Halfway Across the South Atlantic, Cape Town to Buenos Aires

26 October 2012

My mid-voyage cold hit two days ago: runny nose, watery eyes, occasional sneezing, miserable. And today, I’m hacking as the cold descends into my chest and lungs. I’m probably keeping my neighbors awake at night, though we’ve been gaining an hour each night for the past three, so at least we’re all getting some extra sleep. On the last voyage, the cold hit when we arrived in Vietnam and was a big distraction during our drive from CamRahn to Dalat. At least this time, it’s only distracting from the sight of the endless waters of the South Atlantic. Oh, and from my classes, of course.

South Africa

The weather cooperated, and our early-morning arrival into Cape Town was spectacular. I woke at 5:30, looked out my balcony window, and there was Table Mountain, capped by a thin layer of clouds but otherwise surrounded by the deep blue of the bay, the brightening skies from the rising sun, and the twinkling lights of the city lining the mountain’s base like a Christmas tree blanket. It was the same scene I remembered from our arrival in October ’09 and just as beautiful.

This time, we docked about a half mile from the Victoria and Alfred (V&A) Waterfront, the harborside mall, dining, and entertainment area where we had tied up in ’09. The entrance to the waterfront from the ocean is a narrow passage cut into a breakwater, and I remember marveling three years ago as the crew of Explorer, helped by a couple of South African tugs, slipped through that opening and tied up directly in front of the 5-star hotel that anchors the area.

The following year, the ship had tried the same passage but was prevented by the sizeable swells that occur regularly in the waters between Cape Town and Robbin Island. So Explorer had to anchor outside the harbor for a day until the waters calmed enough to allow a safe entry into the waterfront. That was the last time the ship tried to go in. Besides, I’m sure where we docked this year—about a 15-minute walk from the V&A—is much less expensive than the prime location we had in ’09. This year, it’s all about costs.

On our first day, Thursday 18 October, I had a field lab scheduled for my public speaking class. Immediately after the ship cleared customs, the 13 of us boarded a small bus and rode, accompanied by a local guide, to the buildings housing the South African Parliament. My hope was that we could sit in on at least a committee meeting of Parliament and perhaps even a session of one of the houses. We were lucky on both counts.

The committee in session when we arrived was charged with overseeing South African police and security. The members of the committee—about 15 representing both the majority African National Congress (ANC: Nelson Mandela’s party) and the opposition Democratic Alliance—were pouring over a budget proposal submitted by the directorate for police and security. Twenty-five years ago, the faces on both sides of the committee room—the side where members were seated and the side holding the uniformed police and security officials—would have been white. Now the faces are predominantly black or, as the South Africans refer to those of mixed race, colored.

The chairperson of the committee is white, and she was hammering the folks from the directorate on what she, and other members of the committee, claimed have been years of lax administration of security matters. Violent crime in South Africa is down, but domestic violence is up dramatically, probably a result of the economic downturn and the impact that is having on family relations. Moreover, criminals are escaping from prisons in very high percentages. The result was a blistering attack on the directorate by the committee members. It was an excellent demonstration of both the importance of preparation in a public speaking presentation as well as the power of passion.

We had a similar demonstration when we sat in on the opening of the National Council of Provinces that afternoon. The NCP is the South African equivalent of our Senate, with 10 representatives selected from each of the 9 provinces. And, like a meeting of the US Senate, only a handful of representatives were present. But, again, we saw and heard several presentations that provided excellent teaching fodder for a parttime professor of communication.

We returned to the ship around 16:00 (4pm), and I walked over to the V&A to get some South African cash (Rand) and a couple bottles of wine from the wonderful little store I had discovered in ’09. South African wine is wonderfully tasty, often very rich (especially the reds), and cheap. I picked up a couple of cabernets that were on special for 49 rand. That’s about $6/bottle. I cracked into the first of them two nights ago. Wonderful!

That evening, I joined Jim and Shamim, accompanied by Kay Slaughter, a UVA professor of environmental science, at a restaurant southeast of Cape Town named Buitenverwachting (BAY ton fair FAC ting), a spot J&S had discovered in ’09. The drive into the hills and, eventually, through shaded suburbs and vineyards was fascinating. The food was magnificent. Every course was preceded by a palate pleaser “compliments of the chef.” And even the wine we selected—a very good chardonnay—was paired with a complimentary bottle “from the chef.” The food was delicious and the presentations were works of fine art—almost too nicely prepared to destroy with knife and fork. But we did, and the tastes complemented the show. All in all, one of the best meals I’ve enjoyed anywhere. And the total tab (including cab fare): about $56 each. In Chicago or NYC, we would have been looking at $125 a pop . . . at lesser known places.

The next day—Friday—Jim picked up a rental car, we loaded suitcases and golf clubs into the very tight trunk, and drove off for Stellenbosch, the town 50 miles (at most) east of Cape Town in the heart of one of the best wine valleys in the world.

