After All It Was a Great Big World...

Prior to Semester at Sea changing the itinerary, I had only heard of Namibia due to Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt having baby Shiloh there. Namibia is younger than I am –gaining independence from South Africa only in 1990, with the fall of the apartheid government. I arrived with very little planned. I knew I wanted to sandboard, and I wanted to see a German town called Swakopmund, but that was it. This ended up being the best port thus far, and possibly one of the best of the voyage. In this land where one in five are HIV positive, the people are the overall friendliest I’ve ever encountered. Vendors referred to customers as “friend”or “sister/brother.” It was never like Morocco, where many of us felt harassed and overwhelmed. It is dirty here, and no building looks very safe. Namibia is full of stark contrasts, and I found the racial economic divide to be evident and disconcerting. In a country that is approx. 80% black, Germans or South Africans own the majority of the businesses.

Day 1: We arrived on time to port in Namibia. Although none of us knew when we would be allowed to disembark, all of us were awake and showered by 7am. After a brief diplomatic meeting, where the US Embassy Security Agent told us in reference to Namibian security that, “well, it isn’t Iraq,”we were able to leave the ship with no plan in mind. Andrea, Aaron and I found a taxi, and headed to Swakopmund. We were dropped off at the town market, where we each bought a few things as we watched other (more talented) SAS students join a soccer game with some natives.  We met up with our friends Katie and Jenna and ate lunch quickly before our sandboarding appointment we had made upon arrival to town. I got a burger at lunch that came with Monkey Gland sauce on it. I’m really hoping that’s just a nickname for a more appetizing food. It tasted fine.

Thirty minutes later, we had taken out cash and were hopping in a 4x4 with our sandboarding guides, Clayton and Hinny. The five of us squished into the backseat, with Katie squatting on the floor between the front seats. It took thirty minutes to get from the city to the “highway”(modern road signs on an unpaved sand road) that led us to the dunes.  I jumped out of the 4x4 and happily suited up with the gloves, pads, and a helmet provided by Clayton and Hinny. Soon a few more people arrived, making it 15 of us who planned to sandboard, half standing like snowboarding, and half laying down. My friends (thankfully) convinced me a 96-meter sand dune was not the time to learn to snowboard, so I sandboarded laying down.
A bit about how sandboarding works: all you really need is a large piece of cardboard and some grease to make one side smooth. You lay down, hold the front up to block your face from wild amounts of sand, and if you need to slow down you can try to put your feet in the sand behind you. 

We trudged up the dune, boards in hand, and sand filling our shoes. The winds are high during the desert afternoons. It swept sand into our faces and made our boards nearly impossible to carry. We did six dune runs each. On the largest one, they used a speedometer to tell how fast we’d gone. I tied for second fastest, coming in at 65km/hr. Each run was a thrill. My stomach would drop as I laid down on the board and adjusted my knees and gloves. I’d tuck my sunglasses into my helmet, and suddenly I’d be flying, with my face inches above the desert. I wiped out twice, but returned with just minor scrapes and my body covered in brown sand. The following day, an SAS girl broke her arm sandboarding (I don’t think she was wearing elbow pads or had much instruction) and many came back with large red sand burns. We had really great instructors.

After completing our last run, we headed back to the 4x4, where they gave us cold Namibian beer and bread and cheese. We took some photographs with the instructors and traveled to town to pay and pick up t-shirts. I paid 25 dollars for 4 hours of instruction, transportation, equipment, and refreshments. It was awesome.
After washing our faces in the sinks of a club above the Alter Action shop and admiring our freshly sunburned shoulders, we headed out in search of a well-deserved dinner. It was at this point that we remembered it was Valentines Day (and we since decided the best Valentines any of us have ever had). All the restaurants had signs advertising for Valentine’s specials. We ended up at an Italian restaurant called Napolitina, which advertised that you could win a free bottle of wine or $150 (Namibian dollars –15 USD) off a meal if you purchased a bottle they were deciding whether to put on their menu.  Not knowing what to choose from a list of South African wines, we decided to try the special. The waiter arrived with bottle in hand, and a pink envelope for us to open to see if we’d won anything. I opened it to read that we would be receiving a free bottle of wine. We were all taken aback, as after sandboarding all day and knowing we still had to take a twenty minute cab ride back to Walvis Bay, the three of us who had ordered the bottle were not really planning on sharing two. But it was the first prize won at the restaurant. And it was free. And it was Valentine’s Day. And we were in Namibia… 

