In class

In an introductory anthropology course, you learn about how once upon a time people lived in hunter-gathering societies. This meant that whatever you had, you carried with you.

To have more than you needed was to be burdened.

Then we figured out how to plant and grow and harvest, and with the birth of agriculture came for the first time the idea of surplus—having more than enough.

This concept of surplus meant that some began to have more, and others less.

Some had greater access, and others not.

This was the beginning of stratified society.

It’s a divide that carries us from pharaohs to feudal lords and onward to this day, where every modern society, no matter the political ideology, manifests to one degree or another the chutes and ladders of a hierarchal system born a long while ago with seeds and surplus.

The thing about India is that it made no attempt to euphemize its stratification—to have caste written into your social and religious creed is about as un-sugarcoated as it comes. And the legacy of that system is on a scale so large and a magnitude so staggering, it would be absurd to pretend otherwise.

The have-nots are not well hidden.

I have this image branded in my brain of our drive in the rickshaw through Chennai at nighttime, and on every block tens and tens of people were asleep on the sidewalk—a new block, a new batch of men, women, and children lying still on the concrete—for the entirety of our drive.

Strangely enough, it was a sight I had seen before.

Because people sleep on our concrete too.

In caste, they say it’s for reasons of karma.

In capitalism, we say it’s for reasons of laziness.

Except, of course, it’s much, much more complicated than that—as anyone who’s ever tried being a part of the solution knows full well.

I find my brain runs in circles, trying to sort through the madness.

And at the end of the day, I have to choose to get off the rat wheel, and to rest in the life and teaching of Jesus, as his heart was always running recklessly after people on the margins.

The messy and the bleeding and the blind and the crusty—we know the stories.

The ones with the littlest of access to the world’s surplus.

They were his great, counter-cultural delight.

Which, having now seen more of the world than before, I find deeply instructive and entirely compelling.

But then I did have a hunch that circumnavigating the world would make the most nonsensical-seeming of things the most profoundly relevant.

Ask me come December if my hunch is right.

Love. Anna

Getting There

It’s said that half the fun is getting there.

I’ve decided that my motto for India is a good, hearty 89.9% of the fun is getting there.

Between the bicycle rickshaws and the auto-rickshaws and the taxicabs and the buses and the trains (oh heavens, the trains!), I had to always repeat my motto.

And in the end, it made for a wonderful India.

The best, most preparatory moment was our first evening in port. Allie and Bryan and Kelly Rose and I had a late dinner at a lovely little rooftop place in the center of the city. Afterwards, we shopped around for a bit and then decided to head back to the boat far later than we should have considering I had a 3:30am wake-up call coming to me the next morning, which would begin my trip to the Taj Mahal.

SO…we bargain with our rickshaw drivers (we were two to a rickshaw) and start heading back to the ship. When we got to the port gate, the guards wouldn’t let the rickshaw drivers through, which meant we had to get out and begin a fifteen minute walk back through the dark, industrial port before finally arriving at the boat.

Now at this point, a huge bus of SASers pulls up, and Kelly Rose and Bryan decide that we should just hop on their bus the rest of the way back to the boat. But while Allie and I are still in the process of paying our rickshaw driver, Bryan and Kelly Rose start running, they hop on the bus, we hear the hiss of the doors closing, and it pulls away.

Great.

Just splendid.

Apparently Bryan and Kelly Rose pleaded for the bus to stop, but to no avail.

So now Allie and I are left alone, coughing in the dust of the tour bus as it drives away.

We are stopped by multiple guards asking to see our shore passes (which we had to carry with us at all times and present to any official who asked to see it). We enter the gate, telling ourselves that we’re going to be just fine.

We start walking.

And the guard starts yelling.

Walking through the port back to the boat was not allowed according to this man (because rules are fluid, and policies change by the moment).

At this point, Allie and I have our hands on our foreheads.

What to do?

What one must always do when in a pinch at night by the port gate of Chennai…hire the emaciated bicycle rickshaw driver that the guard motions over to peddle us back to the boat (I have a little hunch the rickshaw driver and the guard were in cahoots).

