10:57pm Cat

i think fb chat just spazzed. did you just say something?

10:57pm Grace

のｔてゃｔ用間れあｄ

10:58pm Cat

google translate is not amused by what you're writing

10:59pm Grace

THATS BECAUSE ITS GIBBERISH< I HAVE TO TYPE IN ALL CAPS APPARENTLY

10:41pm Grace

they really do say herro!

10:41pm Steve

Put a p on it and they'd be calling the dog

10:44pm Grace

穂ｗ意ｓ場ｃｋほめ＿

おおｐｓ。。。

10:45pm Steve

Did you just curse? Pass gas?

10:46pm Grace

てぇ毛ｙボアｒｄちゃん下ｄ恩め！

10:47pm Steve

?@#$%^&!:{}+(

Back in 'Nam...

Vietnam was our first port in which the United States has been the intervening foreign power. Freshly so. It was kind of awkward-making for us. The Vietnamese didn’t seem to mind so much, if at all. In fact, during our first night in Ho Chi Minh City we found ourselves in a dance bar called Apocalypse Now.  Keep on moving on.

The city that never sleeps, probably because it chainsmokes and outlawed beer

Abnormal by any standards, I seemed to achieve freak status in Chennai. This was due, but by no means limited, to three main factors, in no particular order: (1) I am whiter than God's own bed sheets, (2) I am supposedly a lady, and (3) I got no hurs on mah head. This earned me a significant chunk of space on countless camera phones, which were more numerous than the mopeds and rickshaws that clog the streets. Judging by the shear number of stares, I was more popular than Gandhi. Call me Ben Kingsley.

Another object of curiosity was my birthmark, which for those of you who may have forgotten in recent years, like I have,  is superhuge and smack dab in the middle of my neck. The children in Ghana loved it, actually. It deeply troubled my self-proclaimed personal rickshaw driver. Explaining to him that it was natural and caused no pain didn't quite translate, and so I found myself in the markets looking for this magical mystical Indian curing herb which he swore would rid me of my affliction in two months with daily use. It's the thought that counts. Acquired, he made a paste of it and smeared it on my neck. I caught a whiff, and by golly do you know what it was? Turmeric! And here I've been squandering it on my food all these years. He gifted me with the entire jar, so if anybody out there in TV land has any birthmarks they would like dyed a vicious shade of pukey-pea yellow, perhaps in preparation for a hot date, I have just the thing - direct from the streets of India.

Tall Tales from Erin and Ryan

The following email brightened not only my day but that of many of my shipmates, who are forced to listen to me brag about my twin savant cousins on a fairly regular basis. Oh, you too Todd.

-----------------------------------------

Grace,
  I wanted to share with you the tall tales that Erin and Ryan wrote in school. Included is Erin's infamous 'Grace Night' story. It has been confirmed with the author that the character is based on a close relative.

Love,
Todd

p.s. As always, your blog is entertaining, enlightening and provides welcome stress relief at the end of a day. I'm working with a former Navy officer that is well versed in the various maritime ceremonies such as crossing the equator. I was able to impress with my small amount of knowledge gained through your blog. In short, your blog enables me socially...

---------------------------------------------------



Erin James

Tall Tale

5th Grade (2009)



Secret Agent Grace Night



  This is a story of one of the greatest secret agents ever to live. Her name is Grace Night. Grace is stronger than one hundred rhinoceroses and smarter than Einstein. She had a lot of great adventures, but this is her best one.



  Secret Agent Grace Night got dressed and rode her solid gold jet to her new middle school. Then she walked off the jet and into the fifty foot tall front doors. She’d never even been to this school before. The only reason Grace was there is because she was on a mission. To succeed, Grace had to find her arch nemesis Doctor Destruction.



  When Grace got to her locker, which was the size of a pea, she figured out that a girl named Sarah had a locker right next to her’s. Grace and Sarah introduced themselves and figured out they had all of their classes together. The next day in school, they found out they had two five hundred page quizzes the next day. So, that night Grace went to Sarah’s house to study. When she went to find the bathroom, she got lost and found out something she would’ve never expected to see. At a desk was Doctor Destruction laughing with his half-horse side kick Chiron.



  Mysteriously, the next morning, Grace woke up in her bed. When she went downstairs for breakfast, her mother said she had gotten a note. She over looked it. It was, “Meet me at the junkyard at 10:00 a.m.” So she got ready and ran to the junkyard as fast as a cheetah! When Grace got there, she spotted Doctor Destruction on the far side of the junkyard that is right next to a cliff that overlooks the whole state. They started to brawl right away. It lasted almost a decade, until Doctor Destruction made a false move. His foot got caught in a hole and he fell off the cliff.



   These days Sarah is living with her mother and Grace is solving more mysteries than ever before. That is the amazing story of Grace Night, teenage secret agent.



-----------------------------------------




Ryan James

Tall Tale

5th Grade (2009)



Harry Lingo and the Giant Robot



  Many years ago, before computers or TV’s, there lived a man named Harry Lingo. He was a professional wrestler two hundred years ago. His greatest victory awas when he took on the giant robot in Arizona.



  One morning, he walked into the ring to fight Rampage. The bell sounded. After five rounds, he finally pinned Rampage down. Harry knew the only reason he triumphed was because he had superhuman strength. He had it because his dad was a scientist and one of his experiments went bad. That’s when he decided to get into the wrestling business.



  After the fight, an elderly man walked up to Harry. He had a big, bushy mustache. “Are you harry Lingo,” he asked.



  “Yes. I am,” replied Harry.



  “I’m Joe Bombo,” said the man.  “I wanted to know if you’re up for a challenge,” asked Joe.



  “Sure,” replied Harry.



  Joe walked up to the microphone. “I challenge harry Lingo to a wrestling match,” he said.



  “I accept,” yelled Harry.



  Harry was determined to win when he stepped into the ring. To his astonishment, Joe didn’t step into the ring. He walked up to a big box and opened it. Out stepped a colossal, mechanical robot. “This is Robo,” said Joe. Harry figured he would fight him anyway. The bell sounded. Robo moved with marvelous speed. He got behind Harry and jumped on his back. Harry was so enraged that he threw Robo through the roof. Robo hit a plane and exploded. A piece of him fell down to earth so hard it made the Grand Canyon.



  “Well done son,” said Joe. Harry then realized that Joe was short for Joseph and Bombo was his dad’s middle name.



  “Dad,” said Harry. He was close to tears.



  “Yes, I am”, said Joe.