After a long and entertaining dinner we headed back to find a cab driver. The one we found blasted techno/pop the whole ride back. We arrived back to Walvis Bay right at 12. I had to wake up at 6 the next morning for kayaking, so I was hurrying to bed. Twenty minutes later I get a call from Andrea, telling me, “Um, Taylor…Aladdin is playing. You need to come over.” We had been discussing Aladdin since arriving in Morocco and had been complaining that they weren’t playing it yet. I realized that I needed to sleep, but it was Aladdin, so I tossed on a sweatshirt, and headed the three doors down to Andrea and Katie’s room to watch and sing along out of tune. It was a perfect end to our first day in Namibia.

Day 2: I woke up slowly the next morning to get ready to kayak.  This was through an SAS trip, but I had signed up with my friend Aaron and two of our other friends, Shafiqa and Derrick were also signed up. We drove past fields of salt and empty lagoons before our guides finally stopped the trucks at an abandoned lighthouse. The water was a deep ocean blue and we could see a colony of seals in the distance.  My only complaint about the morning was that they only allowed us to use tandem kayaks, which was ridiculous. The four of us paired off and hopped in for a morning of seals and dolphins. Seals are really, really LOUD, and many of these had no fear of humans. It is typical for baby seals to hop up on kayaks out of curiosity. They never jumped up to us, but we did have big seals surround us several times. As we moved further out, we found three dolphins swimming side by side. One stayed and swam between our kayaks. It made for a good picture. Driving back on the beach, we noticed several lumps in the sand. Apparently when seals try to move quickly to water the large ones have a tendency to fatally injure the young ones. We saw probably ten dead baby seals, which hadn’t been washed out, and were just slowly sinking into the sand.

We got back to the ship in time for a quick lunch before the four of us, along with four other friends jumped in taxis heading out to Dune 7 for more sandboarding. We got there to discover that they were booked for the afternoon, but that should we like, we could zorb. Zorbing is more prominent in New Zealand and is effectively a large plastic ball, partially filled with water. One or more people jump in, and the ball is pushed down a small hill, or in this case, a dune. It was the best 14 seconds of Namibia and so much better than sandboarding. With sandboarding there is still a bit of risk and skill involved, this requires no talent and feels really fast and out of control. It was incredible.

After the eight of us had taken our turns, we headed to the shack selling beers for a dollar. Derrick suggested that when we finished our first, we pack a second and hike Dune 7, the tallest dune in the area, which is around 106 meters, depending on wind. Having done this yesterday as well, Derrick suggested that we take “the hard way”today and instead of zigzagging, just head straight up. It felt like an hour on the world’s toughest Stairmaster. We all started out in tennis shoes, but they’d get filled with sand, and so some of us went barefoot, but then the sand was so hot that I ended up hiking it in sandals. When we finally arrived at the top (20 minutes later, but felt like years), we sat sweaty with our beers, enjoying the scenery, and watching Namibian children chase each other laughing up and down the dune that left us breathless. 

Around 6 we finally left Dune 7, feeling quite accomplished as we hurried off to get ready for dinner. Derrick, Aaron and I headed out early so that we could barter in the markets before dinner. Probably due to our ship, about ten street stores (everything laid on a cloth on the sidewalk) were directly outside of the port. I took my time and enjoyed talking to the vendors. Their questions surprised me. One wanted to know if there were “any blacks”in our program. He also wanted to make sure we were planning on seeing a township. I finally found a carving that I really liked. I talked the woman down and ended up paying 5 dollars for it. As I was leaving she asked me “friend, please bring me lotion.” Lotion? It was such an odd request. I verified that’s really what she had said. All she wanted from me was lotion. After an (obnoxiously) long dinner that was too large and not that good for me (I tried to order fish and it arrived perfectly in tact - I have my limits), we walked back to the ship. The market stores were all covered in cloth as their owners slept behind their merchandise. I do not know if they slept there out of necessity or to maintain their space - probably a combination. I returned the next afternoon to give that vendor the lotion I had brought with me on the trip. 