This sounds like a perfectly wonderful solution to our predicament, except for the fact that this man was at best the size of one my thighs. He’s literally straining just to begin peddling Allie and I.

It was at this point, amidst the squeaking of the bike chain, the grunting of our driver, and the fact that we were going at best a sprightly .001 miles per hour that Allie and I burst into hysterical laughter.

The hilarity of that moment was more than our overtired beings could contain.

We cracked up the entire way back, and felt as though we owed some sort of apology to this dear man with calves the size of spaghetti noodles for peddling us to the ship. Considering he only spoke Tamil, we settled for a tip and the sincerest bow of gratitude.

Little did I know that I was just being primed for the bus that would overheat, the train that would be two and half hours late, and the rickshaw driver who would take Lila and I on one wild ride.

A wholehearted hooray for the joy of getting there, right?

Love. Anna

Mr. Singh

Mr. Singh was by far my favorite person that I met in India.

We were lucky enough to have him as our tour guide throughout the duration of our excursion to the Taj Mahal.

Mr. Singh spoke with gentleness and a tender heart and a twinkle in his eye. And his turban always matched his shirt just right.

He was full of lovely little ditties that helped us make sense of confusing things. “All Sikhs are Singh’s, but not all Singh’s are Sikhs” being my personal favorite—he really cleared me up with that one.

It wasn’t until later that I discovered he’s 81 years old (meaning, of course, he’s lived through much of the history he recounted to us—entirely incredible)!

If you haven’t met Mr. Singh, perhaps his age doesn’t sound quite so astonishing, but it absolutely is.

I wouldn’t have put his age a year past 65, he was so strong and full of energy.

I asked him what his secret was, and he told me no meat, no alcohol, speaking truthful words and many blessings (I think running was in there somewhere too).

So there you go.

A prescription for longevity from the lovely Mr. Singh himself.

Love. Anna

I’m back.

And I’m alive.

And I love India.

I have never been so exhausted in my entire life (and while I recognize that I have dramatic tendencies, I am not exaggerating in the least bit about the extent of this exhaustion).

And my lungs are most surely as black as my nose boogies (the heavy pollution makes for a continual snack no matter what time of day), but it’s nothing the naan and loveliness of the people I met didn’t completely make up for.

It’s funny because of any port on the itinerary I feel some sort of pressure to churn out deep and profoundly eloquent thoughts, it’s India—and I know many of us are relatively well acquainted with images of India’s social problems (poverty being perhaps at the top of the list).

But the thing is, I’ll be processing these things for a long, long while.

So in the next few days, I’m going to rest. And journal. And chat with Allie. And let go of any pressure.

I’ll be posting a few simple experiences and anecdotes—whatever comes to me really.

And where there are holes, know I’m still processing, and will be ever so happy to share the thoughts with you as they come.

For now, sleep.

Love. Anna

Heading Up North

India has up and swallowed us whole.

I kid you not when I say my senses have been assaulted in every way possible, and I’m loving every minute of it.

Just thought I’d check in to let you know that I’m off to the Taj tomorrow, so I’ll be signing out for a few days.

Much Love,
Anna

The seas have been glassy lately.

It’s a calm I almost forgot the ocean was capable of, amidst miles of white caps and weeks of up and down, back and forth.

Today, I returned to the northern hemisphere.

And tomorrow, we greet Asia for the first time on our voyage as we port in Chennai.

India is a place I have longed to go for some time, and I know before arriving that five days will never do justice to a country that holds 1/6 of the word’s population in it’s borders. I’m grateful for the five days nonetheless.

This port more than any other is eliciting fear in students on board.

Fear of the poverty.

Fear of the smell.

Fear of the crowdedness.

These things have the marvelous potential to inconvenience personal agendas.

And I’m glad for it.

Inconvenience is good for the soul every once in awhile.

More to come.

Love. Anna

For the love of learning...

“Even a knee-high tsunami can kill you; the power of the fast-moving water can knock you down, then beat your body and head with debris, and drown you.”
-Quote from my Natural Disaster’s textbook

How I love the warm and fuzzy reading I get to do while sailing on the open sea!