  Harry Lingo will always live on in the legends. This story will be told for generations to come.

 

This was my morning

After the Halloween dance I buckled down with my books and papers to prepare all night for early morning exams and presentations (this is a campus, after all, albeit floating through the straights of Malacca at a rather alarming rate to avoid pirate ships), after which sleep was finally had. I woke up in Singapore, strictly for bunkering purposes, had a few glasses of red wine and sang in a guitar and drum circle on the seventh deck, and after which reverted back to Indian silk pajamas for a cozy cabin viewing of the Darjeeling Limited which is just now over as we leave Singapore fueled for Vietnam Tuesday midmorning, finally gaining hours in the middle of the night instead of losing them.

 

Good morning good morning good morning.

FW: THE MV EXPLORER IS NOT IN DISTRESS, EXCEPTING CASES OF SEVERE LACK OF ALCOHOLS

Please excuse the shameful delay in reporting back any and all Interesting Things since South Africa (when was that). First let me take care of the shipboard housekeeping.

 

This will hopefully be the most amusing geography lesson y'all have heard in a while. The night before our arrival in Mauritius (more on that later) a good friend pointed at my feet and informed me that "home is that way." This of course prompted a wave of jokes back home that we were stepping on your toes or had a lovely view up your shorts. Our arrival in Chennai, India also marked the only day on which our dawn was California's dusk, though either way you happen to see it we were watching the same giant ball of burning gas mosey up or down from opposite sides of a rather large rotating rock. Departure from India marked our getting closer and closer to home instead of farther and farther away. Somewhere in this whole business we've managed to lose twelve total hours of sleep and gain half a day, generally at the rate of one hour clock advances every other day at sea. Much to our dismay the crossing of the International Date line was scheduled away from Thanksgiving, probably due to an unwillingness to serve two feasts in a row would probably wipe out the national Japanese turkey supply (there's an Economics of Globalization paper topic for you).

 

In other news, Happy Halloween to all you pumpkin mutilators back home! We're having our own festivities on board after classes and dinner (Saturdays have long ceased to be anything meaningful), and I promise to provide prompt updates on that if y'all promise to do the same for me. Try not to get too crazy without this cat, but if you must, please provide photographic or otherwise documented evidence. 

The Rainbow Nation

Perhaps the difficulty in reflecting on Mauritius (which, for those of you who don't know, is a miniscule island-state off the western coast of Africa that fell under alternating French and British colonial rule, and likewise the names of Maurice and Morris, until 1968) is in the fact that we were only there for three days. It might have also been due to being viewed by many as a resort town, which, in all fairness, it has a tendency towards. Mauritius boasts an 80% Hindu population as well as many Chinese and various African countries, it is incredibly unlike any of those countries in their proper indigenous form. Mauritius is an Island, filled with colorful Islanders. Think Indian Bahamas. With far spicier rum and cheaper wine. Which is meant in the most appreciative way possible, as it gave me unhampered opportunity to break out my French skills with locals on the beach.

 

One great story of note, actually, was finding a man in his 60s with dreds down to his knees who stared constantly at something just beyond my left elbow and accused me of being part of the System. After assuring him of our loyalty to no such thing, we said our goodbyes and he reassured us that, when this is all over and all is said and done, he would be waiting for us. All of us. On the right. 

?? ?? ?????

If the subject line didn't display it was the Hebrew for what is swiftly becoming my favorite phrase: gam zeh yaavor or, "This too shall pass."

Lincoln used it once:"It is said an Eastern monarch once charged his wise men to invent him a sentence, to be ever in view, and which should be true and appropriate in all times and situations. They presented him the words: "And this, too, shall pass away." How much it expresses! How chastening in the hour of pride! How consoling in the depths of affliction!"

The original:
One day Solomon decided to humble Benaiah Ben Yehoyada, his most trusted minister. He said to him, "Benaiah, there is a certain ring that I want you to bring to me. I wish to wear it for Sukkot which gives you six months to find it." "If it exists anywhere on earth, your majesty," replied Benaiah, "I will find it and bring it to you, but what makes the ring so special?" "It has magic powers," answered the king. "If a happy man looks at it, he becomes sad, and if a sad man looks at it, he becomes happy." Solomon knew that no such ring existed in the world, but he wished to give his minister a little taste of humility. Spring passed and then summer, and still Benaiah had no idea where he could find the ring. On the night before Sukkot, he decided to take a walk in one of the poorest quarters of Jerusalem. He passed by a merchant who had begun to set out the day's wares on a shabby carpet. "Have you by any chance heard of a magic ring that makes the happy wearer forget his joy a
 nd the broken-hearted wearer forget his sorrows?" asked Benaiah. He watched the grandfather take a plain gold ring from his carpet and engrave something on it. When Benaiah read the words on the ring, his face broke out in a wide smile. That night the entire city welcomed in the holiday of Sukkot with great festivity. "Well, my friend," said Solomon, "have you found what I sent you after?" All the ministers laughed and Solomon himself smiled. To everyone's surprise, Benaiah held up a small gold ring and declared, "Here it is, your majesty!" As soon as Solomon read the inscription, the smile vanished from his face. The jeweler had written three Hebrew letters on the gold band: gimel, zayin, yud, which began the words "Gam zeh ya'avor" -- "This too shall pass." At that moment Solomon realized that all his wisdom and fabulous wealth and tremendous power were but fleeting things, for one day he would be nothing but dust.

One more: "Luck is just probability taken personally."

The Atheist in a Foxhole muttering Gam Zeh Yaavor,
Phil

In Trouble Again

Grace,

Omi got upset that I didn't include the fact that she watched the Ghana-Brazil soccer match as well, in fact, she was the one who told it was on (go figure).  She did rant at the Ghana player who had his penalty kick blocked in the shootout and cheered loudly when Brazil missed their final kick.

That does bring up an Omi story... we traveled to New York to watch the Washington pro soccer team (the Diplomats back then) play the NY pro soccer team (the Cosmos).  They were the two best teams in the league and it was a bitter rivalry.  There was one bus load of Washington fans in the stadium of 50,000 NY fans.  The game was close... tight... back and forth... near the end, one of the NY players took down a Washington player in the penalty box... and no foul was called.  Omi, quite simply, went berserk.  Here I was sandwiched among 50,000 rabid NY fans with my wife screaming every vile thing she would think of about the referee, the fans, the NY players... She was beyond my limited ability to control her... all I could do was pray that some NY fan wouldn't take it personally and take it out on her ... or me.  She (and I) did receive several comments on the way to the bus... but did make it home unscathed.

