Laura Rouch

2-9-06

Journalism

Bay of Wonder

“Don’t bring anything that can’t get wet,” the guide cracked in a thick Spanish accent.  “We will all be getting very close to the glow.  I know you want pictures of this to tell your mommies and daddies, but I can guarantee you that anything you bring in your kayak will get soaked.”  He looked at us, and I could see the laughter in his eyes.  We had no idea what we were in for, and he loved that fact. 

We looked at each other nervously.  There had been a “loss” earlier that day on the same bus, which resulted in two missing cameras, on the previous students’ trip earlier that day.  Now we were being told that we couldn’t bring our cameras with us, but would it really be any safer to leave them on the bus?  As we each stripped down to our bathing suits, we debated what our best chances were to ever see our camera working again.  After deciding to leave the cameras on the bus, we made our way to our quick lesson of “Kayaking 101 with Ishmael”.  Ishmael was our guide, and we hoped that he would not lead us all astray. 

“Now that you are all pros, before I lead you into the dark mangroves, I must warn you of one thing.”  Ishmael began, his face staggering serious.  “You must be aware of the Chuppa Cabra.”

We all stared at him.  What was the Chuppa Cabra?  Why was it a danger?   And I wondered not for the first time if I really should be here at all.  Was it worth losing my camera, and now a chance encounter with the Chuppa Cabra, which I didn’t even know what it was?  

“Now, La Chuppa Cabra is known throughout all of Latin America, the Islands, and the Seas.  La Chuppa Cabra only comes out late at night, and has been known to find wanderers.  It creeps up in the dark,” his voice in a low, hushed tone, as he inched closer to our faces, “and grabs you and sucks all your blood!”  He screamed, his eyes seemingly popping out of his skull.  We all jumped, but he never even flinched.  “Stay close to the group, it only attacks stragglers.”  This time his voice drifted away with the wind.  He looked at us all sternly, and then gave the order “Climb in!  Let’s go!”  The adventure had just begun. 

It was after 11:00 pm, and so dark we could barely see our feet below us.  Shivering in the chilling wind, with anticipation of finally experiencing the glow, we loaded into our kayaks.  Each kayak had a bluish glow stick on the front and back to identify which group we were in, and also so we could find each other in the pitch black.  Whitney climbed into the back, shrieking at the shock of the cool water.  I followed suit, and soon, we were off, following the glow stick ahead of us.  Ishmael had informed us all that we would be traveling through a narrow channel before we reached the bay of our main attraction.  In order to prevent traffic jams, it is very important that we follow in a single file line, the glow stick ahead of us. 

Blazing past the fumbling kayaks, we sympathized with them as they were still trying to figure out which end of their Kayaks were the front.  We fought the tide, searching for the glow stick ahead of us, our guiding light.  Suddenly, ahead of us was a huge up rise of wood and steel, a sunken ship. 

“Right!  Right!  Paddle right!”  I shouted above the roar of the pulling tide.  We paddled hard to the right, avoiding another clashing of kayaks.  Passing the wooden mass, we saw the jumble of glow sticks behind us, with the occasional sigh of frustration from the tangled paddlers. 

Finally, we had arrived at the mouth of the narrow channel.  With the darkness closing in, we could no longer distinguish our hands from the paddle in front of us.  The only guide was the soft light from the glow stick on the kayak ahead of us.  The Mangroves stretching overhead seem to whispers words of caution as we slithered through the dark water, avoiding with all of our might, bumping into the banks on either side.  With animals calling over head, I prayed that they had already eaten their dinner for the night, and that I was of no interest to them.  Something moved on the branch beside us.  Whitney and I froze.  Was it a snake, a baboon, or the chuppa cabra the guide warned us about?  We paddled harder, frantic to find the group.  How did they get so far ahead of us?  I could feel the sweat bead on my forehead. 

Finally, ahead of us, like a savior, we saw the dim radiance of the blue glow stick.  Meeting up with our group, and our heart rates slowly declined back to a more realistic rate, we looked down, and stared. 

