Tooty in the Classroom: Day 23

This post was syndicated to Semester at Sea's Shipmates publication for a new column called "My Life at Sea." As if every day isn't a remarkable gift, I experienced something today that had me choking back tears from unfathomable intensity.

Today, I slept through class due to an unknown time zone change and punished myself in the form of compartmentalized exercise and resumé construction. After our typical hilarious lunch time antics, I struggled through a tedious exam, ran down to deck 2 for a quick shower, and then situated myself within arms length of the front chair in my next classroom.

While I am normally magnetized to the window seat in the back, which usually curbs my seasickness, I relocated in order to improve the vista that I am sure remember my entire life. That swiveling seat and chilled glass of water sitting ahead of me was reserved for the most accomplished man I've ever shared oxygen with, Archbishop Desmond Tutu. His tangible presence summoned immediate attention and respect upon entering the room, even though his wardrobe included board shorts, knee high dress socks, and black leather flip flops. We were all poised with smiles, straight backs, and pencils in the air when he rose to speak from the adjacent podium, but he immediately expressed his own humility ever so subtly in an attempt to homogenize the classroom. Tutu transformed himself from a living legend into the every man within minutes, contradicting all our preconceived assumptions as to why he became an priest and what he was like as a child (entranced by comic books). He became a cartoon character, a goofy man with a drive to inspire the youthful that inspire him unknowingly.

I left with welling tears in a state of intrigued confusion, knowing it would be a while before I could fathom what just happened.

On this ship of dreams, it's just another day when the most famous archbishop in the world speaks to your classroom. At home, it's a jaw dropping phenomenon.

Brazil...Check: Day 18

After having the be-jesus scared out of me for this port, I was a tad hesitant to step off the gangway, expecting to have my passport easily sliced out of the money belt that was conveniently located in my underwear. Because of this long winded warning, I was at my most attentive state, armed with an angry stare and a determined stride (holding a pen like a weapon at my side). Even though my façade was solid, pulsating drums and colorful piles of houses melted my interior, as did the humidity. Scamming taxi drivers got us to the bus station where we quickly bought the last three tickets to Lençois. It was a six hour ride full of unnecessary pit stops, grotesque Brazilian teens smoking in the lavatory, and smelly seat companions, but we certainly had an adrenaline rush every time the bus played “chicken” with oncoming traffic. Every little uncomfortable bit of the journey was a treat to experience.

Garrett, Alexis and I jumped out of our seat when a woman passed us and asked in English, “Is anyone in the bathroom?” Immediately, we made friends with the American and her bilingual friend, who within minutes of meeting us made accommodations for our overnight stay and two day trek through the wilderness.

We greeted a very wet Chapada Diamantina at 0900 hours with our guide, Arnaudo, who was equipped with all our gear and a wonderfully bouncy gait. Natural rock slides and water the color of iodine made our first rest stop a bruising but exciting delight, and after teaming up with another trekking group, we powered off into a rainforest known to gobble up naïve travelers without guides.

Scaling a singed mountainside in the clouds

The rain came and went in the most unfortunate of times, for instance, while trudging up a steep rock face on the side of a mountain. Apparently their motto that it only rains in the mornings and at night is relative (similar to ‘It’s five o’clock somewhere’), as well as their concept of time (15 minutes = 3 hours). The most unexpected part was watching one of the guide’s backpacks float down some rapids we were debating on crossing, only to see him jump in at a moment of panic. The rain rerouted our travels to a cavern on a cliff where we spent a soggy night spooning on sleeping bags that smelt of unpleasant things. Alexis was careful to listen for jaguars outside our nylon walls, but Garrett focused on not rolling down a 60 foot drop. I, on the other hand, had little to think about other than the Chinese water torture nature was conducting on my forehead.

