Little Dragon's Peace and Growing Prosperity

Viet Nam. The name means Far South—a land that has played home to foreign conquerors for thousands of years. The Big Dragon, as China is often called, ruled these people for 1,000 years and influenced the Vietnamese for most of their history. The mighty neighbor and economic juggernaut to the north. While the American War may be the memory of most people in the West, the 85 million Vietnamese have battled more with the Chinese, the Khmers, the Chams, and the Mongols before. To many Vietnamese, the Americans were only the last in a long line of invaders, come and gone into history. Whatever was required and no matter how long, these imperialists would be defeated, sent back into the history books just like countless others. Indeed, heroes in Vietnamese culture have always been locals who have resisted foreigners. Water puppet shows demonstrate locals that rose up to stand up as martyrs and champions. Statues grace the traffic circles inspiring a new generation of patriots and heroes to expel the foreign invaders. Independence has always been a national dream, and now it’s a reality. Vietnam’s economic growth is the only Asian nation keeping pace with China, growing leaps and bounds at 8% annually. The Communist government is busy laying much needed infrastructure with roads, bridges and new buildings, trying to justify its ever more unnecessary bureaucracy, rules and policies. But only 4 million people belong to the Communist part in this large growing nation with a strong push for small, one child families. Even our interport lecturer fell victim to the hypocrisy of the socialist system—the communist government and her university supported her job aboard the ship, but the local People’s Communist Committee from her small town vetoed her. For some passengers aboard the M.V. Explorer, Vietnam was the reason they chose to teach or come aboard this voyage. For others like Dr. Peter Seel and Barry, it was their first return trip to a land they knew only as soldiers.

I ventured into the past and an old way of life in the Mekong Delta. The brown river is one of the world’s greatest river and one of the world’s largest deltas. Starting high up in the Himalayas on the Tibetan Plateau, the River of Nine Dragons snakes 4500 kilometers and the numerous branches dump into the South China Sea. Floods are both a blessing and a curse where people live on bamboo stilts and rods to avoid the rising waters. Garbage and sewage and swimming and washing all occur in this sacred river. Known as the rice bowl of the country, Song Cuu Long still clings to the old traditions, and life is alive with dazzling green rice fields and red hues like the dragon fruit, all brightening this water world. Slow boats and floating markets cover the Mekong River—both the high and low parts, the Co Chien and Bassac branches, south of Ho Chi Minh City. Women in conical bamboo hats tend to the rice patties and orchards in the rich delta silts. High population densities are throughout this region, where people live on boats, fishing and farming among the canals and monkey bridges (I crossed one 30 feet above the river on a bamboo stick!). We ate fresh mangoes and pineapples bought from small homemade boats at the Cai Ran and Cai Be floating markets. We visited noodle-making factories and rice husking mills that show the diligent production and high labor costs of rice. All the life here revolves around rice and the river—rice noodles, rice popcorn, rice cakes, rice candy, and rice paper. Canals crisscross the landscape, both for irrigation and travel during the monsoon season. Banana trees populate the landscape with palms and coconuts as chickens and roosters tend to their young running around the pigs and cows. “Xin chao (sin jow),” the children welcomed us, “ten la gi? (what’s your name)” I learned more Vietnamese than any other world language thanks to these friendly people.

Ho Chi Minh City, or Saigon as it used to be called, is a monument itself, and well-worth visiting. Among large French hotels like the Rex and Continental are statues of Ho Chi Minh and other national heroes. He is the revered man, almost God-like, with pictures and memorials and flags in private homes as well as most restaurants and shops. Uncle Ho is the miracle man who brought peace and prosperity to this war-weary land. Saigon was also surprisingly cosmopolitan, a city with food from around the world and nightclubs, karaoke bars, and modern conveniences. To get around town, I jumped onto the back of motorcycles without helmets while drivers smoked Hero cigarettes and whipped me around to pagodas, temples and old French buildings like the Post Office, Notre Dame Cathedral, and the old US embassy. I feared for my life in the chaotic streets of Saigon, and almost collided into buses and trucks, my skilled driver narrowly escaping at the last minute. On the back of motorcycles (there are probably more than the city population of 7 million!), I witnessed pigs, bus bumpers, wooden poles, chickens and even 8 people!