Three years ago, I made the obligatory stops in South Africa: safari on a preserve to see “the big five”; tour through a township (Khayelitsha) to observe the extreme poverty in which many Black Africans still live, despite the end of apartheid 20 years ago; a boat trip to Robbin Island to visit South Africa’s Alcatraz, where Nelson Mandela spent 27 years as a political prisoner. This year would be the more sybaritic visit. And, of course, there would be golf.

The drive to Stellenbosch from Cape Town takes less than an hour on South Africa’s superb highway system.   All the motorways and surface highways look freshly resurfaced. And the signage is flawless. The fact South Africa was settled only a few hundred years ago means that their highway system is built less on old goat paths and more on planned layouts, so navigating is far easier than it is in Europe. Plus, of course, the signs are in English. The signage and streets more than make up for the wrong-side driving.

We stopped before Stellenbosch at the first vineyard we saw—can’t recall the name now—and sampled some excellent reds and whites. Then we drove through side roads to a place Shamim had discovered online: the Jordan Winery. As luck would have it—and as we discovered later—we had stumbled across a spot regarded by locals as one of the best wine and food stops in the valley. Again, we enjoyed a memorable meal (one that began at 1:30 and didn’t end ‘til close to 4pm) looking out on the rolling hills of the Stellenbosch Valley. Their excellent wines are available in the US, using the name Jardin, French for “garden.”

The coast of South Africa—at least the part I’ve seen between Cape Town, the Cape of Good Hope, and the Strand of False Bay—is dramatic: sheer cliffs falling into the sea; wide, sandy beaches; bays that remind me of the south side of Hong Kong Island, with its high-rise, white condos clinging to the sides of mountains.

But the interior east of Cape Town is some of the most beautiful country I’ve ever experienced. Mountains like the Rockies west of Denver line part of the valley. But the peaks, the tops of which are only 3,000 to 4,000 feet above sea level, are rocky and bare, looking like they belong 10,000 feet higher, above tree line. Lining other parts of the valley are rolling hills that look borrowed from the Appalachians: green and lush. Between the peaks and the hills are endless fields of grapes, broken up only by huge trees and, at least in the early spring, row after row of flowers. And spaced neatly throughout the valley are the towns: Stellenbosch, Franshoek, Paarl, and others, composed mostly of white and pastel buildings that look as if freshly painted yesterday. Combine that scenery with some of the world’s finest wine, superb restaurants, charming bed-and-breakfasts, and—oh yes!—beautiful golf courses, and you have a paradise. By the way, the weather is pretty nice too: California-like in its cool winters and warm, dry summers. If only it weren’t half a world away!

The Europeans are lucky. South Africa is, for most, only a 9-hour flight . . . with no jet lag! And they travel south in droves. Jim and I played golf at two different courses, pairing, first, with a couple from the UK, then a couple from Austria. Both had found second homes in the valley or on the coast of False Bay.

For me, Pearl Valley—about 5 miles south of the town of Paarl—would be the place to settle. A Jack Nicklaus-designed golf course, nicely laid out homes and condos, a comfortable club and restaurant . . . and a 20-hour flight away.

The three of us stayed in a B&B in Stellenbosch, a place named Keren’s Vine after the two German owners, Kersten and Rene, and the faux grape vine they have decorating their front gate. Very nice place, friendly hosts, convenient. Besides two days of golf—one at Nicklaus’s Pearl Valley, the other at Stellenbosch golf club—we ate wonderfully (including a fine meal and some excellent scotch at Ernie Ells’s “Big Easy” restaurant in Stellenbosch), drank wine amply (including a magnificent pinotage from the Lanzerac vineyard that, sadly, isn’t available in the US), and managed to dodge the raindrops that were all around us during the 3-day stay.

On Monday the 22^nd, we drove back to Cape Town the long way: south to False Bay, then west along the coast to the town of Fish Hoek, where we stopped for a fish-and-chips lunch. Finally we cut through the mountains to the Atlantic coast, wound our way along the cliffs overlooking those suburban bays, and finally arrived back at the port a little after 3pm.

I had enough time, after checking back onto the ship, to walk over to the V&A Waterfront in order to unload my remaining Rand on some snacks and toiletries.

We were supposed to leave Cape Town at 20:00 (8pm) that night. But the winds were so strong—white caps and mist even inside the breakwater—that the port authority recommended we sit tight until the weather improved. So we spent that night and most of Tuesday morning still moored to Cape Town, though sequestered on board. It was a class day. We finally departed in the middle of my late-morning public speaking class—the group I had started my South Africa visit with.

So far, the South Atlantic has been kind: smooth seas and blue skies, though cool. The forecast for the two days before we arrive in Buenos Aires is for much more roll in the seas—some are saying swells as high as 20 feet—and maybe some rain. Hope the forecast is wrong.