Our last day in Namibia was slow, as we really didn’t do much. We ate lunch at a wonderful (and cheap) German restaurant built in the lagoon called, The Raft. After a long lunch, we headed back. I bought some postcards and stamps, and bartered away my last Namibian currency.

All of us arrived back on the boat shocked with all that we had seen and how much we had loved this young country. They were the first country to put land protection into their constitution. It is not a wealthy place –foreign governments have stripped most of its natural resources. It has an incredibly large income gap, and people are living in absurdly unsafe conditions. That being said, they are happy. Every taxi driver –even people we passed on the street asked us how we liked their country. They are proud of it. One driver liked to tell us about the history of Namibian buildings. He told us one house was “very, very old.”I asked him how old exactly, and his response was that it was built about thirty years ago.

Like I said, it’s a very new country. But they’re as inviting as it comes. None of us were happy about sailing away from this place. We’d only just begun befriending locals and getting to learn about their lives. Still, we sailed away knowing that in two days, we’d be in another land - Cape Town, South Africa –and we couldn’t be more excited. 

Young, Foolish and Happy

A bit of Neptune Day history:
Crossing the Line, or Neptune Day, is an initiation rite celebrated in many navies. It commemorates a sailor's first crossing of the equator. The rite was intended originally as a test of new shipmates by seasoned sailors. The tradition dates back to the 16th century, and in the old days, the ship heaved to (that is, it sets it sails so as to remain stationary) and the pollywogs were hoisted on the mainyard and dunked into the ocean 40 feet below; afterwards, shaving and other forms of blood letting took place.

Our Neptune Day wasn't exactly like that, but I did get fish guts dumped on me, kiss a fish, kiss the ring of King Neptune (the ship's captain, painted green), jumped in the pool to get guts off of myself, and cut off most of my hair to donate to Locks of Love. I have about a 1/4 of an inch left in back and maybe 3.5 in front. I am no longer a pollywog (new shipmate) but am officially a shellback (initiated sailor).

We bunkered in Dakar, Senegal yesterday. We couldn't see much past the dirty port, but we did pass directly by Gorée, which is an island was used to house slaves before they headed to the Americas. It is still as it was then.

2,000 Miles (4 days) until land...

A Whole New World

Overall thoughts on Morocco: The women are not present in this country. To book the Riad, I spoke via email with Maria, and yet I never met her. When I asked Hassan, who works at the Riad, he told me Maria was in France, which is impossible, as none of them have 40,000 dollars to spare for a visa. Even on the street women were veiled, sometimes with just eyes visible. It shook me. I understand there is religious meaning and tradition, however these women glared at me. I felt as if I had the life they in some way wanted. It is dirty. There is trash everywhere, and chickens are packed in small cages and travel on the back of bikes to markets. There are bugs. I bought batteries that must have been used. The city is half friendly, and half people hoping to steal from you. But they need the money. How did Casablanca build the third largest Mosque with the world’s tallest Minaret (200 ft) when right down the street, families live in one room, with old sheets as doors. Where are the priorities? On the ship, a member of parliament was attending a diplomatic greeting. The event was delayed 45 minutes because it is illegal to begin an event if you know a member of the government of a certain rank is coming and is not there yet. The children are taught to beg and steel. From the train I could see houses of mud and shepherds with just one or two sheep. Beneath lush green hills sat small shanty towns, miles away from even a train station. These people cannot leave their country. They are happy, and generally appreciate the tourists, but there is something inherently unfair about the culture. I would not feel safe here without a guy nearby. Throughout my days, I made sure to be in between two guys or at least with one. It’s scary to be a second-class citizen; to have someone else complimented for my good bartering skills, and me, just on looks. 

