light on a low tolerance of uncertainty type of living, on a sense that
these rules were so important during Ramadan and it seemed that Islam was the only way.”
The writer’s point was that Moroccans’ strict adherence to Islamic traditions during Ramadan is a sign of their low tolerance for uncertainty. I was able to decipher that only because I knew the assignment.
Somehow, somewhere, this student, and many of the others, have determined that more is better: if you’re not sure of the idea, at least put lots of words on the paper. What they haven’t learned, or at least have yet to demonstrate, is how to express an idea clearly. Helping them learn that will be the semester’s challenge.
The good news is that, when I showed my students this example and others—anonymously, of course—they can identify the nuclear idea and can state it clearly. Can they do the same in their own writing? Therein lies the semester’s challenge.
Bob Chapel conducted the cultural pre-port meeting last night to help us prepare for the visit to Ghana. He had also put together and led the pre-port for Morocco, which was a straightforward Powerpoint presentation: talk, bullet points, a few pictures. This time, he decided he’d make it more entertaining. He was inspired two nights ago by “Semester at Sea Has Talent,” a live show modeled after “America’s [Britain’s] Got Talent” and including the same very wide range of abilities. One of the acts was a rap performed by 6 students; they became Bob’s muse.
Bob—Dean Bob—summoned me to his office to listen to the rap he had written about the upcoming visit. “We’re about to pay a visit to . . . Gha-NA. A country that’s located in . . . Af-ri-ca.” Et cetera. I gave him a hard time about the 10-minute-or-so-long rap-not-rap. But he had spent hours studying the guidebooks and talking to our interport lecturer and students. And he had assembled photos to illustrate the rap as he went along. So he was committed, undeterred.
And he was a hit. The rap-not-rap, performed to an electronic background of finger snaps and drum beats, accompanied by colorful photos, and performed by the Dean wearing his baseball cap backward, swaying to the beat, and drawing energy from the laughs and cheers, drew a standing ovation. That from an audience of “experts” who see all of us who are over age 30 as neo-neaderthals. Bob will be reveling in the accolades for days.
What’s more, he energized the crowd gathered in the union. So, when Scott DeVeaux got up to talk about and demonstrate Ghanaian music, with its bells, rattles, and drums that trigger involuntary foot-tapping and swaying, 15 to 20 students and faculty joined him in a traditional dance that circled the performance area for several minutes, hips swaying, arms waving, voices chanting. Everyone agreed the meeting had set a new standard, one that will be hard to match, perhaps impossible to beat.
For now, classes are over and the ship is preparing for the next port. Tonight we have what’s called the logistical pre-port: a meeting to talk about transportation, departure times for field trips, things we can and cannot eat or drink, when we must be back onboard, where and when to pick up and turn in passports, emergency procedures, and other practical essentials.
After the pre-port meeting, there’s poker in the dean’s office. Then bed. Then Ghana.
17 September 2009
Day 25--Off the Coast of Africa enroute to Ghana
17 September. 20° 41”N, 18° 3” W. Course= 182°. Speed= 15 knots.
We’re off the coast of southern Morocco, 100 to 200 miles from the western Sahara, traveling south on what is a very busy ocean highway. Unlike the Atlantic crossing from Halifax to Cadiz, where seeing another ship was an event, here traffic is routine. We pass container ships almost hourly, each carrying a deck full of those corrugated metal boxes full of merchandise that will eventually be loaded onto trucks and, probably, delivered to destinations in Europe and North Africa. We’re on the base of what, from the 15th through the 19th centuries, was the triangle of trade in rum from the Caribbean, goods from Europe, and slaves from Africa. Sobering to think of that, especially when our next stop will be precisely where the European ships loaded the human cargo bound for America.
I played golf with Jim Cooper on our last day in Morocco. Bob Chapel couldn’t play because he had “dean duty,” and Charlie Morris couldn’t play because he was recovering from 3 days on a camel in the Sahara. Dean duty is a burden the 4 deans—academic, student, executive, and assistant executive—rotate during the days in port. They serve as single points-of-contact for any incidents that may happen as the ship’s community scatters out across hundreds of miles from the port.
So our Spanish 4-some became a Moroccan 2-some. Jim and I played at Royal Mohammadia, a course built by the previous king because, not surprisingly, he was an avid golfer. In the clubhouse hung a large portrait of the king holding in a Tiger Woods-like follow-through after slugging what must have been a 275-yard drive. Or so it appears.
The golf was fun despite the constant winds blowing off the Atlantic, which lined 5 of the course’s 18 holes. Caddies were required, and mine, Salaam, was eager to help me with my swing, line up my putts, suggest the best club, reward my good hits with a fist bump, and console me after my flubs. Wish I could bring him back to help me at Thunderhawk. The course was a nice layout, though not well maintained by U.S. standards. Greens fees cost us about $50 apiece, and the caddie fee was about $15 plus a tip—pretty reasonable, and a lot less expensive than many of the public courses in Chicago’s northern suburbs.
Jim and I were back onboard by 1600 (4pm). And MV Explorer pushed away from the Casablanca dock precisely at 2000 (8pm). I think it’s fair to say that most students, faculty, family members, and lifelong learners enjoyed the stay in Morocco—a fascinating culture, and, outside Casablanca, a country full of beautiful sights and new adventures. I also think it’s fair to say that most of us were very happy to see our lovely home come into view as we rode or walked among the ships and loading docks of the port. Morocco was hard work. The language challenges, the almost constant pursuit of our money, the wariness to avoid offending Moroccans in the middle of their holiest month, and the need to be on constant lookout against those who might want to rip us off: all these elements wear you out. Morocco was a feast for the senses. But, as with any feast, we all needed some time to nap and digest.
We’re now back into the college mode. The morning after our departure was clearly difficult for all of us, faculty and students alike. Getting back into the flow of prepping for class—on both parts—was a challenge. But I’m very impressed with the students. They recovered nicely from the long days and even-longer nights in Spain and Morocco, and are now back into the groove of school. I had students in all 3 of my classes prepare brief assignments reflecting on one experience in either Spain or Morocco, and most came to class on Tuesday or Wednesday fully prepared.
The 2-minute tales in the 0800 public speaking class—8am the morning after we sailed!—were especially impressive. One student—the 15-year-old daughter of a member of our medical staff—told the tale of how she was mugged on the streets of Casablanca. She and her mother had just walked through the old city—the medina—and were about to head back to the port when, as she described it, a bearded man came running up to them, looking both angry and scared. He stopped about a foot in front of the girl, stared intently at her, then suddenly brandished a saber-like knife, taking it from behind his back, waving it in front of her face, and pointing at the camera she had been carrying. Without hesitation, she took the camera from around her neck, handed to the thief, and he ran off, disappearing into the crowd. The entire incident lasted no more than 15 seconds. Fortunately, neither she nor her mom was harmed. Her 2-minute tale, told with intensity and vivid detail, had the 8-o’clock class completely captured. I think it may also have served as a bit of therapy for her.
Yesterday was a perfect day: blue cloudless skies, warm temperature, and calm seas. The students who weren’t in class lounged around the 7th-deck pool, studying and collecting rays. In fact every deck turned into a study hall. Today is hazy and much warmer. The day has a definite tropical feel, something we’ll feel more and more strongly as we head south toward the equator.
We’re off the coast of southern Morocco, 100 to 200 miles from the western Sahara, traveling south on what is a very busy ocean highway. Unlike the Atlantic crossing from Halifax to Cadiz, where seeing another ship was an event, here traffic is routine. We pass container ships almost hourly, each carrying a deck full of those corrugated metal boxes full of merchandise that will eventually be loaded onto trucks and, probably, delivered to destinations in Europe and North Africa. We’re on the base of what, from the 15th through the 19th centuries, was the triangle of trade in rum from the Caribbean, goods from Europe, and slaves from Africa. Sobering to think of that, especially when our next stop will be precisely where the European ships loaded the human cargo bound for America.
I played golf with Jim Cooper on our last day in Morocco. Bob Chapel couldn’t play because he had “dean duty,” and Charlie Morris couldn’t play because he was recovering from 3 days on a camel in the Sahara. Dean duty is a burden the 4 deans—academic, student, executive, and assistant executive—rotate during the days in port. They serve as single points-of-contact for any incidents that may happen as the ship’s community scatters out across hundreds of miles from the port.
So our Spanish 4-some became a Moroccan 2-some. Jim and I played at Royal Mohammadia, a course built by the previous king because, not surprisingly, he was an avid golfer. In the clubhouse hung a large portrait of the king holding in a Tiger Woods-like follow-through after slugging what must have been a 275-yard drive. Or so it appears.
The golf was fun despite the constant winds blowing off the Atlantic, which lined 5 of the course’s 18 holes. Caddies were required, and mine, Salaam, was eager to help me with my swing, line up my putts, suggest the best club, reward my good hits with a fist bump, and console me after my flubs. Wish I could bring him back to help me at Thunderhawk. The course was a nice layout, though not well maintained by U.S. standards. Greens fees cost us about $50 apiece, and the caddie fee was about $15 plus a tip—pretty reasonable, and a lot less expensive than many of the public courses in Chicago’s northern suburbs.
Jim and I were back onboard by 1600 (4pm). And MV Explorer pushed away from the Casablanca dock precisely at 2000 (8pm). I think it’s fair to say that most students, faculty, family members, and lifelong learners enjoyed the stay in Morocco—a fascinating culture, and, outside Casablanca, a country full of beautiful sights and new adventures. I also think it’s fair to say that most of us were very happy to see our lovely home come into view as we rode or walked among the ships and loading docks of the port. Morocco was hard work. The language challenges, the almost constant pursuit of our money, the wariness to avoid offending Moroccans in the middle of their holiest month, and the need to be on constant lookout against those who might want to rip us off: all these elements wear you out. Morocco was a feast for the senses. But, as with any feast, we all needed some time to nap and digest.
We’re now back into the college mode. The morning after our departure was clearly difficult for all of us, faculty and students alike. Getting back into the flow of prepping for class—on both parts—was a challenge. But I’m very impressed with the students. They recovered nicely from the long days and even-longer nights in Spain and Morocco, and are now back into the groove of school. I had students in all 3 of my classes prepare brief assignments reflecting on one experience in either Spain or Morocco, and most came to class on Tuesday or Wednesday fully prepared.