Tomorrow is the 5^th consecutive class day, then we have a day off for what’s called “Sea Olympics,” when students dress in colors to represent their “seas,” meaning the sections of the ship where they’re living, and compete in events like egg tosses, relays, dodge ball in the enclosed basketball court on deck 7, even synchronized swimming. Yes, the faculty fields a team too. I’ve been drafted onto the orange-pass relay team; we pass an orange held under our chins from one member to another, without using our hands, of course. We have no team workouts scheduled.

Off the Southwest Coast of Africa, 250 NM North of Cape Town

17 October 2012

Although we have been in the tropics—meaning between the Tropic of Cancer and the Tropic of Capricorn—since shortly after we left the Canary Islands more than 2 weeks ago, the weather has been decidedly untropical. The day after we crossed the equator, becoming “emerald shellbacks,” the southerly winds picked up, turning the sky gray, the temperature chilly, and the seas as angry as we’ve seen since the first week out of Halifax.

A large high-pressure area is parked over the South Atlantic, pumping air from the Antarctic up the West African coast. In the southern hemisphere, air circulates counter-clockwise around a high and clockwise around a low, just the opposite from what we experience in the northern hemisphere. And, of course, while a “southern breeze” in the north means warmth, a southerly breeze in the south means chill. The net effect has been 4 straight days of sea swells exceeding 10 feet, temperatures that haven’t moved above 65 degrees Fahrenheit, and intermittent, very chilly showers. The tans of Ghana have definitely started to fade.

The forecast for Cape Town is similar: chilly, cloudy, some showers. Our planned golf outings in Stellenbosch may feel more like Ireland than Portugal.

I had lunch yesterday with Jay Orris, lifelong learner and sometime golf partner, who had just looked ahead to the scheduled Fall ’13 voyage of the MV Explorer. I had known that the ship will depart next fall from Southampton and sail initially to St. Petersburg, Russia. From there, I suspected that the itinerary would include a couple more stops in Europe before heading south along the African coast, just as we’re doing now.

Most of the faculty and many students on board today would argue that the number of stops in Europe should be reduced and the number of days at sea increased to better establish the academic rhythm of the voyage and to build a stronger sense of community. We’re into that rhythm now, but it didn’t start until we crossed the Tropic of Cancer. I’ve bemoaned that loss in earlier blogs.

In Fall ’13, the rhythm may be even harder to come by. From St. Petersburg, the ship will travel to Hamburg, Antwerp, LeHavre, Galway, Dublin, Lisbon, and Cadiz. That’s 3 ports more than our itinerary included this year. In the first 35 days of that itinerary, the students, faculty, and staff will spend only 12 onboard. “Community” will be nonexistent, and any sense of academic continuity will be impossible to achieve.

Anne Lloyd likes to say that long-term success for any organization is tied to its ability to establish and sustain an identifiable brand. If that brand appeals to the organization’s public, the organization is successful. The SAS brand, particularly since it partnered with the University of Virginia, has been academic respectability wrapped in a multicultural experience. It has also meant the opportunity to travel around the world. In Fall ’09, when anyone—faculty, staff, student—would complain about food, rough seas, . . ., anything—our deans, Bob and Nick, would put their arms over their heads, link their hands to encircle their faces, and say, “Hey! We’re going around the world!” That gesture was the “cool it” symbol of those 4 months. And it captured what the experience was all about.

Now SAS is facing belt tightening. The economy has slowed, student enrollment is down, and bunker fuel, the lifeblood of the ship, has doubled in price over the past 4 years. So the Institute for Shipboard Education, parent of Semester at Sea and owners of the ship, is trying variations to the itinerary as a way to bring more students to the ship. (They’re also moving the bar a little on admission standards, now allowing high-school grads who have been accepted at university but not yet begun their college careers to board as “gap-year students.”) But these variations are moving SAS farther and farther way from their brand: an academically respectable, multicultural, around-the-world adventure. The Fall’13 itinerary will move it even farther.

I hope feedback from the faculty and staff—and, perhaps, from students—will veer SAS away from the direction in which they’re steering. The spring itineraries will remain around-the-world experiences, at least into the next few years. They need to return to their brand in the fall as well.

We dock in Cape Town tomorrow morning at 07:30. The skies cleared this evening, which I hope is a good omen for our 4 days in South Africa. And tonight, after logistical pre-port, when we learn the Cape Town location and schedule, I’ll watch the 2^nd Presidential debate in the Cooper-Sasson cabin. Word on the street is that Obama staged a comeback. Judgment withheld.

20 Nautical Miles into the Southern Hemisphere

12 October 2012

About an hour ago, we crossed the equator, a big deal when it’s done at sea. It triggers a fraternity-like initiation ceremony on board most ships, where passengers and crew who have crossed previously (“shellbacks”) welcome those who are crossing for the first time (“pollywogs”) into the Society of Neptune. The ceremony includes a dousing with some unidentified liquid (this time it was green), a dunking in the pool, a ritual kiss of a recently thawed fish, and an opportunity to kiss the ring of King Neptune, who this year was our executive dean, John Tymitz. Some pollywogs also elect to have their heads shaved. Hat and sunblock sales in the ship’s store are likely to soar.

