Beware the Ides of March

Today was Neptune Day, a day of pure silliness.  Dating back hundreds of years, it’s an initiation ritual for sailors crossing the equator for the first time.  Charles Darwin wrote about it on his voyage on the Beagle.  The Wikipedia article on it has a shout-out to Semester at Sea.

It is one of those loosely kept secrets.  We were warned we’d get dirty, we were invited to donate hair to make wigs for people with cancer, we were assured participation was voluntary.  We were advised to get sleep, because the festivities would start early. 

Faculty and staff members who have already crossed the equator by ship played the roles of Queen Minerva (Judy McLeod of Charlottesville, in a headdress of her own device) and members of the royal court.  King Neptune was played by Captain Jeremy, in a get up so bizarre it was only his English accent that revealed him to us.

It was pretty much impossible to get pictures.  Put 700 people on the pool deck and you can’t see the pool.  I got there early enough to get a stool at the bar, which was in the shade, but behind the royal proceedings.

The morning actually started with members of the crew providing a wake-up call, deck by deck.  They paraded through the corridors beating on snare drums and blowing whistles, dressed vaguely like Romans.  Hours later, the troops were assembled on the pool deck, waiting. 

Arch came.  He’s our rock star.  Everywhere he goes, he attracts a circle of attention.  When he started dancing, the cameras came out.  It did pull some focus from the Royal Court, who arrived to find attention was directed elsewhere.  No matter, they quickly took over.

To be inducted into the honorable order of Shellbacks, you have to prove your worthiness.  Basically, this is just hazing, but our version of it is good natured and tame.  The crew pours gunk on you (it looks like the fruit punch they serve for lunch), you jump into our tiny swimming pool, you kiss a fish (a real one, dead) and kiss King Neptune’s ring.  If you are willing, the Royal Barber shaves some portion of your head.

Jim was one of the barbers.  He estimated that 100 people had their heads shaved.  Arch was the first. 

Jim was at it for hours.  That part was not a secret, but there was no way to see the proceedings.  He reported later that he could barely breathe.  Students crowded in to see (and chant) from every direction.  It was brutally hot.

Finally, the barbers turned over their razors to the students.  There are now many boys and a few girls with shaved heads.  Or Mohawks, or other fanciful partially shaved heads. 

The water of our pool turned from crystal clear to brown.  The deck flooded from all the splashing, and clumps of hair sloshed from side to side with the deck’s motion.  The students started painting on each other with chalk and body paint they got in India.  I went down to my air conditioned office for some peace and quiet.  I knew Neptune Day was over when I heard the announcement that everyone needed to vacate Deck 7, leaving the crew to clean up after us once again. 

Oh, Captain, my captain

Tonight was a Q&A with Captain Jeremy Kingston, and there were no holds barred.  The questions ranged from how much fuel the boat uses to what kind of car he drives on land.  Captain Jeremy came with three of his officers, Staff Captain Korney (the second in command), Hotel Manager Stefan (who handles all the food service and housekeeping staff), and Chief Engineer.  It was an interesting evening.

Our ship is really fast.  The promotional materials say it’s the fastest ship of its class, a statement that doesn’t really say much.  (My father used to quote a district manager who boasted the company was “the largest one of its size in the industry.”  Not all records need to be claimed.)  The captain said apart from its sister ship, the Voyager, the only cruise ship he knows of the goes faster is the QEII.  He’s had the ship over 30 knots, but says the top speed is really closer to 28.  We have four engines, and today we’re running on one, at about 14 knots.

We measure the fuel in tons.  We measure the cost in millions.  For this voyage, fuel costs are $3.5 million.  For the whole year, food costs are $1.8 million.  Fuel for the ship costs about 6 times what fuel for the passengers costs.

Captain Jeremy came on board in 2005, immediately after the ship reached Hawaii following the major storm in the Pacific.  He said it limped in using the navigation system from one of the lifeboats, steering using a direct connection to the rudder.  (It also had windows blown out on the bridge and in some of the cabins.  It was really limping.) 

The ship management company decided the captain needed to be relieved of duty, and brought in Jeremy, who was just finishing a tour with another ship.  He is one semester on, one semester off, working about 6 months of the year.  Others on the ship work closer to 10 months before getting vacation. 

He was asked what’s the worst weather he’s been in, and he said a storm in the Atlantic, on a different ship.  And that second was the storm we went through in the days just before Japan.  Even though he thought his personal gear was secured, one big lurch to starboard sent all of his drawers and doors flying.  In this, the captain is no different from anyone else on board:  the ocean doesn’t play favorites.

The most interesting questions were about pirates.  A few days ago, my boss Jim’s wife, Nancy, mentioned that it seemed as if we were going faster at night, and Jim confirmed that we were.  He said it was a safety precaution, to outrun any pirates who might be operating in the area.  Tonight, Captain Jeremy was asked what was the fastest we’d traveled, and he said about 25 knots, just after leaving Singapore.  What he didn’t say directly was that it was during the passage through the Strait of Malacca, another pirate haven.