The 2-minute tales in the 0800 public speaking class—8am the morning after we sailed!—were especially impressive. One student—the 15-year-old daughter of a member of our medical staff—told the tale of how she was mugged on the streets of Casablanca. She and her mother had just walked through the old city—the medina—and were about to head back to the port when, as she described it, a bearded man came running up to them, looking both angry and scared. He stopped about a foot in front of the girl, stared intently at her, then suddenly brandished a saber-like knife, taking it from behind his back, waving it in front of her face, and pointing at the camera she had been carrying. Without hesitation, she took the camera from around her neck, handed to the thief, and he ran off, disappearing into the crowd. The entire incident lasted no more than 15 seconds. Fortunately, neither she nor her mom was harmed. Her 2-minute tale, told with intensity and vivid detail, had the 8-o’clock class completely captured. I think it may also have served as a bit of therapy for her.
Yesterday was a perfect day: blue cloudless skies, warm temperature, and calm seas. The students who weren’t in class lounged around the 7th-deck pool, studying and collecting rays. In fact every deck turned into a study hall. Today is hazy and much warmer. The day has a definite tropical feel, something we’ll feel more and more strongly as we head south toward the equator.
13 September 2009
Day 21--In port, Casablanca
13 September. 33° 56”N, 07° 36” W. Casablanca
Not much to say about Casablanca except that’s it’s no longer the romantic city of Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman. It’s closer to Pittsburgh . . . before the mills closed. I suppose the ambiance of the city wasn’t helped on Thursday, the day we arrived, by the overcast skies and incessant drizzle that varied between a heavy mist and a light torrent. It also wasn’t helped by the port of Casablanca. The MV Explorer is docked at the far end of an almost-mile-long pier, blocked from the city by massive loading cranes, stack upon stack of corrugated steel containers, and the comings and goings of long ships with their towers of multi-colored boxes. We could be in the port of San Pedro, California, and the view would the same.
To get from the ship to the entrance to the port and back, SAS is running shuttle busses that are supposed to be operating on a schedule of 15-minute departures. But that doesn’t take into account the cigarette breaks the drivers take after every run to and from the port entrance. The schedule also doesn’t account for the drivers’ 1-hour lunch and dinner breaks. The result is that we can’t be sure we’ll be able to get to the entrance or to the ship when we want to. So schedules have t be very flexible.” Plan ahead” is the motto.
I took a city tour with 60-or-so shipmates Thursday morning into mid afternoon. Casablanca is a city of stark contrasts: modern office buildings and expensive shops in one block, roof-less brick squares housing extended families in squalid conditions in another. The current king, Mohammad VI, is very popular and is trying very hard, apparently, to improve living conditions for the poor. But they have a very long way to go. Trash litters the streets everywhere. The skies were gray; the city is gray.
The memorable stop in the tour is the Grand Mosque of Casablanca, a massive building in traditional Islamic style, sitting on many acres of prime real estate overlooking the ocean. It’s the 3rd-largest mosque in the world, and between its huge main prayer space inside—main floor for men, balconies for women—and the outdoor terrace sitting at the foot of the 250-foot-tall, square-sided minaret, the mosque can accommodate 20,000 of the faithful. It was finished just a few years ago after only 6 years of 24-hour-a-day construction—quite an accomplishment considering its size and considering the fact that the National Cathedral in Washington, much smaller than the mosque, was begun decades ago and, I recall, was completed only within the last few years.
Other than the mosque and a stop in a government store where several of us bought ****** oil, Casablanca is a forgettable city. If the oil performs all the miracles our tour guide claims—a cure for arthritis, wrinkled skin, bad backs, and just about every other ailment known to man—Casablanca will have been a worthwhile visit. Otherwise, I wouldn’t recommend it as a holiday destination.
Marrakech is a different matter. I took a morning train to Marrakech Friday with the Chapels, the Cooper-Sissons, Betsy Bloom, Stepanka Korytova-Magstadt, and Kathleen Jump. Stepanka is a history scholar from the Czech Republic who has taught on a previous voyage and now is teaching 3 different history classes, one with a focus on women. Kathleen is executive assistant to the UVA chief operating officer and oversees the administrative office onboard.
The 3-hour train ride passed through many miles of very arid country that looks like the deserts of Nevada and the plains of eastern Colorado, the latter in the early spring after the snows have melted but before the spring rains have greened up the treeless expanse. It’s all very tan, marked occasionally with a small village of stone homes, many, again, without roofs. But almost all have a satellite dish attached either to a side wall or mounted into the ground, testimonies to how interconnected the world is becoming. The picture of a Moroccan family sitting in their one-room hut, hand made from locally gathered rocks, watching an episode of “Lost” or talking with Facebook friends half a world away is mind-boggling.
The land is also full of shepards and their sheep herds. It’s easy to see why so many of the Moroccan national dishes include sheep, lamb, and mutton, and why their markets are so full of rugs, jackets, and other items made from wool. The mystery is figuring out what the sheep are eating, because they seem to be grazing on dirt. Most of the countryside looks cultivated, with narrow, shallow rows crisscrossing the ground, but nothing’s growing—certainly nothing green.
According to the driver who picked us up in Marrakech, the lambs are actually grazing on wheat . . . very short wheat. It is possible to see tiny tan plants growing in the dust as the train passes, but I’d never have called it wheat. Whatever the case, the sheep are eating something because they taste delicious in tangine, a Moroccan stew served in a teepee-shaped crockery pot.
We arrived in Marrakech shortly after noon Friday and were met by Majid, caretaker of the riad where we would be staying for the next two nights. A riad (REE-ahd) is a private home that has either been converted into a small, private hotel or is operated as the Morrocan equivalent of a bed-and-breakfast when the owners are away, which is the case where we stayed. We loaded into a large van outside the brand-new Marrakech train station—a beautiful building sitting on a large square—and drove through the streets toward the medina, or “old city,” where the Riad Trois Cours is located.
Marrakech is pink. The homes are pink, the office buildings are pink, the walls surrounding the medina are pink, the mosques are pink, the shops and banks are pink, even the interlaced bricks of the sidewalks are pink. Everything is the color of the oxidized desert stones and dirt from which the original city was built over 1,000 years ago. Today, of course, other building materials and colors are available, but the government has decided, wisely, that Marrakech should look like Marrakech. And Marrakech is pink. If Disney had created modern Marrakech, they couldn’t have done better.
Except, of course, Disney wouldn’t have their cast members sleeping in nooks of buildings or on street corners. Disney probably also wouldn’t populate the streets with cars, tiny taxis, huge busses, mopeds, bicyclists, and donkey carts, all vying for the same section of road at the same time. Moroccan drivers, at least the ones we saw, seem to view stoplights, warning signs (including do-not-enter signs), and lane stripes as quaint decorative devices with little utility. The situation is worse in Casablanca, where the taxi ride to the train station was terrifying, but it’s only slightly better in Marrakech. Crossing the street as a pedestrian in Marrakech is probably the closest I’ll come to feeling like Evil Kneival.
The king was visiting Marrakech Friday, so the city was decked out in the Moroccan flag—red with a green five-pointed star in the center—and was very clean. Majid said they wished it always was so clean. We even caught a very quick glimpse of the king and queen as their motorcade swept by enroute to mid-day prayers, with the street lined with excited Moroccans lu-luing (that high-pitched sound Arab women make with their tongues and voices) and cheering.
Riad Trois Cours is magnificent. It was three separate houses until the present owners, a Belgian couple, purchased, combined, and renovated the place into a single, 4-bedroom home that is a modern version of a pasha’s palace. It’s very Moroccan, with 3 open courts (thus the name) decorated with wooden frames, tiled planters, a bubbling fountain, cushioned seating areas, even a small pool. The bedrooms are equally magnificent, with lots of marble, wood, brass, and elaborate Moroccan chandeliers. It was far, far nicer than any of us—except for Jim Cooper, who found the place online—expected.
Web site: www.r3c.nl
We spent Friday afternoon winding through the souks, or marketplaces, of the medina, searching for the main square that, we understood, was filled with food carts, street entertainers, vendors, even snake charmers. The Medina is like a maze of very, very narrow streets, just wide enough for open-air shops, a couple lines of pedestrians and riders on mopeds racing through as if the paths were abandoned. We saw one woman hit by a moped as the bike made a speedy left turn around a blind corner and smacked into the lady, whose view might have been restricted by the veil. She was obviously hurt, but not seriously, and we all wondered how often similar accidents happen. It has to be often.
We spent an hour trying to make our way past the endless row of shops and vendors, who pounce like hungry carnivores if you so much as make glancing eye contact with a scarf or wooden box or dish or dress or leather purse or any other of the myriad items for sale. The souks are a festival of bright colors, the din of sales pitches, and indescribable smells. Only smell-o-vision could do them justice, but I took a lot of photos and videos that, I think, give a sense of the place. Walking through the old city of Marrakech is a cross between a National Geographic documentary and a scene from Indiana Jones. As I said, Disney could not have created it better.
The main square is exactly as the guidebooks describe: a huge plaza full of food carts, street entertainers, even, yes, snake charmers. And, in addition to the sights and smells of the souks, the plaza has added the clang of bells and whine of pipes pointed at swaying, flayed cobras. And, of course, everything is for sale.
We stopped for cold drinks on a rooftop café before heading back to the riad late in the afternoon, where Majid and his staff prepared us a delicious dinner of pumpkin soup and lamb tangine. Then we all went to the rooftop courtyard for a few glasses of wine and listened to the final calls to prayer echo across the city. Not a bad way to earn a living.
Yesterday (Saturday), we did much the same: a lot of walking, though this time through the newer section of the city. The new section is also very pink and, for the most part, upscale, with expensive shops, first-class hotels, a few cafes (limited service during Ramadan), and, of course, cars, mopeds, and donkey carts. Last night, very tired, we went to a nearby restaurant for dinner, where I had a tasteless plate of couscous, chicken, and vegetables—a surprisingly boring meal in a country known for exotic flavors.
After dinner, Bob, Jim, and I gathered around the PC in the riad to watch the play-by-play account of the Michigan-Notre Dame game on ESPN.com. UM, led by its freshman quarterback, Tate Forcier, pulled out a victory on a touchdown pass with 11 seconds remaining. Bob’s and my shouts echoed through the streets just as the call to prayer had an hour or so earlier. “Attending” a game in the Big House from Marrakech, Morocco. What a world!