Below is a thorough account of my days in Morocco. This is as much for my own memory’s sake as it is for sharing. There was simply too much to take in. I am feeling seasick now, and so cannot proofread. Hope its somewhere near legible.

Today the ship photographer told me the way to explain the Semester at Sea experience is: “If you haven’t been on it, you can’t understand it and if you have been on it, you can’t understand it.”Having said that, I’ll do my best.

We arrived in Morocco a day late due to fuelling issues in Gibraltar. We went to bed docked in Casablanca, but for safety reasons were not allowed to leave the boat until the next morning. To entertain us, we had our safety guy (who used to be an undercover something –not totally sure, but told stories of tracking guys abroad) tell us how a pickpocket works. After this, we had the second talent night. This included several rap songs turned acoustic guitar pieces (Nelly’s “Ride with Me”and “I’m in Love with a Stripper”), and most notably, two friends of mine who changed the lyrics of the song No Air, to instead be No Land (“how am I supposed to live with no land/can’t eat, seasickness, I can’t swim”). This night also had our pre-port briefing, where we learned a bit more about Moroccan culture, and survival tips. We were told not to drink tap water, eat seafood, eat dairy or wear open toed shoes. The women were told to keep their hair up or partially pinned back and to look no one in the eyes, unless we were in a conversation. I packed that night for two days in Marrakesh. I was planning to travel with a total of 13 the first night and 14 the second. I had made reservations at a Riad (a Moroccan B&B) for all of us and was equipped with my Lonely Planet guide (they should really love me, as much as I talk about their books) for our daytime ventures.

Morocco is a country of bartering. This began as soon as we left the port to find taxis to the train station. For four of us, one driver asked us to pay 30 euro for the 10-minute drive. We refused, and kept walking. We walked up a block and found another taxi, which charged us 50 dirhams (equivalent to $6.25) for 4 people. He originally wanted to charge us 100. The drivers are insane. The yellow middle lines are negotiable, and pedestrians and bikers are avoided by mere centimeters. We took the ship safetyman’s advice, and followed locals to cross. For a first class three-hour train ride to Marrakesh, it cost us each 125 dirhams ($15.63). When entering our compartments (it was set up like the Hogwarts express…only much, much dirtier), all of the Moroccans immediately took off shoes. They noticed that neither I, nor my travel buddy for the weekend, Aaron, partook in this. It was a stale-smelling and stained car, but we arrived in Marrakesh on time. 

The train station was obviously new. One of the odder sites was a KFC with a menu in Arabic. At that moment, all of us wanted Americana. We ate our first Marrakesh lunch at McDonalds, and yes, that is pathetic. I paid 40 dirhams ($2.50) for a happy meal, and am thrilled with my toy –it’s an Arabic/French travel sized game of Sorry. The happy meal included a drink (fanta with ice –the first of the ship doctor’s rules I broke), fries, a burger, and an ice cream cone (dairy –also forbidden by the ship doctor). After lunch I bought a latte, which of course is made with milk. It was then that someone reminded me of the rules. Oh well. It has been two days, and I have not felt ill. I also forgot not to wash my toothbrush with tap water twice. Whoops.