Then there was the time at Oktoberfest after Italy beat Germany in the World Cup final... but that's a story for another time...

love you,
Boompa




This just goes to show that we're all pink on the inside, and by far the squirrelliest bunch of creatures to have ever roamed the Earth. Show love for your Ghanaian brothers 2010!

Coming to Cape Town 2010

Football fever is sweeping the African continent. Every Ghanaian taxi driver who rocketed us back and forth along the Tema Motorway cheerfully reminded us of the US World Cup defeat a few years back. The Ghanaian team went exceptionally far and finally lost to the Italians - the Champions that year, as you may recall with Zidane headbutt infamy. Point being, buy your tickets and make your friends NOW. Many of us already have.

Ghana Wins!

Grace,

Probably a good thing you're not in Ghana this evening... they beat Brazil for the Under 20 Soccer World Championship this afternoon.  They won in a shootout after a scoreless regulation and two overtime periods.  Ryan, Erin and I watched the last part of regulation, both overtime periods and of course the shootout. This is probably the first major championship ever won by that country so I'm sure it is utter bedlam there... and you'd probably be late getting back to the ship again.

Love you,
Boompa

In which our heros reach the sothernmost point in their journey

We had been told that of all ports to wake up before dawn to watch the sunrise, South Africa’s Cape Town would be definitively it.  And we did so.  And it was.  Cape Town is God’s own port – the waterfront warm and immaculate and welcoming with the city inching modestly up the foothills of Table Mountain in the middle, cliff sides catching the sunlight. 
Of course I had earned myself six hours of dock time due to a slight run in with a Ghanaian taxi and the resulting 20 minutes tardiness for being back on ship.  We’re a pair of underappreciated (unimpressive?) geniuses, Liz and I.  So it was that after cheering on our pilot boat (pirate boat amongst the clever, har HAR) I found myself in the mood for a nice leisurely nap, as if I would be doing anything else.

Nap done, packing finished, enter now a freshly cast duo in our adventures, Sarah and Stephanie.  Sarah is from Colorado, also shaved her head (but maintains a mohawk and consequentially has to worry about fending off the girls’ field hockey team) and majors in Undecided.  Stephanie is from Texas (which is hysterical when she tells our host countrymen as they always want to know about her ranch, the existence of which I had always assumed myself and was equally as startled as the Afrikaners to hear wasn’t true) and majors in anthropology.  We made our way to the Backpackers’ Hostel on Kloof Street, a few blocks away from the (in)famous Long Street, our home for the next two nights.
It’s incredibly important to break away from SAS kids every once in a while, especially once the general reputation has been set.  It never takes long for word to travel, especially where alcohol is involved.  As Dean Byron put it, “Do NOT be stupid.  Be cute.”   So it was that after a little grocery shopping (foreign grocery stores being absolutely fascinating) we headed to a little quaint place called Rick’s Café Americano.  They played such timeless classics as YMCA and Kung Fu Fighting.  I was immediately taken.  We made sure to steal ashtrays.  Cute.

Our hostel manager was of impeccable taste in all things fun and found us a tour of the winelands around Stellenbosch and Franschoek – beautiful country and delightful wine.  There were six of us – the three Americans, two from the Netherlands on a four months backpacking vacation heading towards Australia and New Zealand, etc. and our incredibly zealous South African tour guide.  The tastings began at Fairview Vineyards promptly at 0930.  Before I get into how long of a day it was, let me implore you to get your hands on just about any South African Fairview wine available to you.  Go desperately out of your way.  And then buy two of each, one for me.  Back to the tastings – we visited four or five places guided by our increasingly heavy-handed tour lady, who delivered far beyond her promised 22 tastings.  Back by 1730 to catch the train to Simonstown and a nap.

Our hotel in Simonstown was perched right on Boulder Beach, home of the African penguin.  They are adorable, fat, and punt-able.  The three of us spent the day at Cape Point, first having gotten there in a local Rikki (not Rickety, ho ho) which was an adventure in and of itself.  It was about the size of a Smart Car, 30 years older, rated for eight passengers  and driven by an incredibly fat man.  He had no mercy for speed and turns, it was thrilling all the way along the coast. 
Cape Point is nothing short of majestic.  It juts out between the Atlantic and Indian oceans and maybe if you squint hard enough you can imagine where the South Pole would be if you could squint a little harder.  I couldn’t believe They actually made anything like it, or what we should ever be allowed to see it.  Pictures will be up eventually, but for the time being rest assured that they do exist.

After Simonstown we made our way back on the train to Cape Town for one last day in South Africa.

To Stephanie and Grace - May love bless you with joy, peace, health, wisdom, hope, healing and abundance! Love, Sister Mary James

The last full day in Cape Town was one I needed to myself, at least initially.  I took the time to explore the V&A Waterfront and its shops, including but not limited to Gucci, Hugo Boss, Dolce and Gabana, Nine West, and the Aston Martin and Ducati dealerships.  From there I walked through the city to Long Street and followed a few scruffy, hungry looking kids my age into a hole in the wall restaurant/bar called Mr. Pickwicks, which boasts incredible tin plate specials, cheap pints, and the most enthralling bathroom graffiti outside of Richmond.  I sat for several hours and read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance and talked to whomever came my way, including Braam, the construction worker on lunch break who invited me to a place where the local stand up comedians hang around later on in the evening and drew an Om in my notebook.  There are some things you simply shouldn’t say no to.
Stephanie was kind enough to accompany me on my wild-eyed harebrained schemes around the city one last time.  We toasted South Africa over prairie fires (or fairy priers, depending on how many you’ve had) and made our way with Braam to his spot where we were immediately accosted by/introduced to Sister Mary James, the cross-dressing touchy feely ABBA-singing Nun.  If you consider yourself to be a fairly well-adjusted person, I beg you to visit www.youtube.com/sistermaryjames, if only to understand what kind of evening we were thrown into. 
Stephanie and I loved Sister Mary.  We actually bought her CD, signed and sealed with not just one but two kisses and includes such classic hits as “The Way You Make Me Feel,” “YMCA (Extended Remix),” “Wake Me Up Before You Go Go,” and “These Boots Are Made For Walking.”
So there I was, in the craziest bar in South Africa with the funkiest people at the strangest point in my life to date, as if I could honestly have been doing anything else, finally feeling at home.  And just to complete the head on collision course of everything in that moment, a song I had never heard before began to play, as if it could honestly not have been played at any other time.  When the universe speaks, you listen. I bought it the next day.