Really now, the author of my textbook couldn’t find a more morbid way of phrasing these things. Every chapter, I get to learn of numerous ways the earth just might kill me on my travels.

But I do quite enjoy my Natural Disasters class (this in itself is some great miracle, seeing as though it’s a natural science class).

Mostly it’s because my professor is a petite British woman with an accent that is perfectly suited for the title of our course.

Every time she says “disaster” it’s with the luscious and ever so dramatic ‘long A’ sound.

disAHHster.

Geohazards and natural disAHHsters.

Brings such spice to the title, I think.

But then I would love my science class for the dialect of its professor, wouldn’t I?

Oh but it’s the little things, friends.

Love. Anna

Hello there, dear friends.

It’s been quiet on the blog-front these past few days as I am once again battling illness, and trying to fully recuperate before we get to India. (I would just like to go on record and say that I’m officially convinced flu shots do zip for my well-being—I’ve been sick more in the two months since I got my vaccine then I’ve been in the past two years)

Oh, but Mauritius was entirely superb!

Allie and I packed more fun into three days than I thought possible. We explored the diverse and very walkable city of Port Louis and did a submarine tour of the coral reef (we saw an octopus!) and spent a generous amount of our time as the only Americans lying on a beach with some of the truest turquoise water the ocean has left to offer.

And about getting to the beach.

We planned on taking a taxi. This is how most everyone was getting around while we were on the island, and we were told in our pre-port briefing to expect the taxi ride would cost about thirty U.S dollar. But we ran into a SASer on the second day who told us we could take a public bus to the beach for a fraction of the Mauritian rupee we would pay going by taxi, so the next day Allie and I set off to tackle the public transportation system of Mauritius.

Getting to the bus terminal was a breeze. Finding the right bus to get on took a little more work (and plenty of help from kind locals), but when all was said and done, we got to a beautiful beach on a local bus for twenty-four Mauritian rupee, which is the equivalent of about eighty-one U.S. cents.

A savings of  $29.19.

How’s that for some fun international thriftiness?

I’m quite proud.

Love. Anna

My Happy Place

Mauritius is the most delightfully random country on our itinerary. 

You know when you have to pull out a map and search hard to locate exactly where it is you’re going in the world (which I did almost a year ago now when I first started looking into SAS), that it is somewhere special—Mauritius is just one of those places.

I also think we should take just a moment to marvel at the fact that geographically, I am the farthest away from home that I will ever be on this journey (San Francisco and Mauritius are on exact opposite sides of globe), so in a lovely sort of way from here on out we are coming home.

The highlight of my day was the fruit and vegetable market in Port Louis.

There is no other way I’d rather spend an afternoon than walking through the hubbub of a new place, and watching the locals bargain amidst piles of fresh herbs and mounds of fragrant, dry spices (along with a host of other strange and marvelous vegetables I’ve never seen before in my life). Those of you who know me well, know that the produce aisle is my happy place, so for me, today was like the tiniest little taste of heaven on earth.

As we strolled, we bought mangos and pineapple and a local drink called alouda, which is almond milk with some kind of seed (almost like fish eggs or tapioca in texture) added to the bottom of the glass (so incredibly delicious).

Leave it to the smallest of simple things to tickle the soul the most—that’s what I was reminded of today from half way around the world.

So cheers to the simple things!

Love. Anna

Embarrassing Request

Allie and I lay awake in bed until the wee hours of the morning last night, deliriously singing every musical number from The Sound of Music (we’re cool like that).

Some of us were raised on animal crackers, apple juice, and Power Rangers—I was raised (among other things) on this epic film (the term “epic” generally applying to those movies that came two VHS tapes to a package, and take an entire Saturday afternoon to view).

The many hours I spent imprinting my five-year-old brain to the hills alive with music and the mountains confident women with swinging guitar cases are capable of climbing have remained with me throughout the years, which is why I was completely dismayed last night to discover that I have forgotten almost every word to the “Lonely Goatherd” song.

