Life at home

Christmas break: Top, my parents with a snowman we all created at my house. Below, my boyfriend and I at Longwood Gardens in PA.


It's been two months since I walked off the MV Explorer in California, headed back to New Freedom, PA and ultimately, back to college in Ithaca, NY.

When I first arrived home, I felt extremely disconnected from things I once associated myself with and I still feel a sense of isolation, carrying my experience like a secret that I wish I could explain, but can't.

Saying "I traveled the world last semester" hasn't gotten as many questions as it has been my answer to why I don't know the progress of the new Ithaca College Athletics and Events Center on campus or the lyrics to "Whip My Hair" or the new restaurants downtown or why I've missed the deadlines to internship applications I should have completed.

Of course, a lot of people have been genuinely interested in the Semester at Sea program and my voyage last fall. Several people have asked me "What is your favorite place?" or "Was the program awesome?" or "Did you love it?" ... still, these questions have been difficult for me to answer. If I start talking about some of the raw realities I faced like the poverty, I feel like I'm letting people's expectations down. But, if I talk about the luxurious aspects of the voyage, I'm really not explaining the meaning behind the voyage. I've learned that the simpliest answers are usually the best in passing conversation. And, if people really want to know about the voyage, they'll sit down and talk with me about it. After all, it's hard to explain in a sentence.

Has the trip affected the way I live now? Yes and no. I'd like to think that I am often reminded of my trip through daily activities — like running the water to brush my teeth sometimes causes me to think of the townships in Africa that don't have anything close to this privilege. The trip has also given me a lot to think about in terms of how I should live my life, how to weigh what's really important and how to be thankful for the luxuries I frequently overlook.

Semester at Sea ignites a passion in students, like myself, to radically make a change, a difference in the world. But, when I moved back on campus, started going to classes, and got back into a schedule I've known for three years now, radically changing the world seemed and still seems like a bit of an unorganized dream.

The American bubble seems so far away from Ghana, South Africa, Vietnam, India and many of the cultures I encountered. I'm still searching for a genuine way to connect my life here to my goals last semester.

In a way, it's frustrating that I still haven't figured everything out — that I haven't solved world hunger, stopped the sex-trade or provided an education for all children worldwide. But, maybe it's not about understanding everything right now ... maybe it's just about keeping the conversation alive and staying dedicated to finding the answer one day soon.

Photos from India

SAS Sea Olympics 2010

Lollipop

Her breath smelled bad. I was overcome with this smell as she sucked on the lollipop I gave her. After I saw a black tooth rotting in the back of her mouth, I questioned the wisdom of giving it to her.

I came to the Egyam Orphanage that day to bring dozens of shoes, toothbrushes, toothpaste, socks and toys. The donations from Semester at Sea were even paying for a full year of school expenses for all of the orphans. But, I couldn’t help thinking that it wasn’t enough.

Am I really helping here? Am I really making any kind of difference? I don’t really know. There seems to be so much need, but it’s not clear how to even begin to fix it.

She is so young, maybe 10 years old. The owner of the orphanage said that she probably won’t get a good education. She doesn’t even have a chance unless she proves she is smarter than all of her peers. Even then, she probably won’t be prosperous. She won’t be able to academically grow. If you get a master’s degree here, you are lucky if you can use that degree to get a job as a tour guide.

She is smart though. There is no doubt about that. Her English is much better than most of girls her age at the orphanage. She can even tell the time. And, she shows an interest in learning. She is also a great singer. She sings about Jesus and how much she loves Him.

What will happen when the children here run out of shoes and money? Will another organization donate more?
If her shoes fall apart, she isn’t allowed to go to school.

I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to help. I don’t know what to give her.
She will never have a life like mine. I wish she could.

I’m starting to get discouraged. Every donation seems like the lollipop. It only satisfies for a moment. She’s smiling right now, but when she’s finished sucking on the candy, we will be gone. The sweet taste will leave her mouth. And there she will sit hoping that someone else will listen to her songs and provide her needs.

REWIND: FlipVideo from Spain

Naked in Casablanca

I am naked. I am standing in Africa naked. I am standing in Morocco naked. I am in a bathhouse on a poor side of Casablanca, naked.

But, I’m not alone. The other women in the hammam are naked too.

Morocco is an Islamic Country. Here, men crowd the streets and fill the cafes. Women are rarely seen. If women are seen, usually their eyes are the only piece of them that is visible underneath all of their clothing. A veil covers their head almost completely and their clothing reaches to their feet. They are modest from head to toe.

After reading Laura Fraser’s article Under the Veils in Casablanca on Salon.com this summer, I promised myself that I would become more daring when trying to understand a new culture. I would sacrifice my pride, my manners and maybe my clothes if it meant I would learn how a culture operates in an intimate way. After all, I’m not a tourist, I’m a student, and I travel to learn. So, if learning means searching sketchy, poor side streets of Casablanca in order to participate in a ritual cleansing with naked Muslims, I’m all for it.

I had second thoughts about my methods of learning after a stocky Muslim woman ripped off my underwear and laid me naked across a marble slab.

I am in a large marble room lined with low sinks. Marble bleachers are on my right. I have no idea what I am supposed to do. A woman with long brown hair, a pear-shaped figure and a kind smile is in charge of me. She pours water over my body, hands soap to me and I realize that I am involved — involved in a serious, yet awesome cleansing experience.

Naked women walk casually around the hammam. They wash and socialize. Their bodies are much different than what an American woman is used to seeing. Their olive skin is soft. Their stomachs are big like a Crockpot full of soup supported by wide hips. Their breasts fall to their belly, as if they were never propped up quite right. And, these bodies walk with a relaxed stride from the steam room to the sinks.

I am the skinniest woman in the hammam and, for the first time in my life, I am concerned that my stomach is too flat and my shape isn’t curvy enough. Still, I am treated the same as every French-speaking Muslim there. Women lead me from room to room and my body endures treatments, scrubs and massages.

And there is slime involved: hot green goo that is massaged and pasted all over my body. The pear-shaped woman wraps me up like a plastic taco that keeps the green goo inside, with me. As I lay there, covered in green goo and plastic in Morocco with naked Muslim women walking, talking and bathing all around me, I realize that I feel comfortable. If I were in America, this would be the salon and I would be getting my hair cut.

But, this is better. This is bonding. This is strength. These are Muslim women revealed and casual. These are women in the bath. They are not wrapped pieces of cloth walking behind their husbands through the market. They were not keeping their home and praying.

I visit more than three rooms of the hammam, each with it’s own treatment and its own batch of women. I let myself be vulnerable to a cultural experience far out of my comfort zone. And, I take part it a ritual that is sacred and special to the women of Morocco.

Then, I walk back out to the polluted city streets filled with men, lower my head, clutch my purse and pray a taxi will get me back to the my room safely — all the time, smiling because I know the secrets that lay under the Muslim veil.

Flip Video Update: Pre-Cadiz

music by: curtis alban