The National - All the Wine

I'm put together beautifully
Big wet bottle in my hand
Big wet rose in my teeth
Like every Californian
So tall I take over the street
With high beams shining up my back
Wingspan unbelievable
I'm a festival
I'm a parade

And all the wine is all for me
And all the wine is all for me
And all the wine is all for me

I'm so sorry but the motorcade will have to go around me this time
'Cause God is on my side
And I'm the child bride

And all the wine is all for me
And all the wine is all for me
And all the wine is all for me

Montezuma's Revenge... in Ghana?

Grace,

I sincerely feel your pain... but I have to admit I laughed out loud at your experience... (Omi laughed so hard she cried).  It did remind me of a few similar experiences of mine in Vietnam and Korea... complete with all the biological events you described so eloquently.  At least on one of those occasions, I was blessed with a sink in close proximity while I sat on the toilet... it significantly reduced the need for "switching ends".

Love your blogs... keep them coming.  Say hi to Liz for us.

love you,
Boompa

From Graham

I have been receiving so many great emails from back home, and I would love to share them with all y'all here, mainly because monologues do tend to become tiresome no matter what the subject. Here we have one such email from one Mr. Graham Rankin, the most ardent Casablanca fan I'm aware of.

 

Grace,

I got your postcard today, and it has single-handedly brightened an otherwise miserable week. I can't tell you how happy I was to see something addressed to me from "Rick's Cafe." The English language can't properly express my jealousy at the scene you described, and rest assured that had I been there, not only would I have quoted "Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world..." but I would have gone on to recite the rest of the movie to you. And then I would have finished my martini and ordered the band to play "La Marseillaise." I get a huge kick out of every post on the blog, and I look forward to talking to you and asking many annoying questions about the trip. Take care.


Graham


P.S.
"What in Heaven's name brought you to Casablanca?"
"My health. I came to Casablanca for the waters."
"Waters? What waters? We're in the desert."
"I was misinformed."

A proclamation

All on board the MV Explorer were visited this morning by King Neptune and her Highness Aphirite - our Captain Jeremy and his wife painted a violent shade of green and sporting grass skirts and wigs - to test our worthiness for initiation into the Order of the Deep as his trusty Shellbacks. Pollywogs were dunked in foul smelling goo from the kitchens before swimming through the pool and kissing at least one fish on the other side. After bowing at the feet of our visitors we were officially deemed Shellbacks with the option of having our heads shaved by the royal barbers to show our dedication. The truly devout take it to the skin.

 

In other words, your author now has less hair than her father. 

Neptune Day

Tomorrow is our Neptune Day, which is probably the greatest excuse for a holiday off of classes you'll ever hear. The following are just a few of the points from the Wikipedia (one of our only free-access resources on the ship, blessed be) titled "Line-crossing ceremony." The link to the full article is copied at the bottom of this entry.



"The ceremony of Crossing the Line is an initiation rite in the Royal Navy, U.S. Navy, U.S. Coast Guard, and other navies that commemorates a sailor's first crossing of the Equator. Originally, the tradition was created as a test for seasoned sailors to ensure their new shipmates were capable of handling long rough times at sea. Sailors who have already crossed the Equator are nicknamed (Trusty) Shellbacks, often referred to as Sons of Neptune; those who have not are nicknamed (Slimy) Pollywogs."

"After crossing the line, Pollywogs receive subpoenas to appear before King Neptune and his court (usually including his first assistant Davy Jones and her Highness Amphitrite and often various dignitaries, who are all represented by the highest ranking seamen), who officiate at the ceremony, which is often preceded by a beauty contest of men dressing up as women, each department of the ship being required to introduce one contestant in swimsuit drag. Afterwards, some wogs may be "interrogated" by King Neptune and his entourage, and the use of "truth serum" (hot sauce + after shave) and whole uncooked eggs put in the mouth. During the ceremony, the Pollywogs undergo a number of increasingly disgusting ordeals (wearing clothing inside out and backwards; crawling on hands and knees on nonskid-coated decks; being swatted with short lengths of firehose; being locked in stocks and pillories and pelted with mushy fruit; being locked in a water coffin of salt-water and bright green sea dye (fluorescent sodium salt); crawling through chutes or large tubs of rotting garbage; kissing the Royal Baby's belly coated with axle grease, hair chopping, etc.), largely for the entertainment of the Shellbacks."

"Once the ceremony is complete, a Pollywog receives a certificate declaring his new status. Another rare status is the Golden shellback, a person who has crossed the Equator at the 180th meridian (International Date Line). When a ship must cross these lines, the ship's captain will usually intentionally plot a course across the Golden X so that the ship's crew can be initiated into the Golden Shellbacks."

"The rarest Shellback status is that of the Emerald Shellback (USA), or Royal Diamond Shellback (Commonwealth), which is received after crossing the Equator at the Prime Meridian."

"Similar "fraternities" in the navy include:

    * The Order of the Blue Nose for sailors who have crossed the Arctic Circle.
    * The Order of the Red Nose for sailors who have crossed the Antarctic Circle.
    * The Order of the Golden Dragon for sailors who have crossed the International Date Line.
    * The Order of the Ditch for sailors who have passed through the Panama Canal.
    * The Order of the Rock for sailors who have transited the Strait of Gibraltar.
    * The Safari to Suez for sailors who have passed through the Suez Canal.
    * The Golden Shellback for sailors who have crossed the point where the Equator crosses the International Date Line.
    * The Emerald Shellback or Royal Diamond Shellback for sailors who cross at 0 degrees off the coast of West Africa (where the Equator crosses the Prime Meridian)
    * The Realm of the Czars for sailors who crossed into the Black Sea.
    * The Order of Magellan for sailors who circumnavigated the earth.
    * The Order of the Lakes for sailors who have sailed on all five Great Lakes.

The USS Franklin D. Roosevelt (CVA-42), under way to Rio De Janeiro, crossed the line on 4 July 1966, and its crew became known as "Star Spangled Shellbacks"; however, no previous mention of such honor has to date been located."



Join us on the flip side for what promises to be at the very least an incredibly amusing, a very probably highly embarrassing story or two.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Line-crossing_ceremony

In which our hero realizes and thing or two

Everything leading up to that moment had been incredible.