Now I recognize, mind you, that this is completely ridiculous, but it’s one of those tiny things that nags at your brain all day, as you find yourself searching for lyrics continually alluding you.

It’s at times like these that I miss Google most.

But because the Internet and I are on a break right now (a good thing, I assure you), I’m asking some kind soul to google the lyrics for me and to send them to two roommates in the middle of the Indian Ocean who are anxiously awaiting the finish of their musical review.

We are just that silly.

Many thanks and much love,
Anna

Dollars and Sense

The World is Flat.

That’s the title of the book we’re required to read for Global Studies.

While it’s hardly believable that the world has been flattened (I am, of course, circumnavigating it as we speak), I think the title captures a profound shift in reality for my generation.

It’s a shift that actually makes it feasible to set foot in sixteen countries by the time you’re twenty years old. Can you imagine?

A shift that allows you to drink coffee in Spain and play drums in Ghana and eat dim sum in China within whimsically short amounts of time—something a twenty-year-old a hundred years ago probably couldn’t conceive.

This freedom of movement my generation is so fortunate to have at our fingertips also implies that the injustices of the world are framed in much more personal ways than they’ve ever been before. My generation can take cameras to far away places and witness for themselves the unimaginable and grotesque realities of our world—we’re not as reliant on third party media sources to rally us into action.

I see that my generation cares. This is good news.

But.

I am also deeply concerned for my generation.

I’m concerned that this newfound proximity to the world’s injustice is failing to correlate with life change (my name being at the top of that list).

I’m concerned that we’re able to travel half way around the world, snap a few pictures holding an impoverished black child, upload them to Facebook when we get home, and think we’ve done something to change the world, meanwhile our lives continue to look much the same as they did before.

I’m concerned that we’ve been trained to care about poverty reduction (a good thing), while remaining unchallenged to examine poverty production—that is, how it’s created and continues to persist.

I’m concerned that my generation is trying to place band-aids on a wound the size of the developing world. I’m concerned that we’re holding our hands against the world’s lacerations, convinced all the while that the bleeding can be stopped with some feelings of sympathy or a vague solidarity we might share with the poor because we stood in a shack once—we, however, returned home to life as usual, and they continue to be unfed and underpaid.

We need band aids and hands that are willing to help, we absolutely do. These are valid and right responses to pain. But I have to wonder, if these wounds are actually going to see healing, will it take something more? Might it take investigating the cause of the matter to stop its perpetuation? Might this cost us something?

But alas, we’re functioning in an economic framework where scarcity’s implicit and rationality’s assumed. Fine and dandy…except that from where I stand, resources aren’t all that scarce on our side of the world, and human beings are far from rational when we spend on ice cream what could rightly feed entire continents. Are not there flaws in the foundational rhetoric used to organize our world system?

And maybe, just maybe, this all might have something to do with why our acts of charity, however well intentioned, never quite seem to be enough.

Because we are still playing within the boundaries of a broken system we feel we can’t escape—a system that so brilliantly perpetuates an organized creation of dissatisfaction. This, in turn, fuels a deadening cycle of detached, meaningless consumption—a cycle we feel helplessly subjected to and powerless to change. It’s also a cycle I’m convinced is contrary to the life of abundance offered through Jesus’ redemptive act on the cross—he died, after all, that we might know a satisfaction that surpasses dollars and cents.

Consumption itself is the most basic and necessary acts of our human nature—we consume to live. And so consumption is far from evil in and of itself, but only in so much as it acknowledges the basic rights and wellbeing of the party on the producing end of things. And my generation has a comatose enough conscience to know the ways in which modern consumption fails to acknowledge these rights, and lets it continue anyway.

The hard thing is that I don’t have easy, clean answers (which I know the devil’s advocate will be eager to point out when I’m painting with this broad of strokes). I do know of my longing for a way of living that perpetuates justice and abundance and, a recurring theme throughout my voyage, freedom.