What made this particular crossing notable was that we did it on the prime meridian. That’s the line that runs through Greenwich, England, marking the division between the Eastern Hemisphere and the Western Hemisphere. So, where the prime meridian crosses the equator, the latitude/longitude is 0/0. In other words, we crossed directly over the point where the four hemispheres—eastern, western, northern, and southern—meet. Someone in the center of the ship, down on all fours, could have been in four hemispheres at the same time . . . for an instant.

I recorded the event by pointing my iPod camera at the in-cabln TV, which, in addition to showing movies, also shows us our exact position, course, and speed at the moment. If the GPS is correct—I certainly hope it is—we were actually 1 second (about 60 meters) east of the meridian centerline when we crossed the equator. But I’m not going to spoil the moment.

For having been onboard at the crossing, we’re now “emerald shellbacks.”

Last night we left Ghana after what was, for me, a genuinely wonderful, powerful, and very enjoyable 4-day visit. It’s impossible to describe Ghana in a blog entry, just as it’s impossible to experience the country and the culture in only 4 days. But it’s fair to say I had a near-total-immersion cross-cultural experience during my brief stay.

The Ghana Experience

We arrived Monday morning (8 Oct) right on time: 8am (08:00). The arrival was memorable for a couple of things. First, entering the port of Tema requires steering the ship through a narrow opening in the breakwater wall that prevents sea swells from entering the dock area of the harbor. Because of some maritime or meteorological phenomenon I don’t understand, those swells are large outside the Tema harbor. So as we approached the breakwater opening and slowed to an entry-speed crawl, the ship started rolling, first no more than 10 to 15 degrees port and starboard, then gradually increasing the roll arcs until we were rocking at least 40 degrees in either direction. The movement didn’t last long—5 minutes tops—but that was long enough for glasses to tumble and toiletries to roll off shelves.

The word is that large cruise ships avoid the Tema port simply because the entry is so uncomfortable for passengers who pay thousands of dollars for a relaxing spin along the Africa coast.

The other memorable moment came when we approached the pier where we’d tie up. Typically, 2 or 3 lone stevedores are waiting on the dock to catch the guide strings tossed from the ship and drag the thick, heavy ropes to the dock and lay them over the stanchions. On the Tema dock, an army of about 30 men had gathered, all dressed in ultramarine-yellow and orange jackets. I thought the Ghanaians had decided to address unemployment in their country by sending the out-of-work to the docks. In fact, other than 5 stevedores, the rest of the greeting party were merchants, armed with vans stuffed full of drums, carved wooden statues, colorful dresses, batik paintings, and every other type of tchotchke the inventive people of Ghana have created.

The moment the engines shut down, the army of sellers went to work setting up their tent city. And for the next four days, that city became the gauntlet through which we had to pass in order to leave or return to the ship. It was a 24/7 operation. By the time we pulled away from the dock last night, the students, faculty, and staff of the MV Explorer had filled the coffers of those interim merchants with US dollars and Ghanaian cedi. That has to be the case judging from the severely diminished stock of goods they were piling back in their vans and the multi-colored dresses, hats, handbags, and backpacks now adorning many of our students and a few faculty.

On Monday morning, I joined a group of 25 students, faculty, and staff to welcome aboard a contingent from the Ghanaian city of Winneba. Winneba, a fishing town on a beach about 50 miles west of Accra, is a sister city of Charlottesville VA, home of the University of Virginia. I had decided to join Shamim, Jim, and the others from Charlottesville—including retired Charlottesville mayor and professor of ecology Kay Slaughter—on a 2-day visit to Winneba. I figured it would be an excellent way of seeing day-to-day life in Ghana in a setting that isn’t arranged for tourists.

What I didn’t want was another “Timland.” During my ’67 world tour with the Michigan Men’s Glee Club, we visited a destination outside Bangkok, Thailand, called “Timland.” The “TIM” was an acronym for “Thailand in Miniature,” and that’s what the place was: everything stereotypically Thai—elephants, snakes, Thai boxing, ceremonial dances—all crammed into a 5-acre plastic village. Timlands exist in Ghana; I wanted the real thing.

We hosted a lunch for the Winneba folks onboard Explorer—one of the best meals of the trip—then all piled into two buses for the 65 (or so)-mile trip to Winneba.

Traveling 65 miles between a national capital and a major town (Winneba’s population is about 300,000) wouldn’t take much longer than 90 to 100 minutes in most Western countries. But in Ghana, every trip length doubles. The issues are the conditions of the roads (almost all are 2-lane, and most are pock-marked with unfilled ditches) and traffic, traffic, traffic. Compounding both are the Ghanaian drivers, who, while modest, soft-spoken, gentle, friendly people interpersonally, adopt their own rules on the road. They pass each other within margins that make all body orifices pucker. Sometimes, they don’t quite make it when trying to get around, for example, a slow-moving bus or 18 wheeler. In these case, the oncoming car or bus or truck will swerve onto the narrow shoulder in order to avoid a head-on collision, honking the horn and flashing the lights to express displeasure. The pucker factor is much tighter. Riding in a car in India is genuinely terrifying. Riding in Ghana is a close second.