We survived the night and left alone to back track our travels to the rockslides, which went from amusing to abusive overnight. Arnaudo met us at the top of the falls to warn us against crossing, out of fear for our lives, so we lounged on the other side of this tourist destination and relaxed our burning feet in the cool waters. After twenty minutes of peace, we see crowds forming on the other edge of the water hole and men with ropes jumping haphazardly into the rapids. We started to pack up and look for the guide, but the men told us to stay. They were the survival crew from town, crossing the water to rescue us. The following twenty minutes included zip lines, cheers from the crowd, grasping rope for dear life, being pulled underwater by the force of the currents, the crowd taking pictures, bloody knees, bags flopping on the rocks, and a triple high-five from the three “Americanos” who were saved from danger in the Brazilian outback.

It was only when we ended our two day trek in the mountains of Brazil when we realized how horribly we smelt. One hospitable offer from Arnaudo and the three of us were taking showers in shantytown. My dripping hiking boots did not look inviting, so I took the streets like a local and walked barefoot to the nearest shoe store for some Brazilian sandals.

Meeting back with our fourth friend, Robb, at an Italian restaurant back in town facilitated an animated recount of all our travels and the great times we had, as did the three Caipirinhas that satiated our thirsts. As the night winded down, we rested in the town square where a stray dog and his antsy legs kept us company until a spontaneous downpour sent us running with everyone else under the covered market, laughing all the way. During that overnight bus ride to the ship, an overwhelming exhaustion sent me into a deep sleep that I could not remember having. I rejoined mankind at noon the next day with sore legs and clean hair, finally.

Pelourinho, the old city district in Salvador, glittered of elaborate Carnaval celebrations, loud musical presentations, and children spraying very wet silly string on their annoyed parents. Women in large, bell-shaped dresses and men in mini-skirts made us feel like the least festive people on every city block as we pranced around in jeans with our valuables duct-taped to our stomachs. The constant fear of being mugged or abducted by lurking criminals exhausted us, as did the shock that we were in the presence of the biggest festival celebrated on planet Earth.

We decided to embrace this once in a lifetime opportunity and head to the heart of the main event, the Barra circuit. My heart vibrated in my chest with every semi that rolled by, blaring traditional music and rattling bass beats from the hundreds of speakers on every truck. Twirling skirts, sweat beads flying, free bandanas being thrown everywhere, SKOL vendors shaking makeshift maracas to lure in thirsty partiers, confetti shooting into the sky, old ladies with tinsel wigs and gold pants…every audio-visual stimulus sent our hearts racing.

Brazilian women with beads and mustaches made our nights with their shimmys and chants, making us feel like we were united in the celebration. The only thing that brought us down from our elevated state was when they informed us that we were presently surrounded by drooling, dangerous criminals, eager to ruin our American lives. Luckily, the Brazilian SWAT teams were constantly weaving through our territory.

Millions of dollars in fireworks and pyrotechnics could not have raised our excitement anymore than when the next "bloco" rolled into our vicinity and the name of FATBOY SLIM appeared in flashing lights. Parked at our feet, the world-renown DJ’s semi blasted a techno/reggae remix of Eminem’s Lose Yourself, an American classic that we alone appreciated to its fullest extent. For many of us, this was one of the best moments of our lives, only topped by the fact that our safety that night was never in jeopardy.

I melted into my bed that night, too pooped to even ice my throbbing feet, but my ears were ringing from an unforgettable experience. The intensity of every situation in the past few days was paramount to what I have known in the past, and I met it all with two thumbs up and one very shifty eye. As I like to put it, Brazil smacked me in the face, but I smacked it right back. And now…on to South Africa.

Fruition: Day 1

I’m sinking into my shipboard bed (wow, no pun intended), and I can believe it. About two feet from my head is the open sea: crashing waves, gluttonous sharks, monstrous whales, and probably a good handful of shipwrecked boats. That’s scary to think about considering I am going to be on this vessel for the next one hundred days and am surely going to encounter my share of rough waters. The engine’s hum accompanies the ship’s pitches, and I thank the student directors from the bottom of my sea legs that I sleep on the lowest level, minimizing that rocking effect. After sitting through two sea meetings with the Dean and Co., as well as my Residential Director (the equivalent of an R.A.), I’m stunned in my own ability to hold down my dinner while swaying to and fro…ever so gently.