After a long and overpriced cab ride, we all arrived to Riad Mur Akush, which is Arabic for Land of God, a name that it well deserves. Through two alleyways and a large iron door, we saw a small, open courtyard, with three floors of large wooden doors above it. As it was my reservation, I knocked, and I walked in first. Our host introduced himself as Mohammed, and shook my hand while saying in English, “you must be Ann. Welcome.” He led us all to tables set up in the courtyard. A few minutes later, he returned with a full tray of teacups and kettles. Mint Tea is by far the best thing in Morocco. It is incredible, and we had it at least three times per day. From there, he recommended we see the Souks (the Arab word for markets). This was my first time as a pedestrian in Morocco and it was terrifying. The amount of curse words that streamed from my mouth over that 20-minute walk may have set a record. Cars are not afraid of pedestrians, and neither are cyclists. The sidewalks are used as extensions to shops, and can only be used half the time. Even then, they were full of puddles, chicken guts (really), and discarded goods. We arrived at the Souks and were once again overwhelmed. There were vendors with turtles, chickens, monkeys, and of course the snake charmers and storytellers. The snake charmers speak some English, and are there for tourists. There were dancing cobras sitting alongside garden snakes that would be tossed around tourists’necks to solicit photographs and then money. I had no intention of touching a snake. I could hear my mother whispering, “Salmonella! Just think of all the people who touch those snakes! Disease!” But a Berber man ran to me and placed a snake directly on my head. It was not a comforting feeling to see a snake’s head resting at my nose. After giving him five Euro so that he would leave us alone (we were two boys and three girls at this point), we moved on to be bombarded by begging children, women trying to convince us to get henna, and men calling out to us: “hey, skinny!”to my Brazilian friend, “hey gay boy,”or “hey skinny boy”to the guys (they really don’t look gay though...), “hey, chocolat,”to our African-American friend, and “hey Scarlett,”to me. My friend Taylor and I were both called Scarlett over the course of this trip. This is a reference to Scarlett Johansen, which is funny a. because neither of us look remotely like her and b. that they know who that is, and associate American-looking women with her, of all people. 
After a stressful few hours, we headed back to our Riad, for some much needed quiet time to digest our surroundings. We headed up to the rooftop patio to get a bit of air. From the roof, the city looked exactly like Aladdin. So of course, as we looked up at the moon from 100 miles outside the Sahara, we enthusiastically sang the lyrics we know of Arabian Nights and A Whole New World. We all ended up much needed laugher, after an exhausting day in Africa. Dinner that night consisted of more Mint Tea, a Moroccan pizza, and fantas. We planned to be (and were) more adventurous the next day.
With my Lonely Planet guide in hand, we mapped out our route for Day 2. In the morning, we saw the ruined and pillaged Palais El-Badii, constructed 1500 and taken apart by the Portuguese three centuries later. We took pictures of the ruins, but the most interesting part was the storks living atop the buildings. We counted thirty storks in nests at least 1.5ft high and 2ft wide. Next, we headed to the tannery recommended by Mohammed. This was good practice in bargaining for the souks later that day. We had to walk out of the store twice before a price for our jackets was finally reached. With this as well as our taxi drivers, my French proved itself very useful. I could bargain in French, which I believe helped gain sympathy as a student in need of a good price and someone who was smart enough to know what was not a good price. My friend Taylor and I both bought jackets for a third of the original price. We proudly headed to lunch where we tried Tangine (not sure if this is correct) and two of us tried Moroccan beer, which was actually pretty good. One of the jokes of the trip was that this country could not make us as stressed as we were feeling in bargaining and markets and then refuse us a drink. After lunch, we hailed a taxi, and convinced him to fit seven of us in a car meant for three plus a driver. This is a bad idea, except that it was a short drive and that we felt much safer together and squished to the point that we could not move than with no seatbelts and free to slide with the car as it proves its breaks in traffic. It was a hilarious ride, and we overpaid the driver, who was also seemed thoroughly amused by our happy laughter.
That afternoon, we saw the tombs of Moroccan kings and then headed to the souks, with a list of what we wanted. With good bargaining, we all found what we were looking for at reasonable prices. While purchasing handcrafted bowls, I left twice before the shopkeeper finally said, “Okay lady, I give you your price, just keep your smile.” He then looked at my friend Aaron and told him that he must be a strong man. I would have been much more offended had I not purchased four bowls for under 20 dollars. There were dozens of vendors selling fabric. We found one with absolutely beautiful pillowcases. He spoke English to my friends, and I spoke French to him. He responded in French to me, and ended up asking me to hold back for a minute, telling me in French, “Do not tell your friends, but I will give you these for 100 Dirham. You must not tell your friends. Just pay me now.” They had already paid, so I laughed, and we shook hands. 