The 65-mile trip took 3 hours.

After a brief tour of Winneba, we checked into our hotel, the Windy Lodge. The rooms were sparse but adequate: concrete walls and floors, an LCD-screen TV that didn’t work, air conditioning, and what’s called en suite, meaning a private bath. The switch to turn on the hot water for that bath, though, was located in the outside hall, 15’ from my door, a fact I didn’t discover until my second morning. The room had no internet availability, though we did discover internet in the lobby, so the lobby became a gathering place for us during the brief times we weren’t touring the town, eating, or sleeping.

The local university—The University of Education in Winneba (UEW)—hosted a reception for us Monday evening, giving us a chance to meet students and faculty. The university has no formal relationship with UVA, but several among our group are lobbying for some sort of exchange/study-abroad program, particularly for Virginia students.

The students and faculty welcomed us very graciously, we listened to a couple of speeches by UEW administrators and students, then we were entertained by a local choir, which performed three songs: a hymn (Ghana is a very Christian country, where businesses carry names like “Jesus Is Love Bakery” and “God Bless Enterprises) and two traditional tunes.

The traditional numbers were very African: multi-rhythmic drumming, antiphonal chanting that repeats over and over, and a simple but catchy tune. Before long, students from UEW were guiding SAS students to the area in front of the choir, and the dance was on: clapping, singing, and dancing that went on for at least 10 minutes during each of the traditional songs—I called them Ghana’s answers to “Bohemian Rhapsody.” We left the reception at 9:30pm, all very tired.

On Tuesday morning, we visited Winneba schools. The planned purpose of the visits was to deliver books to the school libraries, books donated by the Charlottesville Public Library. But the real purpose was to give us a chance to view Ghanaian schools in action. Each school—three public, three private—included children ranging in grade from kindergarten to the equivalent of 9^th grade. We didn’t visit a high school.

The children are straight out of the pages of National Geographic: each dressed in a crisp, clean, perfectly pressed uniform; big smiles; bright eyes; energy flooding out; and, of course, completely distracted by these (mostly) white invaders from across the sea. Seven- and eight-year-olds swarmed me at several of the schools. They all wanted to touch this peculiar covering of skin. “What does that feel like? Can I touch it?” asked one little boy, staring at my forearm. “It feels like yours. Go ahead and see,” I replied, and suddenly my arms were covered by little hands rubbing up and down in amused amazement.

Sitting in on the classes was fascinating. In a few of the schools, the class sizes were modest: 25 to 35 students sitting at double desks. But in a few others—the private ones, especially—the class sizes were much larger: as many as 60 in one of the rooms I visited, where students were sitting 4 to a desk.

The facilities are, in a word, austere. The children sit at desks that obviously have been in place for many years. Some are held together by one or two nails and a scrap piece of 1X6. The blackboards (we saw one whiteboard in one of the private schools, but no big-screen LCDs or any other type of technology hanging from the ceilings) have been in use for more years than the desks. Many of the boards are riddled with large spots where the slate has worn or chipped off, leaving a useless space. And the boards have no trays! The teachers place the chalk and erasers either on their desks or hold them in their hands while talking.

The classrooms themselves are simple concrete rooms with open windows and doors that lead to a gathering area. This was the design of each school we visited. Surrounding the gathering area—a combination playground, assembly room, and, in a few cases, dining room—were all of the school’s classrooms, each identical concrete blocks with open windows and doors. The result is that, sitting in one class, one hears talking, laughing, reciting coming from many or all of the other classes, the sound bouncing and reverberating among the concrete walls. And, of course, when the younger grades are in the gathering space for recess, running and yelling add to the sounds. The result is a cacophony of noise that, to my ear, would prevent any learning from happening. Yet each class I visited was disciplined, the children were listening and (apparently) learning, and order seemed to prevail. It’s all a matter of what one is used to. Obviously, these kids have learned to filter out extraneous noise and hear only the sound of their teachers’ voices—a valuable skill.

I describe Ghana as having a “it’ll do” attitude about many things: their roads, their schools, their businesses, their homes. By US standards, Ghana appears to be an extremely poor country. By US standards, it is. Many of the roads are in poor shape (I don’t think Ghanaians have discovered preventive maintenance yet), most of the businesses operate out of ramshackle buildings that look like kids’ forts: cobbled together from scrap corrugated metal, found pieces of lumber, cardboard, paper. The homes are the same. And I don’t want to know about sanitation.