With each paddle stroke, the water appeared to light up behind it.  The wake from the kayak seemed to illumination the path ahead of us.  It was weak at first.  Before long, we could see exactly where everyone was, even though the night around us still lay like a blindfold to what was ahead.  With each movement of every kayak, the water lit up, like tiny bursts of a sparkler, giving light, and then fading back into the water.  This is what we had come for, the spectacular bioluminescence. 

Entering the bay, Ishmael warned us of the natural inhabitants of the area.  He promised us that if we decided to swim, we would not disturb the la Piranha, or la Barracuda.  We looked at him in horror.  He had brought us all the way out there in flimsy kayaks to compete with Piranhas and Barracudas?  One look at our faces and he tossed back his head and let out a howling laugh.  “! Los Gringos son demasiado para mi!”  (Those gringos are too much for me!)  And then with a glint in his eye “No, no, I joke, it is not the Piranha or the Barracuda you need to be afraid of.  Really it is la Anaconda.  At this point, I knew he must be joking, but still, it was not a risk I really wanted to be taking.  Just then, he jabbed his paddle in the water and started screaming, something jerked him out of his kayak, and he was gone!  Something got him!  We all jumped and held tightly to our precious kayaks, were we next? 

Seconds later he popped out of the water, laughing even harder. “!Aye! Dios meo! ¡Como me encanto los gringos!  (Oh! How I love these gringos!)   With that, he hurled himself back into his kayak, shaking his head all the way, as we paddled further into the bay.  Whitney and I looked at each other, both of us thinking the same thing, “What a nut!” 

Reaching our final destination, the glow intensified.  Ishmael, still dripping wet, started our science lesson for the evening.  He explained what made the water glow with movement, and how the energy transferred from our movements to the organisms in the water.  He racked our kayaks, tying them together with a rough rope and instructed us all to “jump in, the fish already ate!”  A few brave souls did jump in, but Whitney and I decided that we would rather enjoy the panorama from the safety of our kayak.  The Kayaks were drifting deeper and deeper into the bay when Ishmael called for the swimmers to stay close to the catamaran of kayaks.  He was about to return to a question raised by the racked group, he suddenly did a quick double take.  “Wait a minute; I thought there was only 14 of you swimming.  What is the 15^th that I see out there?”  All of a sudden his eyes got big, “Swim faster!  Swim faster!  ¡Ándele! ¡La Anaconda!  ¡La Anaconda!  ¡Que viene!  ¡Que viene!”  Spit flew out of his mouth as he tried with all his might to bring the catamaran of kayaks closer to the desperate swimmers.  The swimmers frantically began kicking and pushing with surprising force towards the racked kayaks.  Ishmael couldn’t help himself, as once again, he tossed his head back as laughter erupted through the air.  “! Aye, yi yi!  ! Los gringos!”  The swimmers looked at him with relief and disgust.  He really was enjoying all of this a little too much. 

The swimmers climbed back into their kayaks and we disbanded our catamaran, and slowly made our way back towards the canal.  Leaving the bay, a melancholy lingered over us all. It was too bad we had to be leaving so soon!  I wondered when I would ever experience this natural beauty of science again. 

Making our way back through the narrow channel, we saw the glow slowly dissipate, until it was gone all together.  The dark splashing in the water still made our pulses race, and our urge to be back on land all that much stronger.  The bushes beside us suddenly rustled.  Was it Ishmael, playing another joke on us Gringos, or was this something we really need to fear?  We didn’t stick around long enough to find out.  With shocking speed we exploded through the opening at the end of the channel, back to our departure bay.   

As our kayaks ran on the bottom of the bay floor, we knew that our kayaking adventure had come to an end.  Drying off and enjoying snacks provided by the touring company, we each wondered secretly if our cameras were still on the bus.  One by one, we filed back on the bus, searching under our clothes and other secret hiding places, hoping to reveal the glimmering camera.  There was more than one sigh of relief that escaped from the mouths of fellow explorers.  Everything appeared to be in order as we prepared for our long journey back to the San Juan port, and our warm, dry beds aboard the MV Explorer. 