After an exhaustive afternoon of fighting with vendors over what literally comes down to about a two-dollar difference, we were ready for a good meal. We recouped time at the Riad, and planned on going out with all fourteen of us to a hookah bar and dinner. I had no intention of doing hookah in Morocco, and was getting uncomfortable with the direction that we were heading. I stuck with the boys. Without my knowledge, one of the girls had agreed to a cab driver who would take us in groups of three to the area of the bar. The price was good, but it meant that some of us would have to wait 20 minutes in the Moroccan dark. We had one boy in each car, and three stayed with me to take the last one. Although I was well protected, we were unnerved by the time we reached our group to discover that the bar had no food. Five of us caught a taxi back towards the Riad so that we could walk about from our dinner, and searched tiredly for a restaurant. We walked the road heading to the center of the Old City. A block away from the Riad’s Alley, I saw an alley lit by tall candles. It was called “Hotel Arabe”and advertised a restaurant and bar. We wandered down the alley, heading towards the well-lit hotel. We walked into the bar looking pretty rough. The one waiter working that Wednesday night greeted us and said, “Please, sit.”He looked at me wide-eyed and said, “You are very beautiful.”I laughed and he said, “No! Seriously!” I should probably preface this story with the fact that the other Taylor came in later that night and he thought she was Scarlett Johansen and her table got a free round of drinks too. He also gave her his email and phone number, so she can send him the picture that they took together. Nonetheless, a compliment, a piano bar, and the Casablanca theme, As Time Goes By playing in the background made the night significantly less troublesome. We were seated as he arrived with a round of shots (called Sex on the Beach) for all of us, and “two for my girlfriend”aka, me. We happily drank wine and ate tapas. Rashid, our waiter, also spoke to the chef, and arrived with free spicy lamb tapas. I do not like lamb, and neither did two other members of the group, but in that case, we all had to eat it. The meal was delicious and well priced. We ended the night laughing on the empty night streets in our Riad’s safer neighborhood. Once at the Riad, Hassan, the other man working there, showed me how to make Moroccan mint tea. I’m so glad to take that knowledge back to the USA with me. Hassan sat with us for a while as we drank our tea. He told us about life in Morocco, from his village in the High Atlas Mountains. He is just 23, but looks at least 35. He loves Shakira and Beyonce and speaks English because he has always been around tourists. He was wearing a shirt that said New Zealand, but explained to us that it is impossible to leave Morocco. To go to any country, one must acquire a visa, which costs about $40,000. I do not want to calculate that in the Moroccan currency. He has never left, and he knows that he will never be able to leave. I do not know how it would feel to be completely stagnant –to be prevented, based on nationality, of travelling anywhere. Why am I worthy of these experiences and not him? He speaks four languages. He seems intelligent, but there is no class mobility. There is no way for him to get an education, to grow out of his existence in Morocco. His experience in the outside world will be entirely based on the travelers he meets. Having said all this, he followed our election and watched Obama’s inauguration. He, like me, finds Sarah Palin very funny. This night ended much better than expected.
Day three, we awoke at 7:30 to our second Moroccan breakfast. Fresh orange juice, mint tea, coffee, pancakes, this thin, crispy, pita bread, loaves, croissants, yogurt…it was a feast both mornings. After breakfast, we piled into our mini-van taxi and all fourteen of us left for the train station. The ride back was unexpected. I sat beside an English couple and across from the ship’s photographer. The English couple was quite conversational. Jeff is a gardener and Jane is a cleaner. They saved for years for a month’s holiday in Morocco. Jane said the most difficult part for her was being unable to hold Jeff’s hand as they walked. She had lived more than thirty years in the states before returning to her hometown outside of Oxford and meeting Jeff. They’ve only been together for ten years (they’re mid-sixties) and say that she’s never been happier. “It’s so nice to live with someone who shares your dreams, your ideals, and lifestyle,”she told me, “he’s my soul mate, and I never believed it possible.”Jeff has a huge gray beard and gapped yellow teeth. Jane has short brown hair, and is plain, with an upturned nose. They both wore clothes that were patched and torn again, and they are some of the happiest people I’ve met. They’ve made friends with the grocery stores in their neighborhoods and collect the cans that they discard and distribute to their friends and others in need. They lived for a while as homeless, to know what it would feel like. Jeff had never left England. Jane had travelled in her twenties and spoke some classical Arabic. I have no interest in living their lifestyle, but found their story enchanting. 
As the train pulled to a halt back in Casablanca, I raced away to find my friends in other compartments. We met and taxied to the Hassan II Mosque, which is the third biggest Mosque in the world, and the first one I’ve been allowed to enter. It is one of two in Morocco open to non-Muslims. The Mosque was only constructed 15 years ago and has a retractable roof, so that when it gets too smelly (imagine 25,000 people inside for hours without shoes in Morocco) they can open the roof and air it out. The tour concluded at 3pm, giving us thirty minutes before Rick’s Café closed, so the Lonely Planet told me. We arrived at 3:10 to find it closed, with a guard out front. I spoke to him in French, explaining that it was my favorite movie, and that all I wanted was t-shirts and when the café reopened, I would be gone. He understood, but remained firm. He pointed to the Café phone number posted on the door and told me that if I really wanted to get in, I could call and speak to the patron. But of course, I have no phone. Soon, there were just three of us left, and I was depressed having missed Rick’s by just ten minutes. I opened up my guidebook, and showed the guard the time it listed. “Please,”I told him,”it is my favorite movie. It is my father’s favorite movie. I just want to be able to buy a t-shirt from Rick’s for my dad. Please.”
I think the guard had kids.  He agreed to check, and called the patron, who looked at my sad eyes and said yes, but only to me. I headed to the gift shop and quickly bought t-shirts and took photos, thanking the patron, explaining that it was one of the things I most wanted to see in Casablanca. After this, we headed back to the ship, saying farewell to land, for another 8 days.