But Ghanaians’ personal appearance is impeccable. The kids go to school in perfectly pressed uniforms; the women attend to shopping in beautiful long dresses of multi-colored, traditional fabric; the men wear brightly colored or crisp white shirts, pressed slacks, occasional ties. It may be a poor society, but they have decided what’s important, and it’s not the trappings that most of the rest of us worship. For the externals, it’s “it’ll do.”

And, as I said, they are among the friendliest and, seemingly, happiest people I’ve met. On the last voyage, students ranked Ghana as #1 among their favorite ports. I suspect this voyage will be no different.

Tuesday afternoon, we visited the home of the chief fisherman of the town, asking his blessing on our voyage. Then we went to the outdoor market, crammed with stands selling fish, vegetables, pork, clothing, pots and pans, fabric . . . just about anything and everything a family in Ghana might need. The smells—a combination of acrid and sweet—can be neither duplicated nor described adequately. But it’s the smells—of both the chief’s house and the market—that I’ll remember most vividly.

Tuesday evening, most of the SAS group returned to the ship, but I stayed in Winneba with two others to take advantage of our proximity to Kakum National Park and Cape Coast. The national park, preserving a portion of Ghana’s rain forest, is notable for its canopy walk. And Cape Coast, a city 30 miles west of Winneba, is known for its infamous castle, built by the Dutch, “upgraded” by the British in the 17^th Century, and used as a holding point for African slaves bound for the Americas.

On Wednesday, Andrea Smith, her husband, Matt, and I hired a Winneba car and driver to take us to the park and the coast then return us to the ship that evening. We spent the morning at the national park and the afternoon at Cape Coast.

The park reminded me very much of the Daintree rain forest in Queensland, Australia: triple canopy jungle, lots of birds and wildlife, very moist, very warm. The park’s canopy walk is a suspension bridge linking 6 to 7 massive trees that form a large rectangle about 300 to 500 feet above the forest floor. The bridge is made of rope, a few safety cables, and a series of 8-foot, 1X8 strips of lumber. Connecting each of the trees, which are 100 to 200 yards apart, is a rope-net hammock. At the base of the hammock, the builders attached the lumber strips, which provide the platform for the bridge. And the entire assembly is linked to the trees by wire cables.  As you walk along the wood strips, the strips lean one way then the other with each footfall, which makes the whole experience feel very unstable. The guides assured us that every inch of the assembly is inspected every day. Still, the experience is unnerving . . . fantastic, exciting, beautiful, but unnerving. I have pictures.

That afternoon, we spent 2 hours in the Cape Coast castle. I’ll say only that visiting this site—one of several existing castles along the West African coast—is sobering. How humans could have treated other humans the way the slave traders treated the Africans is unimaginable. Of course, we’ve seen that type of treatment repeated, even to today. A walk through the dark, filthy dungeons is genuinely horrifying. Archeologists have determined that the base of a small cell holding a couple hundred imprisoned Africans was at one time covered by a 4-foot layer of human excrement. For many weeks, sometimes months, that layer was the floor and bed for the men and women waiting to be transported to North and South America. Seeing all this in a tour group that includes Ghanaians and African-Americans makes a white man feel very self-conscious. I also felt a need to apologize, but I didn’t.

The 90-mile drive back to the Tema port took almost 4 hours, 1 of which we spent in a long line of traffic trying to merge into a roundabout. Driving in Ghana is exhausting.

Thursday was a catch-up day for me. I had a stack of papers to grade and revisions to upcoming classes, so I stayed on board. The internet connection on my balcony is stronger than inside my cabin—go figure—so as I graded, I also watched the parade of shipmates running the market gauntlet as they returned to the ship from their travels.

The Ghanaian merchants aren’t shy. They walk up to a prospect—maybe “mark” is a more accurate term—shake his or her hand, put an arm around the mark’s shoulder (touching is more acceptable in Ghana than it is in the stay-out-of-my-personal-space US), and not so gently guide the mark into the makeshift store like the Sirens luring sailors onto the rocks. Few of the people I watched left a tent empty handed.

We sailed Thursday night at 20:00 (8pm), straddling the prime meridian. Whales have been leaping and flying fish soaring as we continue south of the equator and into spring.

West of Guinea-Bissau, Enroute to Ghana

4 October 2012

When I open the sliding door to my small balcony, thick, warm, tropical air now rushes into my cabin. The first and second nights out of Santa Cruz, I slept with the balcony door open. The night air was cool, only slightly moist, and the sounds of the ocean splashing against the Explorer’s bow was the same sound I’ve heard many times sleeping on or near beaches: the rhythmic, soft explosion of waves washing onto sand.

But last night, the air was too heavy; I closed the balcony door and turned the a/c back on.