He did say, with evident relief, that we had passed out of the area considered at risk for pirates about an hour earlier.  The pirates operating in the Gulf of Aden have been going further and further afield, presumably because of the presence of military ships deployed to their earlier zone of operations.  Now, the area of highest activity extends east to Sri Lanka and south to 10 degrees below the equator. 

It’s a calculated risk.  The captain told us they had been receiving intelligence reports from the UK and the British Navy has been monitoring our ship.  (I have no idea what they would do to help.  They are not exactly nearby.)  Most interesting, he said that the Navy’s evaluation of our ship is that it cannot be boarded if we are moving at more than 16 knots, due to the design of the hull and the pattern of the wake we generate.

And finally, a low tech defense system:  the crew is prepared to deploy high pressure fire hoses to flood any ship that tries to interfere with our passage. 

Back in Japan, when passengers were fretting about rough seas, I put my faith in the captain and the crew.  What other alternative did I have?  My anxiety would not have helped to steer the ship through the storm.  My reasons for wanting to live were no stronger than anyone else’s.  Those charged with our safe passage were doing the best they could.

As similar fears have been raised about piracy, I’ve taken the same approach.  Still, it’s a relief to know that we’re out of the danger zone.  Because this guy does not look like great protection.

Are you smarter than a fifth grader?

When you cross the equator, does the water start circling the drain in the opposite direction?

Does anyone still believe that?

Silly question:  there are people on this ship who believed they would see the International Date Line.  Pretty sure there are people even now, filling their sinks with water and watching it drain out.

My primary job on the ship is to write the Deans’ Memo, and one of my tasks is to think up new ways to say “Save water.”  So when one of our faculty members suggested repeated experiments with drain circling, it seemed inappropriate for a publication that had been recommending fewer showers and less shampoo.  We weighed the alternatives:  irritate the faculty member or irritate the ship’s staff captain and my boss decided we should print the notice. 

As a scientific experiment, it’s nonsense.  Even in calm seas, the ship rocks enough that the water in the sink isn’t still.  The sink doesn’t hold enough water to create a spiraling drain.  And the ship had crossed the equator 12 hours before the Deans’ Memo was published.  I gritted my teeth and did as I was told.

Five minutes after I sent out the Deans’ Memo, I got an email:  You’re a day late and a dollar short.  We already crossed the equator.

From the faculty member who submitted the notice.

In my position, I have to suffer fools all the time.  I don’t promise to do it silently.

Vanishing point

Last night, there was a spectacular sunset, the kind that makes students crowd the rail to take pictures.  I was having dinner with friends and the conversation turned to how inadequate our pictures are.  The sea spreads out in front of us in all directions, our boat the only thing in sight.  Birds are occasional visitors, and today we were treated to flying fish.  They are a little like shooting stars, gone so quickly you aren't sure you really saw them.  They look like a dotted line in the water.  

The ocean is an incredible navy blue up close, and fades into the horizon seamlessly.  The sea is calm:  yesterday the wind was only one knot and the sea conditions almost imperceptible.  Both air and water are a balmy 84 degrees. 

Change is hard to gauge.  The sea is featureless, the days alternate between A and B, but days of the week have no meaning.  The ship goes slowly and steadily, night and day.

We crossed the equator sometime in the night.  It’s an imaginary line; there’s no yellow caution tape, no horns blaring.  We are pretending it didn’t happen, because our official Neptune Day celebration starts tomorrow morning.  

The ship’s noon report also tells us that we have traveled 10,000 nautical miles since San Diego.  Coincidentally, google maps tells us we are also 10,000 “crow flies” miles from San Diego.  That’s a lot of hours, moving along at a speed of 11-15 knots. 

On the bridge, the person at the helm has to press a button every 16 seconds to prove that he or she is awake.  Otherwise, sirens go off.  During the day, there are two people on the bridge.  At night, there are three.  It’s easy to get mesmerized.

Ten thousand miles.  It’s a little hard to take in.

Smells like fogey spirit

While we’re on funerary customs, here’s a post left over from Viet Nam. 

On our way out to the Mekong Delta, we passed many fields with small monuments in them, and our guide confirmed that they were gravesites.  Usually there are just a couple, but a few had half a dozen.  Families want to keep their ancestors close to home, our guide told us. 

I couldn’t get any pictures from the bus—too bumpy, too fast, and too far—but here are some from the islands in the Delta.  These were taken from the pony cart, I think.  An even bumpier ride, but much slower.

The small number of monuments tells us that it is a family plot.  A friend who traveled to Hanoi shed some light on how everyone fits.

The newly deceased is buried in a large coffin, and stays there for three years.  Then, the coffin is opened and the bones are cleaned of the clothing and flesh that remains.  It is considered an honor to be able to perform this service for your loved one, and there is a great ritual aspect to it.

There is also a certain unpleasantness, to put it delicately, and this part is not performed by the family.  As part of the mortuary services, the original casket is dug up and aired out for a week before the family claims the remains.

In this way, the family member’s job is more of an honor and less of an onerous chore.