Spain today, Morocco tomorrow!

Spain, Day 1: My first day in Spain was spent on a walking tour of Cadiz and getting used to walking on land again. They actually recommended that we take seasickness meds to counteract the "landsickness" we may get. Cadiz is so different from northern Spain.  There are palm trees and what the tour guides call, “Muslim castles.” I found myself photographing buildings and textiles.  I’d never seen architecture with such a Moorish influence before.  After our tour, we took time to regroup and then headed out for a night of sangria and tapas.  The tapas were mostly fish based and many of our meal choices still had eyes.  I’ve been forcing myself to try everything (from fish paste to whipped fish croquettes) but when there are eyes staring at me, it becomes a bit more trying. 

Day 2: I woke up early and joined my group to see Spain’s “white town route.” Specifically, we traveled by bus to Acros and Ronda, which are two small Spanish towns where the buildings are all uniformly white.  Ronda was beautiful.  Within two hours, we had gone from ocean town to steep mountains.  Our Spanish tour guides were proud to show us around their town.  Hemmingway apparently lived there for a while, and Ronda is also home to the first bullfight arena in Spain.  If I can ever figure out how to load pictures, there are some good ones from this trip.  The day concluded with another late dinner and sangria.  Cadiz is a safe town of 185,000, so I could wander (with 3 friends) at night safely searching for a restaurant.  We arrived at an open square, hoping to find the Cathedral, where there was free internet.  (Cadiz recently got a new mayor who put free Wi-Fi in all the important areas of town. We are very thankful to her.)  Instead of the Cathedral, we found an Italian restaurant, where we all happily munched on pizzas.  We left the restaurant around 11pm to find locals with their cameras out.   On that Thursday night, there was a group of 15-20 Spanish men suited with fake pregnant bellies.  A small, gray-haired, scruffy man, dressed in fully female nurse attire, led them down the street.  I still have no clue what was going on.  I do have a wonderful photo though.