We played with and were played on by the babies and kindergartners at the Osu Childrens' Home for the earlier half of the day, completely worn through by 2 yesterday afternoon. With 19 starry-eyed volunteers and 50 children to attend to (not including the other 200 in the Home, all between the ages of one week and 23 years), each of us generally had three eager children in rotation on our backs or around our necks, or some intricate combination of the two, perhaps one on each hip or sitting on each foot. One volunteer brought out her sack of American Halloween candy and chaos. We were stunned at the remarkable ability of the children to lay down and pass out for a nap in the middle of the screaming multitude. I had my own quiet time with a one-year-old youngster outside under a tree while he slept in my arms, bare belly and feet, purring into my shirt. After an authentic Ghanaian meal of ham sandwiches and french fries, we returned to the ship for a little R&R ourselves.

Several scuffles with malaria medication* later, we were back on the road from Tema port to capital city Accra, some 18 miles or 60 minute shuttle bus ride to scout out food and drink. We (Liz, our new found friend Renee, and myself) met up with a young fellow named Erik, who had offered to take us in and around Accra the previous day. We found a few drinking spots and a roadside stand that served the best white rice with hot sauce and fried chicken (a staple dish here) known to mankind. Erik lives by the Art Centre, a large wooden and tin roofed pavilion of stalls whose renters live directly behind it in lean-to's. Now four, we piled into a taxi and headed toward Pleasure Beach for weekly Reggae Night. There we met quite a few other SAS kids, volunteers with various NGOs and people from Accra and the surrounding areas out for anything to be had. A White Trap for sure, but enjoyable nonetheless. We danced, we sang, talked and laughed, everybody doing only exactly as he or she felt - nothing more and nothing less. Simultaneously all everybody could do was take everything for what it was, with mutual understanding lying in between.

All of this having been said, it sounds typical of what you'd expect of a short visit to Ghana, the descriptions of "daily life" and photographs of runny-nosed orphans or boys playing soccer by the sewage runoff but you can National Geographic-it all you please and it still only shows the glaring divide between my Ghana and theirs. To be honest I don't believe the two could ever be the same so long as we come to buy colorful mens' shirts to match our Moroccan leather belts and Spanish jeans, pop malaria medication and ask the Ghanaians if they have to take it too and fearfully pass around the bottles of Purell after every decision we make and flood internet cafes to update Facebook statuses. And yet with only four days what else could we really do?

To me this is "The Other Side of the Atlantic." Looking straight out to sea is looking at Antarctica. The same stars shine down on two different Africas, and though they truly are the same the roads that lead us there converge on so few points that it will be a very long time before they start to resemble one another at all, but meanwhile deserve to be loved for exactly what it is and what they are, with mutual understanding of what it is and who we are lying in between - nothing more and nothing less.

It was poised in this moment that my insides chose to inform me that I was about to be in very serious trouble.

Con't.

This is the story of how I paid $80 to finally evacuate my bowels in Sub-Saharan Africa. If you are not particularly fascinated by the human body's miraculous ability to alternately take on our daily abuses and thoroughly violate every ounce of free will we possess in the same turn, you are about to be incredibly unamused.

Here goes.

We find our heroine again just as she was on the brink of two revelations concerning life, the universe, and everything as well as the completely unannounced and involuntary urge of her own stomach to ring itself dry. So presented with the fast-approaching situation, we made a bee-line for the lean-to toilet to begin haggling with the restroom monitor over the price of admittance, from one Cedi (1.44 USD) just to have the opportunity and an additional four for the privilege of vomming in the entryway while trying to count change. The responsibility was thus handed off to Liz, much to the shock and dismay of the attendant.

I stumbled through shouts and drunks only to find the single (occupied) toilet. At least will power brought me that far, but chose to give out upon sight of the (unoccupied) shower stall next to it. This earned me more shouts accompanied by a surprise bowl of water emptied over my head with the request to sober up immediately. "I'm not drunk!" I pleaded, which is always the exact wrong thing to say to somebody who is also sober. "I just ate bad food!" Wrong again. More water.

I swatted the offender away, wild-eyed now with the next realization of many to follow that night that it was my opposite end's turn to speak its mind. I flung myself into the stall and slammed the door on the growing angry mob, praying between alternating sobs and farts. Graphic? You don't even know the half of it. At least now I know that my list of worst nightmares need no longer include food poisoning in the sketchiest restroom in Western Africa.

Liz was shouting outside now and let her in as we swatted away money-seeking hands. I don't even know what to say about the fact that this is the stuff of our best friendships. We celebrate our one-year anniversary in November. After swapping ends a few more times I give in to the pounding on the door and we wrestle through the crowd.

One taxi ride to a reputable hotel in Accra later, I indignantly tell the owner that he may absolutely not be allowed to rip me off for 110 USD - he'll only get me for a humble 70. We three crawled into the one queen sized bed, and I tried to be thankful for such low-maintainence travel companions. I woke up in the morning to Renee offering two bottles of water (the only clean water available), Aspirin and a sick bag for the ricketiest one hour bus ride back to port I've ever taken. I swear, it was as if the thing were built by the blind following Ikea instructions. Once back on ship I made my way to sick bay to find something that would help stem the flow. The nurse, apparently feeling a little under the weather herself, inquired about my most recent bowel movement - "Oh, about three minutes ago" - and the last time I hurled - "Just after I got on the bus. It's been an eventful day and it's only 11. On the bright side, this clears my two week-long constipation streak." "Girl, you and me both." Honestly, sometimes it's nice to know you're not the only one. I crawled miserably into bed with my five dollar Pepto Bismol tablet and discovered that today's looping childrens' movie was Matilda. Praise be.

You win this time Ghana, but I'll be back out with full force once I get off this damn toilet. 

Good morning Ghana, how are you?

Round one, woke up to waves of grey and rain rolling down the porthole. No fun, back to sleep.

 

Round two, woke up to sunshine and peeped out the porthole to see two whales in mid breach. Ah, that's the ticket.

Trailing Indicators: Out of a Job, Some Decide to Take a Hike --- Backpackers Walk From Georgia to Maine, Toiling for Food, Shelter Along the Appalachian

By Joel Millman

1295 words

21 September 2009

The Wall Street Journal

J

A1

English

(Copyright (c) 2009, Dow Jones & Company, Inc.)

RUTLAND, Vt. -- Unable to find steady work in a dismal Florida job market, Dan Kearns did something a lot of gainfully employed Americans can only dream of: Ditch the straight life and hike the length of the Appalachian Trail.