Thank you for sharing

Travel shakes up your sense of what's right and what's wrong.  If you're even minimally open to reflection, you are confronted again and again with the assumptions you make about the universality of just about everything.

Kerala, the Indian state we are docked in, is a small sliver of land between the sea and the mountains.  It has a literacy rate of nearly 100%, and an almost even split among Christians, Hindus, and Moslems (40-30-30).  Judaism remains only in signs and historical sites.  Wikipedia tells us there is one Jewish woman of childbearing age left in Kochi.

The Wikipedia entry also diverges considerably from the version I heard aboard ship, which included a great deal more rescue of a persecuted people.

Jewtown remains as a street full of shops run by Indians who are not Jewish.  It is a tourist attraction which has no shops other than those catering to tourists.  This also means it is cleaner and more expensive than other areas of the city.  It sits at the end of the ferry, which costs 2 rupees (4 cents US).

The "God's own country" signs are everywhere.  It is the motto of Kerala, referring to the natural beauty of the area.

Our guide on the Agra trip, Arvind, is very proud of Indian diversity, and very concerned about income disparity.  He told us more Swiss bank accounts belong to Indians than to nationals of any other country.  I present this as unverified, since my understanding of Swiss accounts is they are numbered in order to be untraceable.

I wonder if God, who evidently resides in Kerala, has one of those Swiss bank accounts.

Close encounters of the school kind

After our day in Agra, we had one day in Delhi before coming back to Kochi.  Our first stop was the Deepalaya School.

These school/service visits are included in almost every SAS trip.  In China we went to a school for children whose parents are in prison.  In Burma, we went to a school for blind children and another for girls who have no better educational opportunities.  In India, it was underprivileged children whose parents have come to Delhi seeking work. 

(It’s not clear to me why these children don’t go to public school, which is free.  The government provides uniforms and school supplies when necessary.  Perhaps it’s the transient status of the parents. Our guide told us they come from families who do not have a history of education.)

I feel like a curmudgeon for not liking these trips.  I have heard people describe them as the highlight of their visit.  To me, they seem more like zoos for children.  We make a donation to the school and it purchases a little performance from the children.  They seem good natured and obedient, but not particularly interested in the parade of Western faces coming through their school.  It doesn't look like they have any say in the matter.

My discomfort here is a variation of my general discomfort at being a tourist.  For this trip, I grabbed a skinny book from the "take one, leave one" shelf in the library.  It was Jamaica Kinkaid's A Small Place, a memoir of Antigua.  The basic message: tourists are horrid people who think they own us for the time we are here, but they have no idea how much we hate them. (So that's the translation when the waiters, or tour guides, or vendors speak to each other?  Thanks, we were wondering.)  We make this kind of deal with the adults--this is how you make your living here--but it seems unfair to enlist children, trading on their big eyes to shake loose a few bucks.

I felt most comfortable in the blind school, where the gawking occurred unobserved by the children.  We watched them stream out of morning worship, sort their shoes out of the piles of shoes at the door, and zip off to the next thing.  They know their way around the school and you'd better not be in their path!

At this school, we were invited into a kindergarten class, where the children were coloring worksheets.  The worksheets said they were an exam, and each question had a point value.  The front asked them to identify examples of air, land, and sea transport and to identify creatures of the sea (including a garden snail).  On the back, they were to match the parent and offspring of dog, cat, chicken, and owl.  As far as I could tell, however, they were simply coloring.  They couldn’t read, they hadn’t written their names on their papers, and they weren’t labeling any of the pictures.

The coloring was painstaking work.  Each child was carefully pulling one crayon at a time out from their box, then putting it back when done.  Most of them slid a cover onto the box and put the whole box into their schoolbags each time.  There was no squirming, no talking, no distractions.  These children were here to work!

They were carefully copying each other’s work.  At several tables, there was a clear “alpha” child, and one or more children copying the alpha’s color choices.  That self-censorship seemed very sad to me.  What kind of pressure is exerted to make a four or five year old unwilling to risk using the wrong color crayon?  The motto of the school is "Enabling self reliance" --they have a long way to go!

The children sang for us, and then we sang “Itsy bitsy spider” for them.  The teacher declined to translate.  They are, in theory, taught in English, although the children I spoke to did not respond to anything I said, beyond confirming their names which I read off their papers.  The kids gamely imitated our hand motions, but I don’t think they understood the words.  We also sang “If you’re happy and you know it” with the same results.

Evidence of aliens among us

In another room, one of our students made balloon animals for the children.  One balloon artist, 30 children.  Jessica was racing to try to make one for each child, and was working from right to left.  The children on the have-not side were straining to see and clearly envious.  The children on the have side seemed perplexed.  I wondered what would happen when the 30 became haves in a school of 470 have-nots. 

George came to the school with us, and one of our students found a Curious George book in a pile of children’s books.  I wondered how that would play over the dinnertime bowl of rice. 

A monkey from a book came to our school today.  And he was wearing a t-shirt that said “F*** swag.  I’m gangnam style.”   

Education is learning the ways of the world.  Sometimes, the world doesn't make a whole lot of sense.