Today, I accompanied Maria, Shamim, and Betsy to a museum and old madrasa (religious school), while Bob and Jim stayed in the riad to read. The 4 of us then returned to the riad through the souks to do some last-minute shopping, bargaining, and gift buying. I was quite a sight walking through the narrow paths followed by my “harem” of three women, all walking in line behind. When we stopped at a silver shop and Maria started bargaining, the vendor advised her to ask “your husband” for more money. And several pointed out that, under Moroccan law, a man is permitted 4 wives. So I still had one to go.
We left the riad at 2pm, boarded the train back to Casablanca at 3pm, and are due to arrive back at the ship sometime around 7pm. After all the sights and sounds of Marrakech, I ready for a relaxing round of golf tomorrow at Royal Mohammadia, just outside the city. We depart for Ghana tomorrow night.
Not much to say about Casablanca except that’s it’s no longer the romantic city of Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman. It’s closer to Pittsburgh . . . before the mills closed. I suppose the ambiance of the city wasn’t helped on Thursday, the day we arrived, by the overcast skies and incessant drizzle that varied between a heavy mist and a light torrent. It also wasn’t helped by the port of Casablanca. The MV Explorer is docked at the far end of an almost-mile-long pier, blocked from the city by massive loading cranes, stack upon stack of corrugated steel containers, and the comings and goings of long ships with their towers of multi-colored boxes. We could be in the port of San Pedro, California, and the view would the same.
To get from the ship to the entrance to the port and back, SAS is running shuttle busses that are supposed to be operating on a schedule of 15-minute departures. But that doesn’t take into account the cigarette breaks the drivers take after every run to and from the port entrance. The schedule also doesn’t account for the drivers’ 1-hour lunch and dinner breaks. The result is that we can’t be sure we’ll be able to get to the entrance or to the ship when we want to. So schedules have t be very flexible.” Plan ahead” is the motto.
I took a city tour with 60-or-so shipmates Thursday morning into mid afternoon. Casablanca is a city of stark contrasts: modern office buildings and expensive shops in one block, roof-less brick squares housing extended families in squalid conditions in another. The current king, Mohammad VI, is very popular and is trying very hard, apparently, to improve living conditions for the poor. But they have a very long way to go. Trash litters the streets everywhere. The skies were gray; the city is gray.
The memorable stop in the tour is the Grand Mosque of Casablanca, a massive building in traditional Islamic style, sitting on many acres of prime real estate overlooking the ocean. It’s the 3rd-largest mosque in the world, and between its huge main prayer space inside—main floor for men, balconies for women—and the outdoor terrace sitting at the foot of the 250-foot-tall, square-sided minaret, the mosque can accommodate 20,000 of the faithful. It was finished just a few years ago after only 6 years of 24-hour-a-day construction—quite an accomplishment considering its size and considering the fact that the National Cathedral in Washington, much smaller than the mosque, was begun decades ago and, I recall, was completed only within the last few years.
Other than the mosque and a stop in a government store where several of us bought ****** oil, Casablanca is a forgettable city. If the oil performs all the miracles our tour guide claims—a cure for arthritis, wrinkled skin, bad backs, and just about every other ailment known to man—Casablanca will have been a worthwhile visit. Otherwise, I wouldn’t recommend it as a holiday destination.
Marrakech is a different matter. I took a morning train to Marrakech Friday with the Chapels, the Cooper-Sissons, Betsy Bloom, Stepanka Korytova-Magstadt, and Kathleen Jump. Stepanka is a history scholar from the Czech Republic who has taught on a previous voyage and now is teaching 3 different history classes, one with a focus on women. Kathleen is executive assistant to the UVA chief operating officer and oversees the administrative office onboard.
The 3-hour train ride passed through many miles of very arid country that looks like the deserts of Nevada and the plains of eastern Colorado, the latter in the early spring after the snows have melted but before the spring rains have greened up the treeless expanse. It’s all very tan, marked occasionally with a small village of stone homes, many, again, without roofs. But almost all have a satellite dish attached either to a side wall or mounted into the ground, testimonies to how interconnected the world is becoming. The picture of a Moroccan family sitting in their one-room hut, hand made from locally gathered rocks, watching an episode of “Lost” or talking with Facebook friends half a world away is mind-boggling.
The land is also full of shepards and their sheep herds. It’s easy to see why so many of the Moroccan national dishes include sheep, lamb, and mutton, and why their markets are so full of rugs, jackets, and other items made from wool. The mystery is figuring out what the sheep are eating, because they seem to be grazing on dirt. Most of the countryside looks cultivated, with narrow, shallow rows crisscrossing the ground, but nothing’s growing—certainly nothing green.
According to the driver who picked us up in Marrakech, the lambs are actually grazing on wheat . . . very short wheat. It is possible to see tiny tan plants growing in the dust as the train passes, but I’d never have called it wheat. Whatever the case, the sheep are eating something because they taste delicious in tangine, a Moroccan stew served in a teepee-shaped crockery pot.
We arrived in Marrakech shortly after noon Friday and were met by Majid, caretaker of the riad where we would be staying for the next two nights. A riad (REE-ahd) is a private home that has either been converted into a small, private hotel or is operated as the Morrocan equivalent of a bed-and-breakfast when the owners are away, which is the case where we stayed. We loaded into a large van outside the brand-new Marrakech train station—a beautiful building sitting on a large square—and drove through the streets toward the medina, or “old city,” where the Riad Trois Cours is located.
Marrakech is pink. The homes are pink, the office buildings are pink, the walls surrounding the medina are pink, the mosques are pink, the shops and banks are pink, even the interlaced bricks of the sidewalks are pink. Everything is the color of the oxidized desert stones and dirt from which the original city was built over 1,000 years ago. Today, of course, other building materials and colors are available, but the government has decided, wisely, that Marrakech should look like Marrakech. And Marrakech is pink. If Disney had created modern Marrakech, they couldn’t have done better.
Except, of course, Disney wouldn’t have their cast members sleeping in nooks of buildings or on street corners. Disney probably also wouldn’t populate the streets with cars, tiny taxis, huge busses, mopeds, bicyclists, and donkey carts, all vying for the same section of road at the same time. Moroccan drivers, at least the ones we saw, seem to view stoplights, warning signs (including do-not-enter signs), and lane stripes as quaint decorative devices with little utility. The situation is worse in Casablanca, where the taxi ride to the train station was terrifying, but it’s only slightly better in Marrakech. Crossing the street as a pedestrian in Marrakech is probably the closest I’ll come to feeling like Evil Kneival.
The king was visiting Marrakech Friday, so the city was decked out in the Moroccan flag—red with a green five-pointed star in the center—and was very clean. Majid said they wished it always was so clean. We even caught a very quick glimpse of the king and queen as their motorcade swept by enroute to mid-day prayers, with the street lined with excited Moroccans lu-luing (that high-pitched sound Arab women make with their tongues and voices) and cheering.
Riad Trois Cours is magnificent. It was three separate houses until the present owners, a Belgian couple, purchased, combined, and renovated the place into a single, 4-bedroom home that is a modern version of a pasha’s palace. It’s very Moroccan, with 3 open courts (thus the name) decorated with wooden frames, tiled planters, a bubbling fountain, cushioned seating areas, even a small pool. The bedrooms are equally magnificent, with lots of marble, wood, brass, and elaborate Moroccan chandeliers. It was far, far nicer than any of us—except for Jim Cooper, who found the place online—expected.
Web site: www.r3c.nl
We spent Friday afternoon winding through the souks, or marketplaces, of the medina, searching for the main square that, we understood, was filled with food carts, street entertainers, vendors, even snake charmers. The Medina is like a maze of very, very narrow streets, just wide enough for open-air shops, a couple lines of pedestrians and riders on mopeds racing through as if the paths were abandoned. We saw one woman hit by a moped as the bike made a speedy left turn around a blind corner and smacked into the lady, whose view might have been restricted by the veil. She was obviously hurt, but not seriously, and we all wondered how often similar accidents happen. It has to be often.
We spent an hour trying to make our way past the endless row of shops and vendors, who pounce like hungry carnivores if you so much as make glancing eye contact with a scarf or wooden box or dish or dress or leather purse or any other of the myriad items for sale. The souks are a festival of bright colors, the din of sales pitches, and indescribable smells. Only smell-o-vision could do them justice, but I took a lot of photos and videos that, I think, give a sense of the place. Walking through the old city of Marrakech is a cross between a National Geographic documentary and a scene from Indiana Jones. As I said, Disney could not have created it better.
The main square is exactly as the guidebooks describe: a huge plaza full of food carts, street entertainers, even, yes, snake charmers. And, in addition to the sights and smells of the souks, the plaza has added the clang of bells and whine of pipes pointed at swaying, flayed cobras. And, of course, everything is for sale.
We stopped for cold drinks on a rooftop café before heading back to the riad late in the afternoon, where Majid and his staff prepared us a delicious dinner of pumpkin soup and lamb tangine. Then we all went to the rooftop courtyard for a few glasses of wine and listened to the final calls to prayer echo across the city. Not a bad way to earn a living.
Yesterday (Saturday), we did much the same: a lot of walking, though this time through the newer section of the city. The new section is also very pink and, for the most part, upscale, with expensive shops, first-class hotels, a few cafes (limited service during Ramadan), and, of course, cars, mopeds, and donkey carts. Last night, very tired, we went to a nearby restaurant for dinner, where I had a tasteless plate of couscous, chicken, and vegetables—a surprisingly boring meal in a country known for exotic flavors.
After dinner, Bob, Jim, and I gathered around the PC in the riad to watch the play-by-play account of the Michigan-Notre Dame game on ESPN.com. UM, led by its freshman quarterback, Tate Forcier, pulled out a victory on a touchdown pass with 11 seconds remaining. Bob’s and my shouts echoed through the streets just as the call to prayer had an hour or so earlier. “Attending” a game in the Big House from Marrakech, Morocco. What a world!