Shouldering a 50-pound backpack, the 32-year-old construction worker hopped onto the trail in April at Neels Gap, Ga., joining other "through-hikers" bound for the AT's northern end point, nearly 2,200 miles away in Maine's Baxter State Park. He sold his car for $1,000 to finance the first leg of the trip, relying after that on handouts and the occasional farm job -- often backbreaking work weeding vegetable beds or rolling bales of hay.

"I wouldn't do this if I was employed," the New Jersey native explains. "I couldn't find any work, so I just decided to take a walk."

He also took a trail moniker, "Snipe," and joined two hikers in Virginia who called themselves "Angry Hippie" and "Dance Party." Over Labor Day weekend, the three trudged into Rutland, the final stop before the slog through New Hampshire's White Mountains and Maine's 100-Mile Wilderness.

An economist might have another name for Snipe and his fellow travelers: trailing indicators. Depending on one's level of optimism, an Appalachian Trail through-hiker is either a symbol of a jobless recovery or of a still-deepening recession.

In any case, there has been a surplus of hikers this year on the Appalachian Trail, which was unexpectedly in the news in June when South Carolina's Gov. Mark Sanford used the excuse of hiking the trail while pursuing an extramarital affair in Argentina. Typically, about 1,000 hikers leave Georgia each spring in hopes of completing the trail in one all-out trek. This year, trail monitors say, close to 1,400 hikers were in the first wave, with hundreds more following behind through early summer.

Now, as the last of the north-bounders -- known as NoBos -- enter New England, they're meeting lagging south-bounders, or SoBos, racing toward Georgia. Hikers say they budget $1 a mile for food and the rare motel stay, making life on the trail cheaper than life in town -- and much more socially acceptable.

"If you do this on the trail, you're a hiker," says The Druid, a 48-year-old south-bounder from Tennessee. "If you do this off the trail, you're a bum."

NoBos and SoBos are reminiscent of the hobos of the Great Depression, though there aren't so many of them this time. Moreover, they're a throwback to a simpler economy, where swapping short-term labor for food and shelter was common.

That barter system remains today. Dozens of "Trail Angels" provide free meals and lodging to hikers who are short of cash. "I was shooting pool in Duncannon, Pa., with a hiker named Big Camera. I heard a guy at the bar offering $12 an hour to clean his yard," recalls Jack Magullian, a 55-year-old through-hiker whose trail name is Archaeopterix.

Motel operator Ron Haven of Franklin, N.C., is known as a generous soul, willing to exchange nights in beds that have real sheets for light labor like cleaning guest rooms.

Elmer Hall at the Sunnybank Inn nearby in Hot Springs is another soft touch. "People will stay for a week or a month," says Mr. Hall, who hiked most of the AT himself in 1976. He pays $8 an hour to anyone who stays more than a week and does chores. This season he has employed about 75 through-hikers, he says, mainly to toss feed to his ducks and chickens, or to pick berries or weed his organic garden.

"I saw more people who are out of work this year," Mr. Hall adds. "You get six months' government unemployment, and it's cheaper to live off the land."

Some people complain of aggressive panhandling, robberies and homeless hikers blending in with genuine backpackers to take advantage of free food or work-for-stay opportunities.

"The biggest problem is the have-nots latching onto the haves and trying to mooch their way up the trail," says Jeff Hooch, who runs The Hike Inn close to where the Appalachian Trail enters Great Smoky Mountains National Park. "This creates stress around the campsites."

Up in New England, through-hikers have become a popular form of just-in-time labor for rural businesses, especially for organic farmers like Joseph De Sena.

He operates Amee Farm in Pittsfield, Vt., which lies a few miles from a trailhead. Mr. De Sena says that in a good year, "hikers could provide 50% of the labor we need," doing everything from watering lettuce in the greenhouse, to weeding the garden to shearing the sheep.

He estimates that hiring similar labor locally, if he could find it, would cost $50 to $75 a day. He does a barter deal with hikers who stay at the farm in exchange for their labor. No money is exchanged.

But it isn't always an easy fit, Mr. De Sena says.

"We thought there was a correlation between people who would hike the 2,200 miles and an incredible work ethic," says the 40-year-old entrepreneur, a former Wall Street trader who, besides farming, also operates an asset-management firm. "Turns out those people tend to be athletic hippies, just looking to have fun forever."

He lucked out when he met Wes Foster and Stacy Burdett, two through-hikers from Tampa, Fla., who recently completed their journey. The couple decided to winter at Amee Farm, swapping their labor for room and board and the chance to learn organic farming.

"I'd love to have a farm like this one day," says Ms. Burdett, who has a degree in massage therapy and worked in theater production before hiking the trail.

Dominic Palumbo's Moon in the Pond organic farm in Sheffield, Mass., is another AT neighbor who harvests through-hikers' labor.

Mr. Palumbo's efforts began in 2005, when a former through-hiker named Rich Ciotola came to work at Moon in the Pond as an apprentice.

"We were short of hands, and had no money to hire anyone," the 53-year-old farmer recalls. "Rich just ran up the trail and came back with some guys." Mr. Palumbo has been relying on hikers ever since, even publicizing his work-for-stay swap in trail guides. This summer Mr. Ciotola began working his own farm, employing hikers from his old mentor's spread whenever he had extras to spare.

Andrea Wilkins, from Maryland, and Jon Letteer, a Texan, were two south-bounders who worked at Moon in the Pond this month. The two labored 14-hour days in the late summer sun but were grateful for a respite from walking.

Mr. Letteer, 23, has a job waiting for him in Austin, but his 22-year-old hiking partner doesn't. She says that once she finishes hiking, she hopes to join the Peace Corps and go to Africa or Micronesia. "They asked if I had farming experience when I applied, and I hadn't," she says, stretching as she weeds onions. "But this is farm experience that could go on my resume. Man, they would love it!"

Housekeeping

A little heads up just for those of you who might not know, internet is not free for us here on board. I (Grace) have personally linked my gmail account to my email here (bgweik@semesteratsea.net, Liz is ermarshall@semesteratsea.net) and am notified if comments are left on my Facebook account, but I am not able to follow links or respond to messages. By all means, please keep commenting there - I would love to be able to come back and see them all on my page and be able to share them with others - but if you want a response please, please, please feel free to email me here, which is cheap as free. I also have 24-hour access and love to hear from anybody back home, even if it's just to drop a quick hello. I am working on postcard correspondence, so please redirect your addresses here. Also, it is possible to mail things to our next ports of call for us to pick up once the ship has docked, and directions for that are posted below. One final point - my own network is very limited, as seen by the number of people actually following this blog. Please pass this link and my email address on to anybody and everybody, forward it through email or link me up on Facebook. Not only would I love to share my stories with everybody and receive feedback, but all miss hearing from home. Comment, share, spread the wealth, and we will happily return the favor.