2-24-06

Well, I was really hoping to get this online by now, but unfortunately, Things didn’t work out like I planned.  After Africa, I just seemed to get sicker and sicker.  Yesterday, I decided to finally co to the ship hospital to see if they could fix me.  I had am absolutely horrible experience with the clinic.  No matter how sick I get from here on out (and I’m starting to get nervous about India in this regard), I refuse to ever go back to he clinic.  The staff was rude to me and ultimately put me in isolation for 24 hours, which was horrible.  I am the worse person to have to spend time in isolation; I really don’t handle it well.  I was not contagious, but rather, suffering from food poisoning, or foods that my body just did not like.  I had the same reaction as if I had eaten flax seeds (which I am allergic too.  I actually went through all of my foods that I had eaten to see if any of them had any possibility of having flax seeds in them.  I came out empty handed on this mission.)  The staff didn’t wouldn’t even tell me what my vital signs were, which is stupid.  If there was any fluctuation in my vital signs, I would be the one to know, since I know my baseline, they don’t.  When I told them my symptoms, they were like, well if you are having these symptoms, you need be at the clinic.  Well, hello!  Just where am I?  I am at the clinic!  Some of the assessments were wrong too, for example:  she was pushing around on my stomach, and then she goes to listen to it.  Doesn’t she know that by pushing around on my stomach she potentially alter the results of listening to my stomach?  So that assessment was pointless.  And then patient confidentiality.  What a joke.  I am sitting in the waiting room, and a nurse is yelling across the waiting room, full of students, still asking me personal questions about my symptoms.  Oh, and this was the best question ever.  The nurse asked me where I was.  Are you kidding me?  Did she forget so soon that we were all in Africa just three days ago?  Where else would I be?  So I reply “South Africa” and she was like, “oh, ok,” and writes that down.  Needless to say, I was not a happy camper with the whole experience.  Then they put me in isolation for something that is not contagious.  Food poisoning or food allergies are not contagious.  When the nurse told me I had to go in isolation, I am sure I saw her smile with guilty pleasure. 

So, I get to my isolation room, still haven’t eaten anything all day, and it looks and feels like a prison cell.  It was dark with all the blinds pulled, and I only gone one blanket and a hard pillow.  They were telling me in the clinic how important it is to be drinking water to get over this, but do they even provide me with water?  Oh no, that would be asking too much.  So, I finally got my lunch, which later looked exactly like my dinner, cold dry stale toast, and chicken broth and a banana (I actually don’t like bananas very much, but I ate it).  They never called my roommate to let them know where I was, or even my RD.  So, I found out later that Maria spent all day trying to figure out what happened to me.  I told her I was going to the clinic that morning before I left, but when she came back from class and I missed my class, she had no idea what happened to me.  She had to hunt people down who could enquire and then get back to her.  The system is not good. 

I was locked up for 24 hours, and the medical staff never once checked on me or ever even peaked in the room.  Once 24 hours were up, they called me on the phone to see if I felt better.  Regardless of how I felt, I told them I was fine.  There was no way I could stay in there another day.  Well, I am free now, allowed to once again roam the ship.  I am so glad that I am out of that room.  I just hope I don’t get really sick again… even though I will not be going back to the clinic next time. 

Well, in other not so good news, my cell phone seems to be completely dead, it won’t even turn on.  That was my alarm clock on the ship, and my way of communication with my family and Chris when I was in port, so on to plan B.  I think this week just isn’t a very good one right now.  I’m sure things will get better, at least I am out of that room!

Love Laura

Laura Rouch

Journalism

3-22-06

Editorial

Myanmar; to go, or not to go

            Are we as Americans doing more harm or good by visiting Myanmar?  There are many pros and cons supporting both sides of the argument, both from the Burmese and the Americans.  I feel like the ultimate goal of Americans who are interested in Myanmar, is to restore power to the democratically elected officials from the 1990 election.  Is the best way to attain this goal by going and seeing the repression of Myanmar by the military regime, or by avoiding everything related to Myanmar, particularly tourism? 