Today, I accompanied Maria, Shamim, and Betsy to a museum and old madrasa (religious school), while Bob and Jim stayed in the riad to read. The 4 of us then returned to the riad through the souks to do some last-minute shopping, bargaining, and gift buying. I was quite a sight walking through the narrow paths followed by my “harem” of three women, all walking in line behind. When we stopped at a silver shop and Maria started bargaining, the vendor advised her to ask “your husband” for more money. And several pointed out that, under Moroccan law, a man is permitted 4 wives. So I still had one to go.
We left the riad at 2pm, boarded the train back to Casablanca at 3pm, and are due to arrive back at the ship sometime around 7pm. After all the sights and sounds of Marrakech, I ready for a relaxing round of golf tomorrow at Royal Mohammadia, just outside the city. We depart for Ghana tomorrow night.
09 September 2009
Day 17--Off Gibraltar
9 September (09-09-09). 36° 8”N, 05° 10”W.
I woke this morning after a very good sleep and went to the window to see that we were stopped, pointing east. My cabin is on the starboard (right) side of the ship, and I could see on the horizon several very large ships also stopped—a few cruise ships like ours, mostly container ships, and tankers. I showered, grabbed my camera, and walked up to the 6th-deck garden lounge for breakfast. As I walked out onto the aft deck, there off the stern, partially capped under a white fog, was the massive Rock of Gibraltar slowly coming into focus as the morning haze burned off. I was in a Prudential commercial!
At the moment, we’re circling in the Straits of Gibraltar, a few miles south of the port of Gibraltar, maneuvering back and forth between the Atlantic and Mediterranean as we wait our turn for fuel. I went outside to take a few pictures, and the air is ripe with the smell of natural gas. Hope no one’s lighting matches—or anything else—on the small portion of the 5th deck, outside, where they permit smoking.
The protectorate of Gibraltar, still a possession of the British, sits on the side of the rock looking a little like I imagine Victoria Island in Hong Kong looked 75 years ago: a small compound of white buildings with red tile roofs, a few buildings 8- to 10-stories tall, set into the side of the mountain facing across a bay to Spain, stubbornly defiant of the ongoing efforts of the Spanish to take back the rock. I didn’t have a chance to visit Gibraltar while we were in Spain, but those who took the drive—it’s actually about 75 miles southeast of Cadiz—say the colony is more British than Britain. Maybe some day I’ll make it back to find out for myself.
Today is Wednesday, “Morocco Day,” the day we take on fuel then resume the voyage, scheduled to arrive in Morocco tomorrow morning at 0800. Three days ago at this time—1130—we were arriving in Seville after a 90-minute bus ride from the Port of Cadiz. Bob Chapel was the tour leader, responsible for making sure the 33 students and 2 lifelong learners plus one faculty, me, were aboard when we left and would be back onboard after each stop on the 2-day trip to Seville and Cordoba. As it turned out, maybe not surprisingly, the students weren’t the headache for Bob, who, as he does for everything, took the job very seriously and with his usual sometimes-frenetic energy.
Seville is a beautiful city, with an old section looking very similar to old Cadiz: pastel and white buildings lining very narrow, cobble-stone streets. Modern Seville, outside the old section, looks like a typical European city, with very modern buildings alternating with older buildings that have been remodeled into factories and offices. In 1992, Seville hosted a world’s fair to celebrate the quincentennial of Columbus’s first sail to the New World. The court of Isabella and Ferdinand was in the Reales Alcazares—the Alcazar palace—and Columbus brought back the gold and silver from the second voyage to Seville, starting an era when Seville was the richest city in the world. Clearly, the Sevillians value the Columbus link to history, and part of him (no one is quite sure what part, though he is known as “the father of the New World”) is entombed in Seville Cathedral. As a result of the 1992 world’s fair, Spain went into deep debt that brought down a government. My theory is that it was Leif Ericsen’s revenge. “Father of the New World my ass!” Leif would be saying.
The Alcazar is a beautiful building, first built in the late 10th century and added onto for the next 400 years. As a result, it’s a wonderful mixture of Moorish (Islamic) and Catholic styles. As is the case for so much else of what we’re seeing, I can’t do it justice, but I took many pictures and will post them on Facebook as soon as I can get a strong web connection. On the ship, it comes and goes.
The other landmark we toured in Seville was the Cathedral, built in the early 15th Century on the site of a demolished mosque. It’s the 3rd-largest church in Christiandom—at least according to our tour guide—and it is, indeed, massive, probably twice, at least, the size of Notre Dame in Paris. Like all Gothic cathedrals, it’s supported by flying buttresses on the outside, and, inside, is lined with small, gated chapels housing the remains of bishops, cardinals, and other dignitaries who had the coin for a tomb.
The central feature of the cathedral, other than the floor-to-ceiling altar consisting of scenes depicting the entire New Testament—an altar plated entirely in gold leaf—is the tomb of Christopher Columbus. A few years ago, scientists opened the tomb to find a few pieces of bone that they subjected to DNA testing. Sure enough, it’s Christopher. They know that because they compared the DNA to the DNA from his son, also buried in the cathedral. No one is quite sure where the rest of Columbus is, but it’s suspected that he’s scattered in several places between Italy and Spain. He was, after all, a wanderer.
We rode to Cordoba late Sunday afternoon and stayed in a very comfortable hotel a few blocks from the old section. I was assigned to a room with Bob. Maria was on a separate trip, though her group, too, stayed at the same hotel. We had a fairly good buffet meal at the hotel—paella, some pasta, salad, and local wine—and, while the students went out to enjoy the music and cerveza of Cordoba, we two old fellows went to the room and almost immediately fell asleep.
Monday morning, after breakfast, we met our guide, Africa, a petit lady from the Andalucian region, very fluent in English, and much more animated than our male guide in Seville, Hillaria, who might just as well have been the voice in one of those telephone-like contraptions you can rent in museums. On those, you press a button corresponding to the number posted next to notable displays, and the voice starts talking, reciting details, statistics, dates, and names in endless detail. Hillaria was like that. When we stopped to view a notable object, he’d turn on his switch, look slightly above our heads, and in very rapid, accented English recite details, statistics, dates, and names in endless detail. He certainly didn’t invite questions.
Africa, on the other hand, invited questions, and they came at her often from all of us. She first led us on a tour of the Juderia, the Jewish quarter of Cordoba before the Jews were driven out in the late 15th Century. They never returned in any significant numbers, but their homes remain, refurbished on, again, narrow streets lined with buildings that are a mixture of Moorish and Renaissance styles. The Juderia surrounds the local palace, as the Jewish Quarters did in most early capitals including when the Romans occupied these cities, because the princes wanted the wisdom of the Jews close at hand. I guess when the princes thought they had soaked up as much wisdom as they could hold, they drove the people away. Of course, that cycle continued.
From the Juderia, we entered what was, for me, the highlight of the 2-day tour: La Mezquita, the grand mosque of Cordoba that, for almost 900 years, has served as a cathedral. But it is, without doubt, of Islam. It’s a massive, low, rectangular building that, before the Church moved in, could house 12,000 worshippers in prayer. Most of the inside is what looks like an endless series of arches supported on stone columns. The arches are distinguished by alternating sections of red brick and white stucco starting from one column and framing the opening in a 180-degree curve to the other supporting column. These arched columns surround someone standing in one of the Moorish sections, and, in any direction, disappear off into the dark sections of the mosque as if one were standing in a mirrored chamber where the reflecting images seem never to end. It’s an emotional experience, especially powerful because of its elegance and simplicity.
In the middle of the mystical simplicity of the mosque, King Carlos V, following the expulsion of the Moors from Spain in 1492, decided to build a church. He had a large rectangular section in the middle of the mosque torn down and replaced by a Gothic-style cathedral, complete with interior buttresses, plaster casts of angels affixed to the 8-story-high ceiling, a floor-to-ceiling organ, solid mahogany chairs for nobles of the city and church, multi-colored frescos, and tons—literally—of gold and silver altar pieces and other decorations. The conflict between the simple red-and-white-striped arches of the old mosque and the massive church erupting out of its center is a powerful visual reminder of the conflict—the violent conflict—between the two cultures. The story is that when Carlos saw the finished church, even he cried at what he had done.
It is interesting, though, that at a few points where the church borders the mosque, the two styles almost complement each other, with the arches of the Gothic ceiling blending gracefully into the arches of the mosque. Symbolism galore in those few spots.
One of the students on the tour, Karim, is Muslim and had just been saying how he wanted to find a place to pray, especially given that we’re in the middle of Ramadan. I told him, “Karim, if I were Muslim, I’d feel I had to pray here.” He agreed and went off to a section of the mosque where a simple altar-like area remained in the wall closest to Mecca. Several of his friends were there with him, and, while he was in prayer—he said it would take only a few minutes—a security guard came up and told him he’d have to stop. It is, after all, a cathedral, and the Church apparently feels an Islamic prayer might taint the holiness of the place. Karim’s friends surrounded him, making it clear that if he were to be removed, they’d all have to be removed. The guard backed down long enough for Karim to finish praying, he stood and, still surrounded by his friends, all rejoined our group. During the Inquisition, he probably would have been burned at the stake. Based on that, I guess we’ve come a long way.
Tuesday evening we rode back to the ship, arriving around 1900 (7pm), in time for dinner on board. But Bob and I decided we needed to take advantage of being in a country known for its excellent food, so, at 2030, we walked into the old city and found a restaurant that had just opened. The Spanish eat dinner very late by U.S. standards. Eight thirty is the earliest one can reserve a table other than at a café, and the restaurants don’t fill much before 10pm. The Spanish workday starts a little later than ours: 9:30 or 10am. Then everything except cafes closes at 2pm and doesn’t reopen before 5:30. The stores then stay open to 8:30 or 9:00pm. After that, Spaniards eat.
On the way out to dinner, my principal responsibility was to find transportation to and from the golf course—Montecastillo—where Jim Cooper had made a 10:50am Tuesday tee time for the 4 golfers: Bob, Charlie Morris, Jim, and me. Bob and I walked up to a taxi parked across the street from the security entrance to the port. I asked the driver if he spoke English (“Habla Inglis?”), and he said “no.” Then he asked, “Francaise?” and I, loaded with self-confidence, replied “Oui, un petit peu.” For the next few minutes, I tried to communicate to the driver the complicated transportation needs we had: travel first with 3 passengers + clubs to the Jerez train station to pick up Jim Cooper, who was coming back from Seville by train. Then, with a 4th passenger, we travel to Montecastillo in time for our 1050 tee off. At the end of the day, we needed a pickup in time to get us back to the ship by “ship time”—the hour (6pm in the case of Cadiz) when everybody must be onboard prior to sailing.