Day 3: The original plan for this day was to go to Granada and spend the night there.  I had planned this with 3 friends, and we had booked a hostel and museum tickets a week in advance.  We went on Day 1 in Cadiz to book a bus ticket to Granada and discovered that there were none left.  We even checked the bus leaving at 3am. Nothing.  We all lost about $40 because of this misadventure. So the below is all plan B for the day:
After two late nights, and an alarm that is certainly not loud enough for me, I missed my 6am alarm to head to Donana National Park.  It sucked. I woke up two hours later, disappointed, but knowing there was much I could do that morning.  I spent the morning getting lost in Cadiz, doing a bit of shopping and completing a few application things on the free internet.  The only thing I had left to do was find colored pencils for my art class.  It had been a long morning of being lost and apologizing for not speaking Spanish when I finally found the art shop.  The shop had the radio blasting and the one clerk busily helping customers.  I had no clue how to ask for the colored pencils I could see behind the counter.  Suddenly, the radio switched from Spanish techno to Springsteen’s “Dancing in the Dark.”  It was exactly what I needed to convince me to say once again, “Lo siento, no habla espanol” and point to what I wanted. (I’m sure that Spanish is horribly misspelled.)  After that, I found my way back to the ship to have lunch and pack.
Here’s where the story gets complicated: I had planned over dinner my first night in Cadiz to go to Seville with one of the guys from my field trip on day 3.  The idea was for us to go directly from the field trip bus to the train station, and meet up with our friend Aaron in Seville at 7pm.  I had already missed the field trip, but was determined not to miss Seville, as it is home to the world’s third largest cathedral.  I arrived to meet the field trip bus to find my friend, Derrick, at 2:15 - 15 minutes prior to their intended arrival.  At 2:45 I was still waiting, and had no clue what to do.  I hurried back to the ship to knock on the door of another friend of mine on the trip.  She told me they had arrived on time and that Derrick wasn’t sure what to do, but had decided he would go ahead and take the 3pm train alone.  I glanced down at my watch and saw it was 2:54.  Crap. There was no way I could make it to the train, but I had told Aaron and Derrick two days before that I would meet them at Oasis Hostel at 7pm.  I immediately went to the bus station (directly outside of port), bought a ticket, and hopped on the 3pm bus to Seville, hoping I could meet them as planned.  I got to Seville at 5 and had time to explore on my own, which I loved.  I saw the Cathedral and Alcázar, though only from the outside, as both the church and castle closed at 5.  Seville is beautiful.  Long ago, it was home to a world fair, and thus the buildings represent styles from many different countries.  It is the capital of Andalucia, the province of southern Spain, and I counted THREE Starbucks.  Oddly, when I ordered my grande skinny latte, it was the only time that a clerk did not attempt to respond to me in English.  I found our meeting point with 15 minutes to spare.  At 7:15, neither of the boys were there.  I should note that this was NOT a big deal.  I assumed (accurately) that the boys had run into each other earlier in Seville, and Derrick had told Aaron that I missed the train and assumed that I never got to Seville.  That’s fine.  I spent another hour window-shopping before catching the bus to go back to Cadiz.  This was not how the night was supposed to go, but as far as I’m concerned that I got to see the cathedral is all that matters. 

Day 4: We departed at 6pm, so this day was mainly for errands.  We researched and thoroughly planned our Japan trip (we are officially booking transportation before hostels!) and spent some time in the grocery store and post office.  The ship departed that night at 6pm, heading towards Gibraltar, where we would dock for fuel before heading to Casablanca.

Currently: I am sitting on my bed staring at Gibraltar rock.  We are supposed to be halfway down the coast of Morocco, but due to strong winds, were unable to get fuel earlier.  Our entry into Casablanca is now delayed from 8am tomorrow to at some point tomorrow evening.  I am fortunate in that the trip that I have planned to Marrakesh does not leave until day 2 in Morocco, but it still is a day spent seeing land but unable to get off the ship.  Bummer.  My Marrakesh trip will be exciting.  I have booked reservations at a Riad (a Moroccan b&b) for 14 students, although we will not be all together during the day.  This means that should some of us want to bargain at the leather market and others hike in the Atlas Mountains, we can split up and still have guys in both groups.

That’s about it for now, sorry for the lack of pictures and that this is a bit dry...  When I figure it out, I’ll upload a few pictures from Spain and Morocco.