We’re rounding the fat belly of Africa, where it turns east to Cameroon before turning south again all the way to the Cape of Good Hope. We’ve been following the coast the last three days, not close enough to see the land during the day or city lights—what there are of them in this part of the continent—at night. But we know we’re close to shore. Occasional plastic bottles go floating by, often accompanied by pieces of cloth, paper, or other jetsam. And today, a veritable fleet of small fishing boats—one-person affairs, no more than 12 feet long, looking like elongated, narrow rowboats—went by, each driven by a small outboard motor and a single fisherman enroute to favorite waters. How do they know where they are or where they’re going? These days, in those rickety craft, they probably carry GPS and fish-finding sonar.

Animals have reappeared in the water; we haven’t seen many since the second day out of Halifax. This morning I watched flying fish skimming along the top of the water as the bow of the ship cut through their schools and launched them into the air. At first, flying fish look like tiny birds soaring along the waves looking for food. But birds dart and turn; flying fish follow straight-line courses until their flimsy wings, which seem to fidget as furiously as a hummingbird’s, run out of steam, and the fish disappear back into the water. When they launch in schools, as they often do, 15 or 20 fly in perfect parallel courses, leaving tiny trails in the water from their wakes. Then they all splash together, safely away from the ship.

And pods of porpoises appear every now and then, rising and falling together in predictable patterns, always seeming to be going in the opposite direction from the ship. Around noon, we may have seen our first whales in African waters—they were several hundred yards away, so it was hard to tell if they were porpoises or whales. But their size and the slower rhythm of their breeches seemed evidence of the larger mammals. I even saw a turtle, just a few feet out from my balcony railing, diving quickly away as the Explorer passed by.

Today, the ocean is as calm as it’s been since leaving Halifax harbor. We still see swells, of course—the ocean is rarely totally calm—but the crests are glass-like: very smooth, like desert dunes, rather than the craggy wave tops we see when the seas are roughed up by the weather. These are the days I remember from three years ago, when staring at the ocean can distract me for many, many minutes. It’s hypnotic. Only when an animal appears and breaks the spell, or when I remember I have papers to grade and lessons to fine-tune, do I walk back inside to my cabin cocoon.

I’m spending more time in that cocoon this voyage than the last. Part of the reason is because I have some Internet connectivity in the cabin, so I have less reason to go up to the 7^th-deck faculty/staff lounge during the day. Up there, the internet connection is always strong, but the chairs and tables are made for drinking and snacking, not getting any serious grading and writing done. Besides, it’s cold up there. In my 5th-deck cabin, where I am now, the temperature is comfortable, and the desk is just the right height for my laptop keyboard.

But staying in the cabin also keeps me from connecting with my fellow faculty members as frequently as I did three years ago. So I try to compensate by never missing a happy hour on the 7^th deck. Five to six pm, the bar is open, staffed by Mandy, a 14-year SAS veteran from the Philippines and the world’s greatest bartender, who knows everyone’s name, can recite all our cabin numbers, and anticipates our orders before even we know what liquid sounds good. On this voyage, Mandy is ably assisted by Jerry, a younger but eager apprentice from Jamaica, who can’t match Manny’s computer-like memory (Jerry has to ask for cabin numbers when he’s ringing up our drink and snack orders; Mandy never does). But Jerry is learning well the ways of good bartending. Mandy, Jerry, and the faculty, staff, and life-long learners make 5 to 6, indeed, the happiest hour of the day.

All of the crew—from Captain Roman to the deckhands—are from countries outside the Americas. Most of the officers come from Eastern Europe and Australia. The Captain is Bosnian, the chief engineer is from Serbia, the chief of security is Russian. Most of the crew are from Africa and, by far the largest segment, the Philippines. All of the crew are extraordinarily friendly and extraordinarily helpful. And they never stop cleaning the ship. I rarely use a stairwell without passing a crewmember polishing the brass railing or cleaning the carpet. The outside decks on 5, 6, and 7 are constantly being swabbed or polished or varnished. And when we’re in port, crew members can be seen any day hanging on scaffolds suspended from upper decks either washing or painting—painting!—the ship’s exterior. The MV Explorer is treated better than Kobe beef.

We’re definitely back into the school mode, and the mood is noticeably different on board. Students are far more serious, faculty are more relaxed (we actually have time to prep and grade between ports), everyone seems back into the “voyage” mode. Yes, it feels a little more like “work.” But the rhythm of the experience is returning, and I think we’re all saying “Whew!”

In two days, the students face their first exam in the mandatory “Global Studies” course. But first, tomorrow is a study day, a wonderful break in the daily class schedule when we can catch up. I have papers to grade, so I know how I’ll be spending my “day off.”

Tonight, we’ll be watching a replay of last night’s first debate between Obama and Romney—an important 90 minutes and, of course, a touch of home. The entire ship will be tuned in.

Crossing the Tropic of Cancer, Enroute to Ghana

1 October 2012

We’re entering the tropics, where we’ll spend the next two weeks—between the Tropic of Cancer and the Tropic of Capricorn—sailing south to Cape Town, with an intermediate stopover in Accra, Ghana. As we’d hope in the tropics, the weather today is sunny and very warm, even with the 20-knot breeze the MV Explorer creates as it cuts through the deep, deep blue Atlantic.