As I tried desperately to search my very wrinkled memory for a few key French words (la gare, huit heure et demi, retournez (?), trois heure, combine d’argent), Bob was getting more and more impatient, jumping in with English (“We need you to pick us up by 3:30!” “No, no, we have to go to the train station first!”) and doing what we all do when trying to communicate with someone who doesn’t speak our own language: speaking louder and louder because, after all, if he doesn’t understand it the first time, speaking louder will get the message through the second time . . . and third, and fourth, etc. Meanwhile, an older Spanish man walked up to the taxi to watch the show, standing there amused as the 3 of us—driver, Bob, and I—played verbal round-robin, hands flying, voices getting louder, fractured French, Spanish, and English cascading round and round the circle.
Miraculously, in the end, we communicated. The next morning, our driver was there at 8:30. We had a fast trip to the Jerez station to pick up Jim, then faster still to Montecastillo, arriving there by 9:30. Even better, they were able to let us tee off early, so at around 10am, we stuck tees in the ground on the first hole and launched off on a wonderful round of golf. The weather was perfect—hot but dry—and the forecast winds didn’t materialize. For most of the next 4 hours, the wind was still. My golf was ok. Except for my usual blowup hole—at Montecastillo it came on #14, the prettiest hole on the course—I played respectably. Jim, Charlie, and Bob had similar rounds, and we all agreed it had been a terrific day. We got back to the ship by 4:00pm, well before the witching hour of 1800, leaving enough time for me to revisit my favorite wine store to spend my few remaining Euro.
We sailed at 2000 last night in gale-force winds. In fact, it was so windy the ship had to redock after starting to push away from the pier because we were on what looked like a collision course with a container ship tied up just off our bow. But once we got underway, it was a fairly quiet cruise to Gibraltar.
We’re still off Gibraltar, it’s now 1430 (2:30pm), and we just started refueling. The process is a controlled collision between the offloading ship—called a “bunker ship”—and the onloading ship. Once the bunker ship lashes along the side, the process begins: like two huge fish in a mating ritual, with the bunker ship inserting its fuel hose into the tanks of the Explorer and transferring hundreds of thousands of tons of number-something diesel—“bunker diesel”—into us. I heard today that the world’s ships burning this rather dirty fuel pumps more pollution into the atmosphere in a day than all the world’s aircraft.
We’re facing east, directly toward Gibraltar. And off the starboard side, I can make out the faint shadows of the mountains of Spanish Morocco. Tomorrow Casablanca.
I woke this morning after a very good sleep and went to the window to see that we were stopped, pointing east. My cabin is on the starboard (right) side of the ship, and I could see on the horizon several very large ships also stopped—a few cruise ships like ours, mostly container ships, and tankers. I showered, grabbed my camera, and walked up to the 6th-deck garden lounge for breakfast. As I walked out onto the aft deck, there off the stern, partially capped under a white fog, was the massive Rock of Gibraltar slowly coming into focus as the morning haze burned off. I was in a Prudential commercial!
At the moment, we’re circling in the Straits of Gibraltar, a few miles south of the port of Gibraltar, maneuvering back and forth between the Atlantic and Mediterranean as we wait our turn for fuel. I went outside to take a few pictures, and the air is ripe with the smell of natural gas. Hope no one’s lighting matches—or anything else—on the small portion of the 5th deck, outside, where they permit smoking.
The protectorate of Gibraltar, still a possession of the British, sits on the side of the rock looking a little like I imagine Victoria Island in Hong Kong looked 75 years ago: a small compound of white buildings with red tile roofs, a few buildings 8- to 10-stories tall, set into the side of the mountain facing across a bay to Spain, stubbornly defiant of the ongoing efforts of the Spanish to take back the rock. I didn’t have a chance to visit Gibraltar while we were in Spain, but those who took the drive—it’s actually about 75 miles southeast of Cadiz—say the colony is more British than Britain. Maybe some day I’ll make it back to find out for myself.
Today is Wednesday, “Morocco Day,” the day we take on fuel then resume the voyage, scheduled to arrive in Morocco tomorrow morning at 0800. Three days ago at this time—1130—we were arriving in Seville after a 90-minute bus ride from the Port of Cadiz. Bob Chapel was the tour leader, responsible for making sure the 33 students and 2 lifelong learners plus one faculty, me, were aboard when we left and would be back onboard after each stop on the 2-day trip to Seville and Cordoba. As it turned out, maybe not surprisingly, the students weren’t the headache for Bob, who, as he does for everything, took the job very seriously and with his usual sometimes-frenetic energy.
Seville is a beautiful city, with an old section looking very similar to old Cadiz: pastel and white buildings lining very narrow, cobble-stone streets. Modern Seville, outside the old section, looks like a typical European city, with very modern buildings alternating with older buildings that have been remodeled into factories and offices. In 1992, Seville hosted a world’s fair to celebrate the quincentennial of Columbus’s first sail to the New World. The court of Isabella and Ferdinand was in the Reales Alcazares—the Alcazar palace—and Columbus brought back the gold and silver from the second voyage to Seville, starting an era when Seville was the richest city in the world. Clearly, the Sevillians value the Columbus link to history, and part of him (no one is quite sure what part, though he is known as “the father of the New World”) is entombed in Seville Cathedral. As a result of the 1992 world’s fair, Spain went into deep debt that brought down a government. My theory is that it was Leif Ericsen’s revenge. “Father of the New World my ass!” Leif would be saying.
The Alcazar is a beautiful building, first built in the late 10th century and added onto for the next 400 years. As a result, it’s a wonderful mixture of Moorish (Islamic) and Catholic styles. As is the case for so much else of what we’re seeing, I can’t do it justice, but I took many pictures and will post them on Facebook as soon as I can get a strong web connection. On the ship, it comes and goes.
The other landmark we toured in Seville was the Cathedral, built in the early 15th Century on the site of a demolished mosque. It’s the 3rd-largest church in Christiandom—at least according to our tour guide—and it is, indeed, massive, probably twice, at least, the size of Notre Dame in Paris. Like all Gothic cathedrals, it’s supported by flying buttresses on the outside, and, inside, is lined with small, gated chapels housing the remains of bishops, cardinals, and other dignitaries who had the coin for a tomb.
The central feature of the cathedral, other than the floor-to-ceiling altar consisting of scenes depicting the entire New Testament—an altar plated entirely in gold leaf—is the tomb of Christopher Columbus. A few years ago, scientists opened the tomb to find a few pieces of bone that they subjected to DNA testing. Sure enough, it’s Christopher. They know that because they compared the DNA to the DNA from his son, also buried in the cathedral. No one is quite sure where the rest of Columbus is, but it’s suspected that he’s scattered in several places between Italy and Spain. He was, after all, a wanderer.
We rode to Cordoba late Sunday afternoon and stayed in a very comfortable hotel a few blocks from the old section. I was assigned to a room with Bob. Maria was on a separate trip, though her group, too, stayed at the same hotel. We had a fairly good buffet meal at the hotel—paella, some pasta, salad, and local wine—and, while the students went out to enjoy the music and cerveza of Cordoba, we two old fellows went to the room and almost immediately fell asleep.
Monday morning, after breakfast, we met our guide, Africa, a petit lady from the Andalucian region, very fluent in English, and much more animated than our male guide in Seville, Hillaria, who might just as well have been the voice in one of those telephone-like contraptions you can rent in museums. On those, you press a button corresponding to the number posted next to notable displays, and the voice starts talking, reciting details, statistics, dates, and names in endless detail. Hillaria was like that. When we stopped to view a notable object, he’d turn on his switch, look slightly above our heads, and in very rapid, accented English recite details, statistics, dates, and names in endless detail. He certainly didn’t invite questions.
Africa, on the other hand, invited questions, and they came at her often from all of us. She first led us on a tour of the Juderia, the Jewish quarter of Cordoba before the Jews were driven out in the late 15th Century. They never returned in any significant numbers, but their homes remain, refurbished on, again, narrow streets lined with buildings that are a mixture of Moorish and Renaissance styles. The Juderia surrounds the local palace, as the Jewish Quarters did in most early capitals including when the Romans occupied these cities, because the princes wanted the wisdom of the Jews close at hand. I guess when the princes thought they had soaked up as much wisdom as they could hold, they drove the people away. Of course, that cycle continued.
From the Juderia, we entered what was, for me, the highlight of the 2-day tour: La Mezquita, the grand mosque of Cordoba that, for almost 900 years, has served as a cathedral. But it is, without doubt, of Islam. It’s a massive, low, rectangular building that, before the Church moved in, could house 12,000 worshippers in prayer. Most of the inside is what looks like an endless series of arches supported on stone columns. The arches are distinguished by alternating sections of red brick and white stucco starting from one column and framing the opening in a 180-degree curve to the other supporting column. These arched columns surround someone standing in one of the Moorish sections, and, in any direction, disappear off into the dark sections of the mosque as if one were standing in a mirrored chamber where the reflecting images seem never to end. It’s an emotional experience, especially powerful because of its elegance and simplicity.
In the middle of the mystical simplicity of the mosque, King Carlos V, following the expulsion of the Moors from Spain in 1492, decided to build a church. He had a large rectangular section in the middle of the mosque torn down and replaced by a Gothic-style cathedral, complete with interior buttresses, plaster casts of angels affixed to the 8-story-high ceiling, a floor-to-ceiling organ, solid mahogany chairs for nobles of the city and church, multi-colored frescos, and tons—literally—of gold and silver altar pieces and other decorations. The conflict between the simple red-and-white-striped arches of the old mosque and the massive church erupting out of its center is a powerful visual reminder of the conflict—the violent conflict—between the two cultures. The story is that when Carlos saw the finished church, even he cried at what he had done.
It is interesting, though, that at a few points where the church borders the mosque, the two styles almost complement each other, with the arches of the Gothic ceiling blending gracefully into the arches of the mosque. Symbolism galore in those few spots.