 

 

 

C A L E N D A R A N D C O M M U N I C A T I O N - F A L L 2 0 0 9 V O Y A G E

Airmail: Currently the U.S. Post Office recommends sending international mail at least two weeks prior to the arrival of the ship. Please keep in mind that mail service in other countries may vary. Letters should be sent Airmail only. Please do not send any mail to the Institute for Shipboard Education (ISE) or to the University of Virginia to be forwarded.

ISE does not recommend sending packages to the ship - Excessive duty is charged in some countries. In many instances, packages are held in customs or at local post offices and are not processed in time to be delivered to the ship. If you send packages, you do so at your own risk. We strongly discourage sending currency and other valuable items. In many countries, it is illegal to send medication or food.

Disclaimer: Mail delivery to the ship is dependent on many outside factors and entities that are out of the control of ISE. Therefore, ISE cannot assume liability for lost, damaged or undeliverable items or the cost associated with the return of such items.

When sending mail please mark “MV Explorer – Fall 2009 Voyage” on the first line and “Attn: Participant’s Name” on the second line. The Port Agent’s Address (from the list below) should be written on the subsequent lines.

PORT. ARRIVE - DEPART. ADDRESS OF PORT AGENT. (SUGGESTED AIRMAIL DATE).

Cape Town, SOUTH AFRICA  Oct 3 - Oct 8 JOHN T. RENNIE & SONS (Sep 19)

Phone: 27 21 419 8660 0800 2000 19th FLOOR

Fax: 27 21 413 0290 No.1 Thibault Square

8001 Cape Town, SOUTH AFRICA

 

Port Louis, MAURITIUS Oct 15 - Oct 17 Ireland Blyth Limited (Oct 1)

Phone: 230 202 70 40 0800 2000 Shipping Operations Department

Fax: 230 208 5814 No 6 Dr Ferriere Street

Port Louis, MAURITIUS

 

Chennai, INDIA Oct 23 - Oct 27 J. M. Baxi & Co. (Oct 9)

Phone: 91 44 252 12032 0800 2000 3rd Floor, Clive Battery Complex

Fax: 91 44 252 43813 4 & 4A, Rajaji Salai

Chennai 600 001, INDIA

 

Ho Chi Minh City, VIETNAM Nov 3 - Nov 8 General Forwarding Agency (Oct 20)

Phone: 84 8 823 1052 0800 0600 5th Floor Osic Building

Fax: 84 8 824 2996 8 Nguyen Hue Avenue

D. 1, Ho Chi Minh City, VIETNAM

 

HONG KONG, CHINA Nov 11 Nov - 12 Inchcape Shipping Services (HK) Ltd. (Oct 28)

Phone: 852 2746 7312 0800 2300 Units 1802-1805, 18th Floor

Fax: 852 2744 3240 N° 3 Lockhart Road

Wanchai, HONG KONG – CHINA

 

Shanghai, CHINA Nov 15 - Nov 16 Penavico Shanghai (Nov 1)

Phone: 86 21 6323 1350 0800 2000 3/F 13 Zhong Shan Road (E 1)

Fax: 86 21 6329 1519 Shanghai 200002, P.R. CHINA

 

Yokohama, JAPAN Nov 20 - Nov 21 INCHCAPE SHIPPING SERVICES (Nov 6)

Phone: 81 45.201 6991 0800 2300 F Asahi Seimei Yokohama Honcho Bldg

Fax: 81 45.212 1614 36, 4-Chome Honcho, Naka-ku

Yokohama-shi, Kanagawa-ken 231-0005, JAPAN

 

Kobe, JAPAN Nov 23 - Nov 24 Inchcape Shipping Services (Japan) Ltd. (Nov 9)

Phone: 81 78 391 3046 0700 2100 Kenryu Bldg, Room 502

Fax: 81 78 391 3105 6, Kaigan-dori, Chuo-ku

Kobe-shi, Hygo-ken 650-0024, JAPAN

 

Honolulu, HAWAII Dec 4 - Dec 5 Inchcape Shipping Services (Nov 20)

Phone: 1 808 599 8604 0600 2000 521 Ala Moana Blvd.

Fax: 1 808 599 1950 Suite 256

Honolulu, HI 96813

 

Hilo, HAWAII Dec 6 - Dec 7 Inchcape Shipping Services (Nov 23)

Phone: 1 808 599 8604 0800 2000 521 Ala Moana Blvd.

Fax: 1 808 599 1950 Suite 256

Honolulu, HI 96813

 

Arrival/departure times are listed above in local times. Based on Eastern Standard Time, the time on-ship is behind by the number of hours listed below:

Spain: +6 hours   Morocco: +4 hours   Ghana: +4 hours   S. Africa: +6 hours   Mauritius: + 8 hours   India: +9.5 hours   Vietnam: +12 hours   China: +13 hours   Japan: +14 hours   Hawaii: -5 hours

Play it again...

There is a Rick's Cafe in Casablanca. They do have a live jazz band. They did play 'As Time Goes By'. It was one of the greatest places with the most incredible atmosphere I have ever been to. Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman could have easily been sitting quietly upstairs on the couch - in fact they were, several times a night, replaying those timeless scenes again and again on the big screen. Walking home to the ship, I could have been mowed down by a camel or petit taxi, and I would not have cared - which was not entirely the fault of the house cocktails.

 

 

The Moroccan Weathergirls

Moroccan culture being what it is (extremely traditional and difficult to change), native and visiting women alike struggle for acceptance. I spoke to one girl in particular, a womens studies major, after returning tot he ship who found the cultural situation particularly difficult. Going out was hard enough, and always required a male escort or three. Fed up and tired, however, she and two other girls made the trek through Casablanca back to the ship unassisted and through the rain, and along the way passed one of the few bars open during Ramadan. 'It's Raining Men' blared conspicuously, and she said the girls, soaked, began dancing and singing on the street. When the song was over, the doors burst open with the wild applause and cheers of the Moroccan women who had been watching them through the windows and invited the girls to join the fun inside. Even across oceans and cultures that carry us so wildly away from home, it is always a welcome reminder that we are all pink on the inside and all share an affinity for 70s pop music.

We'll always have Marrakech

Whatever expectations had been set for Morocco, it is safe to say that none of them were met but all surely exceeded. My own list certainly didn't include a trip to Mos Eisley.