I think I just might be getting ready to embark on a journey to discover what that looks like in the day to day. (And I’d rather not do it alone, if you’d like to join me)

I recognize, of course, that this will mean the rejection of many things—I feel scared about this—as I know already that I will fail many times. I take comfort in knowing that at the end of the day, such a failure will only leave me praying for grace and wrestling anew with the complexities of the world, which is perhaps the best possible place I could find myself.

Bitterness is never beautiful, and cynicism is the last thing the world needs more of, which is why I offer these words to my generation as gently and humbly as possible—knowing all the while that I am as guilty and confused as the next person—but struggling, in spite of it all, to say something that matters to the world.

Love. Anna

Day Six in Cape Town

My final day in Cape Town was absolutely fabulous.

Eight of us (including two lovely life-long learners) hired a taxi to take us down to Cape Point (the lowest point on the continent of Africa).

The drive was completely breathtaking! I think I’ve failed to mention in previous posts how incredibly beautiful South Africa is—because it has a Mediterranean climate (much like home), it rivals California in everything from beaches to wine lands, and truly would be an excellent spot for your next big vacation (it’s so much more developed than what you’re picturing it to be, trust me).

We saw penguins (you’re not all that far from Antarctica down there, I suppose) and also the exact place where the Atlantic Ocean and the Indian Ocean collide (you can actually see it, friends. It is SO cool!). We hiked to a lighthouse at the top of this cliff, where we looked out over the whole ocean blue—such a worthwhile trek! (We also got to see lots of ostriches and baboons...possibly the funniest looking animals I think there ever was).

Heading back, we drove through some of South Africa's wine lands, which are just now budding, and green as could be (as it is springtime in South Africa). We took plenty of pictures, dined well, and soaked in our last bits of fresh South Africa air, (and even made it back to the waterfront in time to call home) before boarding the ship again.

Almost everyone you talk to on board this boat will tell you that Cape Town was their favorite port; people were so devastated to leave. I wouldn’t call South Africa my very favorite of all (for more reasons than I have time to write at the moment. Ask me over coffee when I get home?), but I did have a marvelous time! There are things I experienced in South Africa that I will never forget as long as I live, and for that I am grateful.

I can hardly believe how fast time is flying. Mauritius (our next port) is the halfway point for our voyage!

Crazy, no?

I do miss you all very much, and wish you the very best this coming week.

Love. Anna

Day Five in Cape Town

Day Five in Cape Town was just one of those days where nothing went as planned.

We were going to hike Table Mountain that morning, but it was rainy and gray, and the trails were closed to the public due to the dangerous conditions—so that plan was nixed.

And we went to plan B, which was a tour of Robben Island (the place where Nelson Mandela was imprisoned for 18 years). Except that the ferry was closed due to wind and rough seas, and consequently all tours were cancelled.

By that time, it’s raining and we’re freezing—so we taxied to the District Six Museum, which Christina hadn’t seen yet and was really hoping to. I was fine with it, as there is always more to learn about apartheid. Afterwards, we walked to the Castle of Good Hope (built in the 1600s and remains a military base), and watched the changing of the guard. At this point, the sun was starting to peak through the clouds, so we strolled through City Square and returned to the waterfront to go grocery shopping for snacks (I made my own trail mix) that Allie and I store underneath our beds in case of emergencies.

We had an AMAZING South African dinner that night at a restaurant right on the water. We all ordered different things and sampled off each other’s plates. I ordered a “breadie”, which I’m only now realizing is an extremely hard dish to describe…it’s chunks of meat (mine was lamb) cooked with almost artichoke-like flowers, covered in a sauce full of spices, and served over rice. Others in our group ordered various types of game—so I also got to sample wart hog (sorry, Pumba) and springbok (which is like South African deer), and both were quite lovely.

I’m off to a Global Studies study session for now (our midterm is quickly approaching, as is the miniscule little island called Mauritius that is our next port of call), but tomorrow is another reading day—hooray for no classes and a guilt-free nap!

Love. Anna

Day Four in Cape Town

My fourth day in Cape Town was spent with the NGO Operation Hunger.

The mission of Operation Hunger in South Africa is pretty basic: to feed the hungry bellies of children.

They don’t have a grand scheme for ending hunger or eliminating the cycle of poverty (at lease that I saw)—they simply see a need and work to meet it.