One of the students on the tour, Karim, is Muslim and had just been saying how he wanted to find a place to pray, especially given that we’re in the middle of Ramadan. I told him, “Karim, if I were Muslim, I’d feel I had to pray here.” He agreed and went off to a section of the mosque where a simple altar-like area remained in the wall closest to Mecca. Several of his friends were there with him, and, while he was in prayer—he said it would take only a few minutes—a security guard came up and told him he’d have to stop. It is, after all, a cathedral, and the Church apparently feels an Islamic prayer might taint the holiness of the place. Karim’s friends surrounded him, making it clear that if he were to be removed, they’d all have to be removed. The guard backed down long enough for Karim to finish praying, he stood and, still surrounded by his friends, all rejoined our group. During the Inquisition, he probably would have been burned at the stake. Based on that, I guess we’ve come a long way.
Tuesday evening we rode back to the ship, arriving around 1900 (7pm), in time for dinner on board. But Bob and I decided we needed to take advantage of being in a country known for its excellent food, so, at 2030, we walked into the old city and found a restaurant that had just opened. The Spanish eat dinner very late by U.S. standards. Eight thirty is the earliest one can reserve a table other than at a café, and the restaurants don’t fill much before 10pm. The Spanish workday starts a little later than ours: 9:30 or 10am. Then everything except cafes closes at 2pm and doesn’t reopen before 5:30. The stores then stay open to 8:30 or 9:00pm. After that, Spaniards eat.
On the way out to dinner, my principal responsibility was to find transportation to and from the golf course—Montecastillo—where Jim Cooper had made a 10:50am Tuesday tee time for the 4 golfers: Bob, Charlie Morris, Jim, and me. Bob and I walked up to a taxi parked across the street from the security entrance to the port. I asked the driver if he spoke English (“Habla Inglis?”), and he said “no.” Then he asked, “Francaise?” and I, loaded with self-confidence, replied “Oui, un petit peu.” For the next few minutes, I tried to communicate to the driver the complicated transportation needs we had: travel first with 3 passengers + clubs to the Jerez train station to pick up Jim Cooper, who was coming back from Seville by train. Then, with a 4th passenger, we travel to Montecastillo in time for our 1050 tee off. At the end of the day, we needed a pickup in time to get us back to the ship by “ship time”—the hour (6pm in the case of Cadiz) when everybody must be onboard prior to sailing.
As I tried desperately to search my very wrinkled memory for a few key French words (la gare, huit heure et demi, retournez (?), trois heure, combine d’argent), Bob was getting more and more impatient, jumping in with English (“We need you to pick us up by 3:30!” “No, no, we have to go to the train station first!”) and doing what we all do when trying to communicate with someone who doesn’t speak our own language: speaking louder and louder because, after all, if he doesn’t understand it the first time, speaking louder will get the message through the second time . . . and third, and fourth, etc. Meanwhile, an older Spanish man walked up to the taxi to watch the show, standing there amused as the 3 of us—driver, Bob, and I—played verbal round-robin, hands flying, voices getting louder, fractured French, Spanish, and English cascading round and round the circle.
Miraculously, in the end, we communicated. The next morning, our driver was there at 8:30. We had a fast trip to the Jerez station to pick up Jim, then faster still to Montecastillo, arriving there by 9:30. Even better, they were able to let us tee off early, so at around 10am, we stuck tees in the ground on the first hole and launched off on a wonderful round of golf. The weather was perfect—hot but dry—and the forecast winds didn’t materialize. For most of the next 4 hours, the wind was still. My golf was ok. Except for my usual blowup hole—at Montecastillo it came on #14, the prettiest hole on the course—I played respectably. Jim, Charlie, and Bob had similar rounds, and we all agreed it had been a terrific day. We got back to the ship by 4:00pm, well before the witching hour of 1800, leaving enough time for me to revisit my favorite wine store to spend my few remaining Euro.
We sailed at 2000 last night in gale-force winds. In fact, it was so windy the ship had to redock after starting to push away from the pier because we were on what looked like a collision course with a container ship tied up just off our bow. But once we got underway, it was a fairly quiet cruise to Gibraltar.
We’re still off Gibraltar, it’s now 1430 (2:30pm), and we just started refueling. The process is a controlled collision between the offloading ship—called a “bunker ship”—and the onloading ship. Once the bunker ship lashes along the side, the process begins: like two huge fish in a mating ritual, with the bunker ship inserting its fuel hose into the tanks of the Explorer and transferring hundreds of thousands of tons of number-something diesel—“bunker diesel”—into us. I heard today that the world’s ships burning this rather dirty fuel pumps more pollution into the atmosphere in a day than all the world’s aircraft.
We’re facing east, directly toward Gibraltar. And off the starboard side, I can make out the faint shadows of the mountains of Spanish Morocco. Tomorrow Casablanca.
05 September 2009
Day 13--Cadiz, Spain
5 September, 36° 32” N, 6° 17” W, speed = 0 knots
After a restless night, I woke just a few minutes before 0700 to the periodic flash of a light coming through the window. It was still dark outside, but the faint glow and the flashes drew me to the window, where I looked out and saw the lights of the narrow Cadiz peninsula slowly moving past, punctuated every 20 seconds or so by the sweep of the lighthouse as we entered the harbor at what couldn’t have been more than 5 or 6 knots.
I took a quick shower and hustled to the 6th-deck “garden lounge” cafeteria and outdoor dining area. The deck was already packed with students, some eating breakfast, but most standing at the railings, cameras in hand, snapping pictures of the lights, the passing boats, but primarily of the Cadiz port and, to the east, the mountains of the Spanish coast. The sun was just starting to come up over the mountains, which were silhouetted against a faint orange-red horizon. And exactly opposite, off the bow, were the gleaming white buildings and churches of Cadiz, also silhouetted by the brilliant full moon that was slowly settling in the northwest. If an artist had wanted to arrange a more perfect welcome to Spain, he couldn’t possibly have created a scene any better.
I thought briefly of going back to the cabin to get my camera, but I remembered the ship’s photographer last night asking voyagers to unload their Cadiz photos the morning after they depart. He’d then pick the best for the voyage book. So I’m sure some museum-ready photos of our arrival in Cadiz will be in the book.
The way the crew puts this huge ship into port is a thing of wonder. We’re docked in a fairly narrow bay that obviously was built by man, not God. It may be, at most, 1,000 feet across, or two lengths of Explorer. We came in bow first, then the engines cranked, the ship shuddered to a crawl, and, as if sitting on top of a flagpole, the captain and pilot spun the ship 180 degrees very, very slowly, then maneuvered her sideways into the pier. There, the Explorer’s crew slung weights attached to ropes about the size of thick clotheslines to waiting shoremen on the pier. Those shoremen grabbed the lines and pulled, drawing out of the ship 5 or 6 massive ropes, at least 6” thick, and hauled them onto the pier. Each rope ended in a woven loop, connected by a knot at least 12” thick. The shoremen heaved the loops—it takes two strong men to lift them—up and over the stanchions that, when the ropes are drawn taught by the onboard cinches, attach us fast to the shore. That entire maneuver must take years to master.
Cadiz is right out of a coffee table book of Spain. It sits on a peninsula that juts out into the Atlantic just 25 miles or so—maybe a few more—east of Gibraltar. It’s one of the oldest if not the oldest city in Europe, founded by the Phoenicians, who sailed here then decided that, if they went much farther, they’d drop off the edge of the earth. The city is crisscrossed with very narrow streets, most of which end in a plaza of some sort. It doesn’t look like any building is over 5 stories high, and, clearly, the city has declared that nothing will block the towers of the many cathedrals around the city. Most buildings, especially in the older part of the city, where we’re docked, are very similar to ones you’d see in the French Quarter of New Orleans: painted in pastels, with wrought-iron balconies overlooking the cobblestone streets. But the look is definitely Spanish, not French.
The ship cleared customs by 0900, and I joined Bob & Maria Chapel, and Betsy Bloom, on a walking tour starting at 1000. I can’t describe how beautiful and charming this city is, so I’ll leave it up to the photos I took and will post on Facebook. We walked along the water to an old fort, then turned into the city and wound our way past cathedrals, plazas, and shops just starting to open until we reached Plaza de San Antonio, where a large Moorish style church dominates a large, paved square surrounded by shops, a restaurant, and a café. From the plaza, we turned down what I can only describe as Cadiz’s answer to Boul Mich in Chicago: a wide (by Cadiz standards) street that had been turned into a pedestrian mall, lined with stores selling very fine clothing, shoes, leather goods, and of course, electronic gear.
We stopped at an al fresco café and ordered 4 cups of coffee—4 wonderful cups of coffee, especially appreciated after 8 days of coffee that falls far short. Even the stuff that I’m brewing in my coffee press can’t come close to the espresso Americano con leche I drank sitting at the table on Avenida Ancha.
Then we made our way back to the ship slowly, making many stops for Maria and Betsy to shop while Bob and I stood around outside watching the people walk by pushing strollers, ride by on mopeds, stroll by hand-in-hand, race by chasing or pulling small children, or (for very many) go by trying to control their dogs. Every family in Cadiz must own a dog, and they were all out on market Saturday.
We got back to the ship in time for Maria and Betsy to join an archeological tour of the city. Bob and I headed back out to the large food market in the center of town. At Plaza Libertad, we entered a rectangular building that was at least 100 yards long by 30 to 40 yards wide. Inside the building were very narrow lanes lined my vendors selling fruits, vegetables, chickens, beef, fish, shrimp, mussels, and almost every other edible produced by nature. And the entire population of Cadiz was there. Again, photos do the scene far better justice than I can. They’ll be on Facebook.
We stopped for a cerveza (two each, actually) with two other shipmates, then worked our way back to the ship through a different maze of narrow streets, walking up the gangway about 1500 (3pm). I made one more trip out at 1730 (5:30pm) to a small wine store we had passed, where I bought some Spanish port and a white wine. By the time we leave, I’ll have restocked my small cellar with a few bottles of decent Spanish vino.
Tonight, we’re going to dinner at a nearby restaurant that comes highly recommended. Tomorrow morning, Bob and I get on a bus to Sevilla and Cordoba for an overnight trip while Maria travels to both cities, then on to Granada. Bob and I need to get back, though, in time for our 1050 tee time Tuesday. The temperature is forecast to be 40-degrees-plus (Celsius), with 20+ mph winds. Not ideal conditions—especially the wind—but who cares? It’s golf in Spain!