            By Americans as well as other international tourist going and witnessing first hand this repression, hopefully they will walk away with a mission to make a difference.  If more people knew about the situation in Myanmar, the optimist in me likes to think that people would be more motivated to start grassroots movements.  But then again, what is the benefit of grassroots movements?  Are we ultimately hoping for our government to intervene with another war to make a statement, and over throw their government?  Are we playing god by making any moves at all?  If we decide to go and bomb the country to get rid of the bad government, are we not hurting and killing some innocent people, just like the government does already everyday?  How many human lives are we willing to sacrifice in order to save these people from a corrupt and oppressive government?  And once again, are we playing god by making these life and death decisions for other people? 

            If we don’t go, and we end all tourism to this small country, what are we benefiting there?  We stop a large amount of funding that is going in the governments pockets, but we are also stopping a lot of funding that the locals rely on to stay alive, and to keep their families alive.  If the government had no funding from tourism, they still have the funding from the black-market on drugs.  However, the people that are already being oppressed will not have that funding from tourism, and therefore will have absolutely nothing.  The government will still have money, but the people will have none.  The people rely on tourist for the little that they do have.  It is true that their export of rice is another source of income, but is it enough income after the government takes their cut to keep the people alive?  What is in it for the government to keep the people alive?  From the view of the inter-port lecture, and the healthcare personal aboard this ship, the government does not care about the general public’s health.  The government only provides adequate health care to the military personal; the others that have health problems are left to die.  The government is not letting anyone leave the country that is Burmese, so they do not have resources to get adequate health care without paying off the government. 

            What does government benefit by keeping the people alive?  The people are already oppressed and have no freedom, and are constantly paying the government off anyway the government sees fit.  If all of the people of Myanmar die, and only the government is left, will that be the turning point for the government to see that there needs to be another way to rule a country?  Isn’t it too late by that point?  The ones that are in power will continue to stay in power until a bigger force goes in there, plays God, and over throws the current government.  We have seen by example that the people of Myanmar are not strong enough to over throw their own government, otherwise the country would not be in the state that it is in.  But is it our responsibility to intervene, which in turn will result in more deaths?  What is the cost of freedom?  Is it worth the cost to have freedom?  If the USA interferes, people will die, but as a result, maybe someday, people will be free.  If the USA does not interfere, the people will live but will continue under this oppression.  Is freedom worth it at the cost of life?  Why are we making these decisions?  By interfering and “setting the people free”, is our ultimate goal to make their country like ours?  Are we so ethnocentric to think that our way of government is the only way for the rest of the world? 

            If tourists from all over the world keep the industry alive in Myanmar, at least the government is on their toes and trying to make it look good, so maybe it is better for the people while were there.  The government does not want us to see the whole picture.  If tourists are there, at least things like the massacre of 1988 won’t be repeated while the public eye can report it. 

            We as Americans need to be educated.  Not only education on the history of the countries and the way they are being treated and ruled, but also in what we can actually do to make a difference.  We need to know a solution, which is how we are driven, even if it a long term project.  I think the American people should be educated on this situation, just like other situations in other countries that mirror this one.  We should be educated about the past, but also the future. 

Laura Rouch

Journalism

April 18, 2006

The Big Flush

Usually, when you think of a toilet, you think of the standard john. Typically it is a porcelain throne where you can sit and rest and think about anything and everything. It usually consists of a bowl with a seat and a lid on top, as well as a whole lot of plumbing that you don’t really understand anyways.  For some people, this is the only thing they have ever known in the realms of the toilet world.  However, for the rest of the globe, this just isn’t so.  One of the biggest shocks to a western traveler could be walking into the restroom and discovering there is no resting involved. 

In some parts of the world they have the seat for you to sit on but no bowl beneath, so you are left without the mystery of where all the waste goes.  Still in other countries, you could be left with wondering how to go to the bathroom at all.  The plumber must have forgotten to install the toilet, as all you see is a hole in the floor.  In some of the more up scale areas, the hole is at least accompanied by foot holds and a flush.  For us westerners’ traveling east, this is a strange and new concept.  In the east, the concept of a washroom is simplified to a room, as there is no washing involved.  This kind of toilet really can be more accurately defined as “visiting the pot”. 

When frequenting the lavatory, one lacking the porcelain throne, you have to understand and have mastery of the squatting technique, especially if you’re fortunate enough to be wearing trousers.  There are many complications that could ensue, especially if this is your first attempt, or exhausted and weakened from a full day of hiking around a new city, or simply being too cold and unable to relax sufficiently.  A proficient squat is always key. 