Bless them for it.

It looks generally like this: Operation Hunger seeks out people in a community who are working to provide sustenance to its youth. Mostly these are women who get knocks on their door from starving children. This is where Operation Hunger comes in and provides resources—everything from money to nutritional powder that can be added to pots of soup they prepare—to these women as they open their homes.

In the shantytown that our group visited, Operation Hunger is in the process of doing a nutritional assessment. So our job was to weigh and measure about fifty or so children, ranging from 6 months to twelve years of age.

After this task was completed and we charted the results, we went to a local church that opens it’s door for three or four older women to prepare food and serve children after school who haven’t eaten in awhile. We ladled soup and sat with the children who were quietly sipping their lunch from Tupperware containers.

My brain is still cranking through this experience…but it was absolutely worthwhile, and I’m glad I set aside time for it.

In other news, we’re hitting very rough seas going around the cape. When I woke up this morning, we had rocked and rolled enough to displace everything on our bedside table. The good news is that we were exhausted enough from being in port for six days to sleep through the night without being bothered by it.

Daytime, of course, is another story.

Hello seasickness pills.

Love. Anna

Dear Friends,

Meet Allison Jean Hart.



I'm not gonna lie...you have to be pretty fantastic to sport those sunglasses around the world.

And please do excuse my hair.

Love. Anna

Day Three in Cape Town

Highlight of Day Three: the Kirstenbosch Botanical Garden.

Sprawling and set against Cape Town’s famous Table Mountain, these gardens were the perfect way to spend our dewy morning. I was stunned and completely refreshed by how quiet the gardens were (quiet is an adjective easily forgotten with all the engine noise and close proximity to five hundred other human beings).

We could have hiked these gorgeous grounds for hours and still had more to see, but after our fair share of peace and greenery, we had a lunch of ostrich burgers (almost as good as an ostrich steak).

Yes, real ostrich.

I feel so completely bizarre confessing to you that I am loving this meat!

It has a completely unique flavor and a very different texture than beef (and supposedly it’s much healthier, but I don’t have any facts to substantiate that one). It is light and tender and something I would highly recommend to any and all who get the chance to sample it.

The rest of the afternoon was spent exploring around the heart of Cape Town, and shopping at Green Market Square, finishing off our day with dessert and Mrs. Doubtfire (gets me laughing out loud every time).

Cheers to a very fine Monday!

Love. Anna

Day Two in Cape Town

Sunday in South Africa was quite nice.

(Minus, of course, my two friends Mucus and Flem that have made their way from my nose to my lungs.)

Months ago, I signed up for a Cape Malay cooking adventure, and I wasn’t sure if it was going to be a hit or a miss (you never quite know when you choose SAS trips), but it turned out to be a huge win!

“Malay” is a blanket term used in South Africa to describe any peoples from South or Southeast Asia (Indonesia, Sri Lanka, Malaysia…to name just a few countries) brought over as slaves during the spice trade, and who are primarily Muslim.

During the apartheid, the Malay people were assigned their own quarter or district of town, and were forbidden to paint their houses. Once the apartheid ended, families in the neighborhood began to paint their homes all kinds of bright colors to mark special events like a wedding or a birth.

Today the neighborhood looks like an easter basket of sorts, with each house painted a different taffy colored hue.

We walked around the Malay district for awhile, taking in deep breaths of turmeric-scented air. And as for the highlight of my day, we got to go into the home of a local for a cooking lesson. There is a small South African tourist agency that has contracted with different women in the Malay community who, by hosting small groups for in-home cooking classes, are empowered to contribute to the financial well being of their families.

Hamida is a wife and mother to three girls (a gender combo I’m partial to myself) ages 13, 9, and 4. She told us that she got bored of mundane housewife tasks, and decided that she wanted to host international students and teach Malay cooking.

We all chatted about Ramadan and rugby and our thresholds for onion chopping, while attempting to fold samosas just as Hamida had instructed us.

After our fill of chicken curry and samosas and chili bites and “twist sisters” (which is like a South African spice doughnut), we said our farewells and headed back to the waterfront.