After a restless night, I woke just a few minutes before 0700 to the periodic flash of a light coming through the window. It was still dark outside, but the faint glow and the flashes drew me to the window, where I looked out and saw the lights of the narrow Cadiz peninsula slowly moving past, punctuated every 20 seconds or so by the sweep of the lighthouse as we entered the harbor at what couldn’t have been more than 5 or 6 knots.
I took a quick shower and hustled to the 6th-deck “garden lounge” cafeteria and outdoor dining area. The deck was already packed with students, some eating breakfast, but most standing at the railings, cameras in hand, snapping pictures of the lights, the passing boats, but primarily of the Cadiz port and, to the east, the mountains of the Spanish coast. The sun was just starting to come up over the mountains, which were silhouetted against a faint orange-red horizon. And exactly opposite, off the bow, were the gleaming white buildings and churches of Cadiz, also silhouetted by the brilliant full moon that was slowly settling in the northwest. If an artist had wanted to arrange a more perfect welcome to Spain, he couldn’t possibly have created a scene any better.
I thought briefly of going back to the cabin to get my camera, but I remembered the ship’s photographer last night asking voyagers to unload their Cadiz photos the morning after they depart. He’d then pick the best for the voyage book. So I’m sure some museum-ready photos of our arrival in Cadiz will be in the book.
The way the crew puts this huge ship into port is a thing of wonder. We’re docked in a fairly narrow bay that obviously was built by man, not God. It may be, at most, 1,000 feet across, or two lengths of Explorer. We came in bow first, then the engines cranked, the ship shuddered to a crawl, and, as if sitting on top of a flagpole, the captain and pilot spun the ship 180 degrees very, very slowly, then maneuvered her sideways into the pier. There, the Explorer’s crew slung weights attached to ropes about the size of thick clotheslines to waiting shoremen on the pier. Those shoremen grabbed the lines and pulled, drawing out of the ship 5 or 6 massive ropes, at least 6” thick, and hauled them onto the pier. Each rope ended in a woven loop, connected by a knot at least 12” thick. The shoremen heaved the loops—it takes two strong men to lift them—up and over the stanchions that, when the ropes are drawn taught by the onboard cinches, attach us fast to the shore. That entire maneuver must take years to master.
Cadiz is right out of a coffee table book of Spain. It sits on a peninsula that juts out into the Atlantic just 25 miles or so—maybe a few more—east of Gibraltar. It’s one of the oldest if not the oldest city in Europe, founded by the Phoenicians, who sailed here then decided that, if they went much farther, they’d drop off the edge of the earth. The city is crisscrossed with very narrow streets, most of which end in a plaza of some sort. It doesn’t look like any building is over 5 stories high, and, clearly, the city has declared that nothing will block the towers of the many cathedrals around the city. Most buildings, especially in the older part of the city, where we’re docked, are very similar to ones you’d see in the French Quarter of New Orleans: painted in pastels, with wrought-iron balconies overlooking the cobblestone streets. But the look is definitely Spanish, not French.
The ship cleared customs by 0900, and I joined Bob & Maria Chapel, and Betsy Bloom, on a walking tour starting at 1000. I can’t describe how beautiful and charming this city is, so I’ll leave it up to the photos I took and will post on Facebook. We walked along the water to an old fort, then turned into the city and wound our way past cathedrals, plazas, and shops just starting to open until we reached Plaza de San Antonio, where a large Moorish style church dominates a large, paved square surrounded by shops, a restaurant, and a café. From the plaza, we turned down what I can only describe as Cadiz’s answer to Boul Mich in Chicago: a wide (by Cadiz standards) street that had been turned into a pedestrian mall, lined with stores selling very fine clothing, shoes, leather goods, and of course, electronic gear.
We stopped at an al fresco café and ordered 4 cups of coffee—4 wonderful cups of coffee, especially appreciated after 8 days of coffee that falls far short. Even the stuff that I’m brewing in my coffee press can’t come close to the espresso Americano con leche I drank sitting at the table on Avenida Ancha.
Then we made our way back to the ship slowly, making many stops for Maria and Betsy to shop while Bob and I stood around outside watching the people walk by pushing strollers, ride by on mopeds, stroll by hand-in-hand, race by chasing or pulling small children, or (for very many) go by trying to control their dogs. Every family in Cadiz must own a dog, and they were all out on market Saturday.
We got back to the ship in time for Maria and Betsy to join an archeological tour of the city. Bob and I headed back out to the large food market in the center of town. At Plaza Libertad, we entered a rectangular building that was at least 100 yards long by 30 to 40 yards wide. Inside the building were very narrow lanes lined my vendors selling fruits, vegetables, chickens, beef, fish, shrimp, mussels, and almost every other edible produced by nature. And the entire population of Cadiz was there. Again, photos do the scene far better justice than I can. They’ll be on Facebook.
We stopped for a cerveza (two each, actually) with two other shipmates, then worked our way back to the ship through a different maze of narrow streets, walking up the gangway about 1500 (3pm). I made one more trip out at 1730 (5:30pm) to a small wine store we had passed, where I bought some Spanish port and a white wine. By the time we leave, I’ll have restocked my small cellar with a few bottles of decent Spanish vino.
Tonight, we’re going to dinner at a nearby restaurant that comes highly recommended. Tomorrow morning, Bob and I get on a bus to Sevilla and Cordoba for an overnight trip while Maria travels to both cities, then on to Granada. Bob and I need to get back, though, in time for our 1050 tee time Tuesday. The temperature is forecast to be 40-degrees-plus (Celsius), with 20+ mph winds. Not ideal conditions—especially the wind—but who cares? It’s golf in Spain!
04 September 2009
Day 12--Approaching Cadiz
4 September, 37° 8”N, 11° 53” W, course= 114°, speed = 16 knots
We’re now within 150 nautical miles (NM) or so from the nearest land, and a little over 300NM from Cadiz, Spain, where we’re scheduled to dock at 0800 tomorrow. We lost another hour last night. The drip torture of one hour per day rather than the 5-hour-plus change experienced in a flight from the U.S. to Europe hasn’t been making the change any easier for students or faculty, it seems. For the students, the difficulty may be because the “beverage time” from 9pm-11pm (2100-2300) keeps many of them up past midnight. Eight-o’clock classes are painful enough without the body’s telling you it’s really earlier than that. Add the lost hours and the temptation to stay up late, and, for some, the pain is very evident.
The drinking age onboard is 18, so 99% of the students may purchase alcohol at the 7th-deck pool bar from 2100-2300. They’re limited to 4 drinks per day—2 before or during dinner, and 2 more from 9-11. And students have only beer and wine available. According to SAS, drinking onboard ship hasn’t been a problem since the 4-max policy went into effect several years ago (probably about the time the Univ. of Virginia took over academics). And students aren’t allowed to bring any alcohol on board during port visits. Of course, these policies don’t affect what happens in port, and there have been instances, of course, of students’ over-drinking in port on past voyages. We’ll see what happens with this class.
The faculty is no less affected by the loss of sleeping time. But, for us, the pain has less to do with late hours, partying, or alcohol, and much more to do with aging bodies. Yesterday seemed a particularly challenging day for many of us. I was dragging most of the day after my 8-o’clock class ended, and I fell fast asleep last night after watching “Casablanca” on the ship’s TV network, waking up 7 hours later when my alarm clock went off. I don’t recall a thing between “Louis, I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship” and the annoying buzz of my alarm.
My classes are becoming more interesting, interactive, and fun as the students get used to each other and to me. On the first day, asking a question was like talking to a photograph. Even the ones that should elicit fast responses (e.g., “What makes communicating in business different than communicating with your friends or family?”) were greeted with stony silence, as if I were asking it in some lost language. What’s happening, of course, is peer-induced anxiety: “I don’t want to risk giving a wrong answer and making an idiot of myself.” But they’re getting over the fear quickly, and we’ve had some good discussions in the intercultural comm. and business comm. classes Wednesday and today.
The students in my public speaking class—I’m up to 7 “regular” students now plus the HS sophomore and lifelong learner—broke the ice yesterday with their first assignment: a 2- to 3-minute introduction of a classmate. They all were obviously prepared and most seemed to have practiced. Several were very nervous, of course, but the advantage of having a small class is that we can take time to workshop each presentation. As we worked on one person’s vocal range, another’s movement (or lack of it), yet another’s eye contact and energy, I could feel all of them relaxing a little. It will be tough to stand up and be evaluated—in front of peers, yet!—throughout the semester. If it’s not, I’m not doing my job. But I think I’m going to enjoy the luxury of having a small class.
The 15-year-old HS sophomore is amazingly poised. And what’s equally impressive is how the others, ranging from 3 to more than 7 years older than she is, have accepted her as a peer. In many ways, she is.
Now I need to start doing some serious thinking and planning for Spain and Morocco. In Cadiz, I’m going on an overnight bus trip to Sevilla and Cordoba, two Andalucian cities noted for their beauty and Islamic history. In Morocco, I’m going with friends to Marrakech for two nights, where the bazaar is famous and the desert sands blow. Beyond the mosques, bazaars, and deserts, though, I’ve studied very little. So a little enculturation will be on the menu tonight. I expect the pre-port lecture this evening will help.
Oh, and I’m playing golf on the last days in Cadiz and Casablanca. That’s something I think I’m prepared for.
We’re now within 150 nautical miles (NM) or so from the nearest land, and a little over 300NM from Cadiz, Spain, where we’re scheduled to dock at 0800 tomorrow. We lost another hour last night. The drip torture of one hour per day rather than the 5-hour-plus change experienced in a flight from the U.S. to Europe hasn’t been making the change any easier for students or faculty, it seems. For the students, the difficulty may be because the “beverage time” from 9pm-11pm (2100-2300) keeps many of them up past midnight. Eight-o’clock classes are painful enough without the body’s telling you it’s really earlier than that. Add the lost hours and the temptation to stay up late, and, for some, the pain is very evident.
The drinking age onboard is 18, so 99% of the students may purchase alcohol at the 7th-deck pool bar from 2100-2300. They’re limited to 4 drinks per day—2 before or during dinner, and 2 more from 9-11. And students have only beer and wine available. According to SAS, drinking onboard ship hasn’t been a problem since the 4-max policy went into effect several years ago (probably about the time the Univ. of Virginia took over academics). And students aren’t allowed to bring any alcohol on board during port visits. Of course, these policies don’t affect what happens in port, and there have been instances, of course, of students’ over-drinking in port on past voyages. We’ll see what happens with this class.