I am aboard the 92nd voyage of Semester at Sea; as unnerving as it may seem, this is my new life…be jealous.

An hour and a half of waiting in line got me to the ship, and five minutes of registration got me to my cabin. Upon stepping foot on my floor, a.k.a. the Aegean Sea, I met my roommate, who has surpassed my expectations thus far. A sophomore from Minnesota, with future plans in law and her priorities completely aligned, she’s also a winner in the personality department.

As I can only imagine, my mother is in Florida right now, meeting her girlfriends for a wee vacation, drinking margaritas by the pool, and crying about her sea bound daughter. Blubbering, from either side, can only describe the scene hours earlier, when I said goodbye to my parents for 100 days. And now as I adorn my room walls with antique-looking world maps and pictures like the marking of life achievements on the refrigerator door, I know I’ve got more to look forward to than I can fathom in this little confused brain of mine. Meeting hundreds of new friends on a daily basis, eating breakfast with a side of sunrise and salty air, and waiting for the next port of call to rise from the horizon line will be common events in the life of Lindsay Clark, world traveler…soon to be world citizen.

Today was a near perfect day, and the Colts winning Super Bowl XLI was the cherry on top.

Immediate Hits: Day 4

I will start by saying that, even at day four of one hundred, this is, by far, the most amazing thing I’ve ever done. Even though that’s probably stating the obvious, it needed to be said. And now, I will list the highlights thus far… The cast off from the Bahamas My roommate and her stunning sense of humor Stepping into the Caribbean Sea after a hike around San Juan The sunrise over the first port Saying “Good Morning” to Archbishop Desmond Tutu on the way to said sunrise The crazy cab ride home from Senor Frog’s in a pimped out cab with four ship crew members The cup of coffee from Nadia’s Café The hilarious busboys on the ship and their deadly fruit punch Spanglish Café The refreshing dip by a rainforest waterfall Sleeping very little and living a dream

Imagine living in a Ritz that takes you to unique destinations around the world with 702 college students that travel alongside you. Also imagine knowing for sure that the best moments of your life are approaching in days, hours, or seconds. The world that I study from the map on my wall is accessible at the end of the gangway.

The most unnerving experience so far has been trying to adjust to the slow rocking of the ship and then readjusting to the land multiple times per day. Once we gain our sea legs and learn to balance on the water, we get back on steady ground, where we continue to feel the swaying. I fell off the sidewalk yesterday. Speaking of sidewalks, I stumbled across a water meter in Old San Juan that read “Ford Meter Box Wabash, In,” which I immediately photographed. Even on a voyage around the world, I cannot get away from my hometown.

I am amazed that upon boarding the ship and at cast off, I met people that would get me even more enthused about this program and all it offers. When blisters and sunburns are the most of your worries, you know for sure that life is wonderful. All this perfection will screech to a halt when I get my first glimpse of the third world and its inhabitants. My worries will shift when I give a child a homemade bracelet, knowing that won’t guarantee them a happy or plentiful life.

On this voyage, days of the week won’t matter and the only time you care about is shipboard time (so you don’t get left behind). The skyline of San Juan glitters my vista as I enjoy a surprisingly tasty cup of “Joe.” I no longer smell the ocean air as it is probably my new scent…Eau du Salt & Fish. Along with the worry of these velvet waves swelling gigantically and swallowing us whole, I fear that a day will go by when I won’t appreciate this opportunity and wish I were somewhere else. In hopes of making that thought impossible, I am living by these rules:

1. Be decisive and do something.

2. Don’t sleep…keep going strong.

3. I hear; I forget. I see; I remember. I do; I understand.