For the evening, my friend Lila (this girl truly should be the textbook definition of lovely) and I had some much needed conversation and (for very different reasons) shed a few much-needed tears, while sipping our not-needed but profusely enjoyed pots of red tea.

A day of warm scents, full flavors, and a new (and already dear) friend is a day I’ll take anytime.

Love. Anna

Day One in Cape Town

Yesterday was a strange day.

We disembarked the ship to find the beautiful waterfront, just as we were told we would.

If you took elements of the Glendale Galleria, Downtown Disney, and Pier 39, and mixed them together with a stir stick, you’re able to get a ruff picture of what I am talking about.

Everyone relished in the comfort of the familiar, enjoyed some retail therapy, and walked around taking pictures and eating ice cream cones (along with some of the ten-percent white South Africans).

That afternoon, I had an FDP for my Warfare and the Modern Era class to three different black townships, as well to the District Six Museum, which preserves for the world the reality of apartheid in South Africa (officially revoked in 1994…I was five years old. If you’re not quite sure exactly what apartheid is, please google.)

So we got on our coach bus, drove 10 minutes, and got off our coach bus in a shantytown where one million men, women, and children make their homes out of cardboard and variegated tin. Others live in horribly dilapidated government housing with two families to a room the size of a master bath.

We walked through these streets like a herd of little, white ducks following our tour guide like mother hen, our professor reminding us to stay close and to hurry up, as we had a schedule to keep. Pictures were snapped, smiles exchanged, a few darling little black children held, and back on the coach we went.

Back to the waterfront.

Where everyone relished once again in the comfort of the familiar, enjoyed some retail therapy, walked around eating their ice cream cones and waiting anxiously for the clubs to open for the night.

I’m troubled.

And wrestling.

The world is such a lot for my heart to handle.

Love. Anna

Hello Cape Town

HOORAY for South Africa tomorrow!

I must say this has been a really ruff stretch of sailing (in more ways than one), and I have a major case of cabin fever. Besides being sick, I am so ready to get off the ship after seven days.

But it’s all good because tomorrow I meet solid ground once again.

So much has been said about South Africa in these last couple of days that make me extra excited to arrive—supposedly it’s the most fun and beautiful country we visit on the itinerary (and has by far the most beautiful waterfront).

But it’s also supposedly the most dangerous country (South Africa has the highest sexual assault rate, murder rate, and HIV/AIDS rate on the continent. Gives you nice and fuzzy feelings inside, doesn’t it?), and I watched Taken for the first time last night, so I’m battling extra paranoia.

Prayers for safety, por favor!

I’m fairly sure I’ll be able to find wireless internet while I’m there, so if all goes well you may be getting a very special treat (i.e. a pic of me and the roomie).

Much love to you all (and Happy October),
Anna

The Proposals

Being twenty, a female, and a foreigner means a little extra excitement while traveling. By this I mean we girls get to dodge a fair amount of petty harassment.

Walking the streets, boarding the buses, shopping the markets…you must prepare yourself to be constantly stared at, called after, and lavished with copious amounts of compliments. While it would be nice to think these compliments were coming out of the sincerity of these men’s hearts, more often than not, they’re a part of a rather hilarious and clever sales technique, attempting to convince you to buy some silly knick-knack or other.

I find the whole thing particularly funny to be honest.

It’s not everyday someone tries to sell you a bracelet by telling you they like your hips.

Seriously now, how do you keep from laughing out loud at that? More over, how in the world do you respond?

“And I should buy your bracelet because…?”

I’ve never been so tongue-tied in my entire life.

But my absolute favorites are the marriage proposals (And to my great delight, Allie is particularly prone to them).

Walking in the medina of Casablanca or down a street in Accra, a stranger man will literally just out and pop the question.

“You like to husband with me, Beautiful?” (Bursts of laughter ensue)

So tempting.

But no.

I think I’ll be passing on the husbanding for now, thank you.

These are just some of the many reasons why we must never travel alone, and always pack a sense of humor.

Love. Anna