The faculty is no less affected by the loss of sleeping time. But, for us, the pain has less to do with late hours, partying, or alcohol, and much more to do with aging bodies. Yesterday seemed a particularly challenging day for many of us. I was dragging most of the day after my 8-o’clock class ended, and I fell fast asleep last night after watching “Casablanca” on the ship’s TV network, waking up 7 hours later when my alarm clock went off. I don’t recall a thing between “Louis, I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship” and the annoying buzz of my alarm.
My classes are becoming more interesting, interactive, and fun as the students get used to each other and to me. On the first day, asking a question was like talking to a photograph. Even the ones that should elicit fast responses (e.g., “What makes communicating in business different than communicating with your friends or family?”) were greeted with stony silence, as if I were asking it in some lost language. What’s happening, of course, is peer-induced anxiety: “I don’t want to risk giving a wrong answer and making an idiot of myself.” But they’re getting over the fear quickly, and we’ve had some good discussions in the intercultural comm. and business comm. classes Wednesday and today.
The students in my public speaking class—I’m up to 7 “regular” students now plus the HS sophomore and lifelong learner—broke the ice yesterday with their first assignment: a 2- to 3-minute introduction of a classmate. They all were obviously prepared and most seemed to have practiced. Several were very nervous, of course, but the advantage of having a small class is that we can take time to workshop each presentation. As we worked on one person’s vocal range, another’s movement (or lack of it), yet another’s eye contact and energy, I could feel all of them relaxing a little. It will be tough to stand up and be evaluated—in front of peers, yet!—throughout the semester. If it’s not, I’m not doing my job. But I think I’m going to enjoy the luxury of having a small class.
The 15-year-old HS sophomore is amazingly poised. And what’s equally impressive is how the others, ranging from 3 to more than 7 years older than she is, have accepted her as a peer. In many ways, she is.
Now I need to start doing some serious thinking and planning for Spain and Morocco. In Cadiz, I’m going on an overnight bus trip to Sevilla and Cordoba, two Andalucian cities noted for their beauty and Islamic history. In Morocco, I’m going with friends to Marrakech for two nights, where the bazaar is famous and the desert sands blow. Beyond the mosques, bazaars, and deserts, though, I’ve studied very little. So a little enculturation will be on the menu tonight. I expect the pre-port lecture this evening will help.
Oh, and I’m playing golf on the last days in Cadiz and Casablanca. That’s something I think I’m prepared for.
02 September 2009
Day 10--300 Miles North of the Azores
2 September, 40° 35” N, 24° 52”W, course = 108°, speed = 15 knots
We’re about 300 miles due north of the Azores, heading now slightly southeast, at a very modest speed so that we don’t arrive in Spain before the 3rd full class day. This ship is the fastest cruise ship on the water—or so the SAS website says—but for now we’re ambling along on only one engine. The other one and its prop sit idly by waiting to be called into service, I guess, if we run into very rough seas, or the currents turn against us and we’re in danger of not making Cadiz, Spain, by 0800 Saturday morning.
I am hypnotized, transfixed, mesmerized, intoxicated, completely enamored of (by) the ocean. I could and do stand staring at it for many minutes at a time, looking for or at nothing in particular except the water. It’s my reverie. I’m starting to understand how sailors are constantly drawn back to the sea. Its vastness is consuming. I’ve never had the same sense of being totally away from everything—including deep sea fishing trips far out of sight of land—as I’ve had since we left Halifax. The water is a rich, bright, luminescent blue, whether in sunlight, shade, even fog. And when the wind stirs up whitecaps, I stand on the deck feeling like I’m staring down on an endless range of blue mountains dotted with snowcapped peaks. Except the peaks move . . . constantly! I think, when the 109 days of this voyage are over, what I’ll miss more than the places we visit, the students I will have taught, the new friends I’m making and have yet to make, the ship—more than all that, I’ll miss the ocean.
We’re now into the afternoon of B2, the second day of the second academic lesson. The academic calendar is divided into A days and B days because the usual scheduling device—M, T, W, Th, F—doesn’t work when we dock on a Sunday, sail again on Wednesday, and, in the next 6 days have to get in three lessons. I teach an 0800 “A” day class (public speaking), and 1050 (intercultural comm.) and 1500 (business comm.) “B” day classes. So, before Spain, we have 2 more academic days: Thursday (A3) and Friday (B3).
My students all seem bright and eager, though still a little dazed by the surroundings. Last night, the ship put on a barbeque on the 7th-deck around the pool, and the students arrived in multi-colored clothing representing their home schools. There was music, dancing, lots of noise, and pretty decent barbeque ribs & corn. For us old folks, the party ended around 8pm (2000), when we scattered to our cabins to watch movies, read, or prep for today’s classes. For the students, the party went on well into the night and, I’m guessing, this morning. Fortunately, we didn’t lose an hour last night, or the eyes would have been more bloodshot this morning that they were. We won’t be so lucky tomorrow, when we wake up one more hour closer to Europe: ETD + 5.
Had an interesting discussion my first day in the intercultural class. I asked the students to introduce themselves and to finish the statement, “By the time I disembark in San Diego, I hope, by having taken this class, I’m able to [what?].” Some answered what I’d expect: “. . . to have a better knowledge of other cultures”; “. . . to be able to know why they do what they do”; “. . . to get credit for the course.” But several said they wanted to better understand “why the world doesn’t like us.” That’s the post-9/11 generation talking. One young man even said, “I want to know why they can’t accept western ways.” (That’s something my generation might have said too, but would’ve meant something completely different.) With all the discussion about what makes the “millenials” different, I think the single most significant factor is the 9/11 factor. It was their seminal moment, their Pearl Harbor, their Kennedy assassination, their Columbia. I think these 3 classes I’m teaching will be fascinating to experience, not so much about what we learn together about speaking, intercultural communication, and business communication, but for what I’m going to learn about the generation that will be taking over in 20 years or so . . . sooner, if they have their way.
They’re also very impatient. Yesterday in a seminar I attended where the subject was generational differences, a 20-something student said her biggest challenge so far was to find something to do when she had nothing to do. They don’t have reliable web connections, and they have only very, very expensive texting and cell capabilities, the media that they’ve come to expect are ubiquitous. This girl was distressed! But, as she admitted, she was especially distressed to discover how dependent she is on her electronic devices and how lost—and bored!—she is without them. Maybe that learning will be the most significant one for this floating student body.
We’re about 300 miles due north of the Azores, heading now slightly southeast, at a very modest speed so that we don’t arrive in Spain before the 3rd full class day. This ship is the fastest cruise ship on the water—or so the SAS website says—but for now we’re ambling along on only one engine. The other one and its prop sit idly by waiting to be called into service, I guess, if we run into very rough seas, or the currents turn against us and we’re in danger of not making Cadiz, Spain, by 0800 Saturday morning.
I am hypnotized, transfixed, mesmerized, intoxicated, completely enamored of (by) the ocean. I could and do stand staring at it for many minutes at a time, looking for or at nothing in particular except the water. It’s my reverie. I’m starting to understand how sailors are constantly drawn back to the sea. Its vastness is consuming. I’ve never had the same sense of being totally away from everything—including deep sea fishing trips far out of sight of land—as I’ve had since we left Halifax. The water is a rich, bright, luminescent blue, whether in sunlight, shade, even fog. And when the wind stirs up whitecaps, I stand on the deck feeling like I’m staring down on an endless range of blue mountains dotted with snowcapped peaks. Except the peaks move . . . constantly! I think, when the 109 days of this voyage are over, what I’ll miss more than the places we visit, the students I will have taught, the new friends I’m making and have yet to make, the ship—more than all that, I’ll miss the ocean.
We’re now into the afternoon of B2, the second day of the second academic lesson. The academic calendar is divided into A days and B days because the usual scheduling device—M, T, W, Th, F—doesn’t work when we dock on a Sunday, sail again on Wednesday, and, in the next 6 days have to get in three lessons. I teach an 0800 “A” day class (public speaking), and 1050 (intercultural comm.) and 1500 (business comm.) “B” day classes. So, before Spain, we have 2 more academic days: Thursday (A3) and Friday (B3).
My students all seem bright and eager, though still a little dazed by the surroundings. Last night, the ship put on a barbeque on the 7th-deck around the pool, and the students arrived in multi-colored clothing representing their home schools. There was music, dancing, lots of noise, and pretty decent barbeque ribs & corn. For us old folks, the party ended around 8pm (2000), when we scattered to our cabins to watch movies, read, or prep for today’s classes. For the students, the party went on well into the night and, I’m guessing, this morning. Fortunately, we didn’t lose an hour last night, or the eyes would have been more bloodshot this morning that they were. We won’t be so lucky tomorrow, when we wake up one more hour closer to Europe: ETD + 5.
Had an interesting discussion my first day in the intercultural class. I asked the students to introduce themselves and to finish the statement, “By the time I disembark in San Diego, I hope, by having taken this class, I’m able to [what?].” Some answered what I’d expect: “. . . to have a better knowledge of other cultures”; “. . . to be able to know why they do what they do”; “. . . to get credit for the course.” But several said they wanted to better understand “why the world doesn’t like us.” That’s the post-9/11 generation talking. One young man even said, “I want to know why they can’t accept western ways.” (That’s something my generation might have said too, but would’ve meant something completely different.) With all the discussion about what makes the “millenials” different, I think the single most significant factor is the 9/11 factor. It was their seminal moment, their Pearl Harbor, their Kennedy assassination, their Columbia. I think these 3 classes I’m teaching will be fascinating to experience, not so much about what we learn together about speaking, intercultural communication, and business communication, but for what I’m going to learn about the generation that will be taking over in 20 years or so . . . sooner, if they have their way.
They’re also very impatient. Yesterday in a seminar I attended where the subject was generational differences, a 20-something student said her biggest challenge so far was to find something to do when she had nothing to do. They don’t have reliable web connections, and they have only very, very expensive texting and cell capabilities, the media that they’ve come to expect are ubiquitous. This girl was distressed! But, as she admitted, she was especially distressed to discover how dependent she is on her electronic devices and how lost—and bored!—she is without them. Maybe that learning will be the most significant one for this floating student body.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