Once the squat is mastered, each new eastern powder room can be its own adventure.  In India, the first shocker came.  Walking into the bathroom, you are tempted to turn right around and walk out; this latrine must be under construction!  They haven’t even installed the Jon yet!  You soon realize that the joke is on you.  In your hour of need, you are forced to learn a new skill, or suffer a urinary tract infection from trying to wait the inconvenience out.  In the private stall you are provided with a spot to place your feet and a flushing lever, the rest is for you to figure out.  The floor looks like a health code hazard all in itself, and you begin to calculate how long until you arrive at the hotel, surely they have what is now termed the “western toilet”. 

In Myanmar, you thought you would be well prepared since you just survived India, but as you open the stall door, you realize India’s version of a lavatory really wasn’t so bad.  If you decide to relieve yourself at Inle Lake, you will hear your relief blending in with the lake beneath you, the same lake you spent all day paddling around in.  No need for flushing here!

At least Vietnam did not come as much of a shock, not like India and Myanmar.  Now it is no longer the unexpected, just the dreaded Lue.  China came with the unfamiliar characters.  No longer were you dreading what would be behind the doors, but rather which doors to go in.  Regardless of the dire need to discover what was behind the mysterious doors, you usually find yourself waiting outside the doors for an un-expecting individual to exit, to determine the desired sex within.  I guess nobody gave them the memo about those handy little stick figure symbols for easier, and safer sex detection.  When ever one speaks about that God given  “sign from above”, we now understand that sign to be the female replica with the words “Western Style” printed beneath it.  After surviving India, Myanmar, Vietnam and China, Japan had to be just about as predictable as they come.  In reality, the bathroom adventure truly began with Japan. 

Once you figure out that red means girls and blue means boys, and you survive the shoe switching ritual, you are ready for the real escapade.  Walking in, you see a western style toilet, or so you think this is a western style toilet.  In reality it is actually a pimped out Japanese toilet.  The first surprise on a cold spring day is that as you sit down, a heated toilet seat is ready to greet you.  On the wall next to you is a silver box with speakers and a black button.  Of course you have to press the button.  Suddenly, your ears are greeted with a loud crash of waterfall sounds.  What the heck is that for?  Is it supposed to stimulate the urge to go?  Sitting there you wonder what else this bad boy can do, and curiosity gets the best of you.  You study the remote control strapped above the silver noise box.  You wonder what the buttons do, but all the markings are in Japanese.  Pushing the first button, you jump.  At least now you know what to expect!  The first couple of buttons are for personal washing rituals, and then a few more for drying off.  Pressing the next button, you feel yourself being pushed up suddenly.  Soon you realize it is probably in place so as not to burden you with rising and lowering the toilet seat.  The last button was just a boring, but definitely essential, flushing button.  Even though you had been entertained in the bathroom for the past seven minutes and your comrades waiting outside think you are suffering from a bad case of Traveler’s Diarrhea, you realize there is still more to be discovered.  Not only is there a regular sized toilet seat, but also a smaller seat for miniature comrades.  There is also an individual seat within arms lengths to strap that small youngster in to give you that free moment while alleviating yourself. 

Not every toileting adventure in Japan is this luxurious, but you appreciate the fact that the possibility exists.  There is a five star grading scale for the toilet system. A single star means it a hole and the ground is wet and dirty.  Two stars means it is a hole, but the area is clean at least.  The three star is a western toilet, but the floor is filthy and soggy.  A four star is your regular sit down toilet and it’s hygienic inside.  The five star is the complex toilet with heated seats, privacy boxes and cleansing capabilities.  From the western world to the eastern one, toileting is a necessity, but how it is done and in what fashion is different all over the world. You have not traveled the world until you have experienced each one of these star rated toilets.  Every time you visit the porcelain god, thank the real God for ingenious inventions, like the western style toilet.  Next time you push the stall door open and are forced with a decision on “to go or not go” with the condition of the facilities in mind, sometimes it is better to just close your eyes and squat, or which ever suits you best.