 

Marrakech is a city so far removed from American sensibilities that the lack of Hollywood banthas, cruisers, showdowns in cantinas and at least one token Han Solo was certainly missed. Our visit coincided with the month of Ramadan and public modesty at its height. The first excursion was out into the souks - marketplaces in the medina - to haggle loudly with he stall owners, walk away threateningly, return to slash the price by half, walk away again and return half an hour later to retrieve our wooden boxes, fancy pants, silver teapots, paintings, and embroidered shirts. It was also spent making a mad dash from the Biblical downpour that washed through the streets, taking all the garbage that had been piled on the banks and sweeping it down the center of the paths to various non-existent drainage systems. Understand - Morocco sees maybe 25 days of rain per year, and we just so happened to walk right into one.

 

After ringing ourselves out we prepared for dinner at a restaurant called Chez Ali - Horse Fantasia. You can't make this stuff up. Or rather I should say, you could only make it up. Most of the entertainment set up for us along this whole venture was thoroughly Disney-esque, obviously meant to play on our tourist-minded stereotypes. I just so happen to enjoy Disney, so taking these things for what they were wasn't terribly difficult, even if slightly disappointing. That, and the food was absolutely mind-blowing. We had various tagines (meat and/or vegetables simmered in a giant clay pot), multiple couscous dishes, soups, and fresh-baked flatbread with every meal, after which we were poured cups of traditional Moroccan mint tea and had to unfasten our buttons. The Horse Fantasia followed our meal that particular night, complete with gun firing, belly dancing, music (including, but not limited to, the infamous Darth Vader Imperial Death March) and fireworks. Goofy? No doubt. Thoroughly enjoyable? Absolutely. 

 

Fearing for your life in a New York taxi is one thing, but doing the same on a bus hurtling through the Atlas Mountains for eight hours (each way, mind you) is something else entirely. Being shaken out of a system overload-induced nap due to your half of the bus being pitched perilously over the mountainside - the bottom of which may or may not be visible - made travel far more interesting than most of us experience on a regular basis. In all fairness, though, of all places to drive for so long, this particular mountain range could not have been more fascinating. The round (two lanes, remember) hairpinnned through ancient formations and zigzagged by palm groves and rocky desolation alike. Every now and then we found mud-brick villages populated mainly by goats and bored children, their mothers almost always inside.

 

We finally arrived at our destination intact in the late afternoon, a small dessert town called Zagoura, where we would go on our "camel trek" with the "nomads" to their "tents." My camel's name was BuBu, another's Barack, and his brother Obama, along with various other names made up on the spot by the tour guides to amuse and distract from the very real possibility of being sneezed on.

 

"What's my camel's name?"

"Said."

"What's your name?"

"Said."

 

My high school French teacher would be proud to know that I dueted "Aux Champs Elysees" by French folk singer Joe Dassin (as stereotypical as American John Denver) with my own Moroccan camel leader, also named Said. Sometimes the world becomes hysterically small.

When in Spain, do as the Spaniards do

It seems like weeks have passed since our visit to Seville even though in reality it's only been one. We pack so much into our days in a mad dash to not leave behind a single thing we might need that ultimately we come away with three or four bursting suitcases of stories to untangle once we arrive back home.

 

The second and final day in Seville was spent leisurely sipping tinto de verano (red wine and Fanta, certainly something worth replicating back home for lazy mornings, afternoons, and/or evenings) and trying out such fanciful dishes as bull tail. That night we teamed up with the rest of our hostel-mates and enjoyed a tapas dinner and pub crawl.

 

Let me start by saying that this is not your grandparents pub crawl, unless they're in the habit of returning gleefully home at six, seven, eight o'clock in the morning - a concept most Americans seemed to struggle with both physically and mentally. I was speaking to a girl from Tunisia who lived in France and was now going to university in Spain (attempting to use languages from all three) about the embarrassment and difficulty suffered when bringing young Americans out to party, but she said fortunately most opt to stumble home around two or three in the morning, which is when the fun, for me at least, really began due mainly to an increase in the willingness to dance salsa. Being spun around and dipped by Spaniards rivals taking classes with the ever-talented and smooth Yves back home in Richmond. 

 

The bus back to Cadiz departed at 0700, which was terribly convenient timing after wearily coming back to the hostel at 0600 and catching a taxi under the sunrise. Knowing we would miss breakfast on the ship, we were devastated to discover that the Burger King in port sacrilegiously did not serve breakfast and were forced to drag our feet through the streets to find churros and chocolate sauce. 

 

The next day (our only day off between Cadiz and Casablanca) was spent sleeping through seminars and debriefings and having lunch on deck as we simultaneously looked out over Gibraltar and Morocco. Success? Methinks so.   

Step 1: Hola, me llama es...

Greetings from the free internet at the Hostel Nuevo Suizo of Seville! A few of us arrived late last night from Cadiz after a hike through Grazalema National Park - sweltering but beautiful. Finding the hostel from the bus station was an adventure in and of itself, requiring a pit stop at Burger King (the only feeding grounds open, we swear) and affording ourselves the novelty of ordering cervezas with our combos. After arriving at the hostel many confused exchanges of directions later, we were greeted by several other SASers and friends they had made, and we spent the evening/late night/early morning on the rooftop drinking local wine and Cruzcampos from the vending machine (the beer, I should clarify, not - hair-raisingly - the wine). And for tonight, who knows? Tapas, paella, tinto de verano - an adventure no matter how you phrase it. Stay tuned for pictures here shortly, and perhaps another story or two before we reach Casablanca on Thursday. Hasta luego!

A Brief Note Before Departure

We are now officially one month away from leaving. Life is frustrating, and full of doctor visits, packing, moving, packing again, and of course - FORMS. However, we have deemed the adventure that awaits us worthy of the effort.

Grace and Liz will be leaving from Halifax, Nova Scotia on August 28, 2009 and traveling to:

• Cadiz, Spain
• Casablanca, Morocco
• Accra, Ghana
• Cape Town, South Africa
• Port Louis, Mauritius
• Chennai, India
• Ho Chi Minh City, Viet Nam
• Hong Kong / Shanghai, China
• Yokohama / Kobe, Japan (Hopefully some travel to Tokyo, too)
  
• Honolulu / Hilo, Hawaii, USA
• San Diego, California, USA

This will all take place during the Fall semester, and will last 109 days. This co-authored blog will detail our adventures (or misadventures, with any luck) as we circumnavigate the globe.