That warmth and breeze feel wonderful after spending several hours today teaching in classrooms so cool that wearing sweaters and sweatshirts is the only way to be comfortable. The crew keeps the ship cool . . . some would say damned cold! I understand the reason is that the air conditioning also dehumidifies (of course), and humidity combined with the salt air causes rapid deterioration of almost any building material: wood, steel, even plastic. So by keeping the temperature turned down, SAS extends Explorer’s life. But it also keeps passengers in sweatshirts and sweaters, even when the outside air temp is well into the 80s.

The 7^th-deck pool is a very popular spot today.

As we cross into the tropics, we’re also starting the first string of real school-like classes since we arrived in Galway a month ago. Between that chilly arrival in Ireland and today’s sunshine we’ve managed to complete only 6 class days, which means only 3 meetings of our “A-” and “B-”day sections. To describe continuity as lacking would be a laughable understatement. One of my students put it very well last week: “It doesn’t   feel like school.” (Another said, “We’re all broke!”)

To give them back the feeling of school, I administered two pop quizzes today. God! Teaching is fun!

The stop in the Canary Islands was brief. We arrived Sunday morning—another Sunday arrival in a traditionally Catholic port, where everything is closed—and left last night, spending all night anchored off La Palma while the MV Explorer was refueled.

The Canaries are volcanic islands off the coast of Africa. Though they’re 600 miles away, they are a part of Spain, just as the distant Hawaiian Islands are a part of the US. Like Hawaii, the Canaries erupt out of the sea into volcanic peaks, one reaching 12,000 feet above sea level. And like Mauna Kea on the Big Island, the peak on Tenerife Island is snow-covered in the winter despite its being only a couple hundred miles from the Tropic of Cancer.

(Three porpoises just swam by, not 30 yards from the railing of my balcony.)

Unlike Hawaii, the lee side of Tenerife is rather barren except for the palm trees and other flora planted by the Spanish settlers over the centuries. The mountains hold most of the rain on the windward side, leaving the mountainsides where we were docked, adjacent to the city of Santa Cruz, brown and gray.

In addition, after having spent a week in Spain, Santa Cruz had a certain sameness about it. It’s a pretty city sitting on the edge of the Atlantic, but we’ve been to a lot of pretty cities sitting on lovely bodies of water: Southampton, Lisbon, Cadiz, Malaga. If this had been our first stop, it would have been a marvel. As it was, Santa Cruz was just another port.

Still, the two days were both productive and enjoyable. On Sunday, I finished grading my latest batch of papers: reflections of my intercultural comm. students on their Spain & Portugal experiences. They showed some improvement over the first batch, though, again, a distressing number of students either didn’t read the assignment’s requirements or decided they would do their own thing. I guess I have to remind them that, in college, they have to do the teacher’s thing. That’s real life . . . too.

Late Sunday afternoon, I joined Jim & Shamim and Barry & Jane Hollar (Barry is a professor of religious studies at Shenandoah College) on a short taxi ride to Laguna, a village and university town 9 kilometers into the mountains above Santa Cruz. The village is both historic—many of the buildings date back 400-500 years—and unique in that it was originally laid out in perpendicular avenues and roads. Unlike what seems like every other city and town in Europe, Laguna’s streets cross each other at predictable points, corners sit at 90-degree angles, and addresses rise and fall in consistent directions. While the layout lacks the charm of, say, Cadiz or Lisbon, it sure makes navigation easy.

After wandering the streets, churches, and historic buildings, the 5 of us stopped into a taverna for dinner. At 8pm on a Sunday night, we were one of only two small parties in the restaurant, which had us a little concerned about the place’s reputation. But by 9pm, the place was packed.

It’s all true about the Spanish. They start the day late, at least by US standards; they enjoy a late, light lunch; they close down for siesta from late afternoon to early evening, and they don’t even think about dinner before 8pm. In fact, “real” restaurants (as opposed to tavernas) don’t even open before 8pm.

At any rate, dinner was good, and, by the time we left, the taverna was jumpin’.

Monday morning, Jim and I played golf at Real de Golf, Tenerife, the 2^nd-oldest course in Spain, built in 1932. It was a beautiful layout, rising and falling with the mountains, and offered spectacular views of the volcano, the city of Santa Cruz, and the ocean. Unfortunately, my game hasn’t come back (was it ever “there”?), so, once again, the course won. Jim played well. And we had fun.

After golf, I printed out my mail-in ballot and walked to the Santa Cruz post office to send the thing off to the Lake County clerk. I felt so good having fulfilled my primary responsibility as a citizen that I rewarded myself with a cerveza at a sidewalk café, joined by a few others—passengers, not cervezas—from the ship.

I reboarded at 5:45 last evening, and we were enroute by 7pm.

On to Accra.