The Vietnamese, overwhelmingly under the age of 25 (65% under 25, 85% under 35), have long forgotten the American War, as it is known here. But I cannot forget it for this blog. It is a sad tale for both sides of the war, and a lasting legacy on Vietnam and American foreign policy. Our involvement in Indo-China began after World War II with the Cold War, when Vietnam was seen as a lynchpin in a worldwide struggle against communist expansion. After the expulsion of the Japanese and pro-Japanese Vichy France forces, Ho Chi Minh proclaimed Vietnamese independence in 1945 at a rally in Hanoi. He and the US Office of Strategic Services brought US arms and borrowed liberally from the American Declaration of Independence for his speech. At this time, Ho Chi Minh (Nguyen Tat Thanh who became Ho Chi Minh “Bringer of Light”) also wrote 8 letters to the US asking President Harry Truman for more aid, but nothing arrived. HCM wanted a unified people under one government, but it wasn’t to happen—just like Germany and Korea after the wars, Vietnam was divided arbitrarily at the 17th parallel by the Geneva Accords. Meanwhile, France, crippled militarily and morally, clung to its empire, and, two weeks after HCM declared independence when strikes and fighting began, the French came back and dug in for a long fight. They brought in Congoese, Senegalese and Moroccan troops from all around the French empire to fight their war, and a puppet government was installed in the south. Beginning in 1950, the first US firepower arrived and precipitated the next 25 years of US manpower on Vietnamese soil to fight “the communist aggression.” President Eisenhower, years before Kennedy and Johnson, began U.S. aid and military advice to the French, topping $2 billion annually in 1954. But the French couldn’t hold back the tide of the patient and committed Viet Minh. Like Ho Chi Minh said to the French, “You can kill 10 of my men for every one I kill of yours, but even at those odds you will lose and I will win.” The Franco-Viet Minh war proved unwinnable despite huge US aid and serious anti-communist sentiments among indigenous people. The Viet Minh surrounded the French, and after 57 days, forced the starving 10,000 French troops to surrender at Dien Bien Phu—a catastrophic defeat that totally killed French public support. The Geneva Accord signaled the end of the French rule, dividing Vietnam north and south at the 17th Parallel before nationwide elections scheduled for 1956. Ngo Dinh Diem led the anti-communist Catholic government in the south, but was horribly corrupt, tyrannical and repressive. In the 1960s, this US supported leader fell victim to his former cheerleader when the US fomented a military coup where Diem was overthrown and killed. Ho Chi Minh started a repressive, police state in the north as president until his death in 1969.

The North-South war to liberate the south began in 1959. The Ho Chi Minh Trail was expanded—1,000 miles cut through the thick tropical jungles and mountains of this land—and delivered heavy guns, shells, and supplies to the south secretly on buffalo and bikes. All North Vietnamese were drafted into the military and the National Liberation Front was created—derogatorily called the Viet Cong or VC or “Victor Charlie” but officially Viet Nam Cong San meant Vietnamese communist. The US strategy changed in 1964 at the Gulf of Tonkin Incident. Instant news coverage included eager reporters who told about an “unprovoked” attack on two US destroyers, later found to be conducting secret commando raids on the north. The misled Congress passed the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution, giving Johnson the power to “take all necessary measures to repel any armed attack against the forces of the US and to prevent further aggression.” Without Congressional control, this carte blanche allowed presidents to do anything in the name of winning the war, including napalm, executions, massacres and black operations. At this time, Sweden even expelled the US ambassador in protest. By 1966, the US government was facing mounting casualties, and new programs were initiated like pacification, search and destroy, and free-fire zones. Villages were moved inside pro-government areas, with guards posted to curb the VC sympathizers. Other search and destroy units hunted VC guerillas throughout the landscape and even used tanks and napalm in free-fire zones. Booby traps, mines and ambushes were the VC weapons of choice, and people still live with the wounds of battle—arms and legs missing from more recently discovered mines laid by both sides.

The turning point in the war happened in 1968, when North Vietnamese troops launched a major attack at Khe Sanh in the Demilitarized Zone, and the Tet Offensive showed the American people the extent and ferocity by which the Vietnamese would fight for their freedom. One hundred cities were attacked, including Saigon. The gruesome stories pumped into homes at dinner time on the news also showed the infamous My Lai Massacre and other atrocities carried out against unarmed Vietnamese civilians. One US soldier explained at Ben Tre that “they had to destroy the town in order to save it.” But Nixon came in with a “secret plan” as LBJ chose not to run for re-election. Nixon and Kissinger wanted Asian nations to be self-reliant and started the Vietnamization of war, which meant making South Vietnamese replace American soldiers. The war raged on with more and more escalation of the conflict.

Meanwhile, US forces bombed Cambodia and Laos secretly amid bitter anti-war protests at home. The lies and misinformation worked its way up the chain of command to the President. Before the Tet Offensive, many believed they were “winning” the war, based on Secretary of State Robert McNamara, a Ford executive who thought his mathematical genius could determine the success of the war with statistics about death. But the war was pulling America apart by the seams with protests, including the murders at Kent State, and by 1973, the Paris Peace Accords brought about a ceasefire and total US pullout of troops. Two years later, the south fell to North Vietnamese ground assaults and American helicopters left from the US embassy roof. In total, 3.14 million Americans served in the US armed forces in Vietnam during the war, which was never officially declared. 58,183 Americans were dead after a decade in Southeast Asia. On the other side, 2 million Vietnamese were laid to rest. 2 million people! These are but the bitter costs of war, and the saddest, most memorable part of Vietnam for many Americans. I visited both the Reunification Palace and War Remnants Museum in Ho Chi Minh City. Although they displayed one-sided views of the American War (the War Museum used to be called the American and Chinese War Atrocities Museum, but was changed to be respectful of tourists), even the most proud Americans could not leave embarrassed and ashamed. “Photography,” Neil Sheehan wrote for the museum, “are the images of history rescued from the oblivion of mortality.” Photos of civilians and jungle devastated by Agent Orange were displayed next to photos of American soldiers with severed Vietnamese heads and blood-stained fields full of broken bodies. It was gruesome.

I traveled Viet Nam independently. SAS trips are professional, well-organized and disciplined, but sometimes it’s good to get away. On my own, I have more adventures and meet more local people. Like many places in Asia, saving face is very important and conversations are indirect and story-like. Ask someone ‘how are you’, and they respond in Vietnamese by saying “if I was sick, I’d be still in the hospital, but I’m strong and I’m here.” I talked with college students from Hanoi at an outside game show celebration and talked to cyclos drivers who fought in the South Vietnamese Army; others wanted to practice their English with me in parks. While eating my morning pho (“phaw”—a rice noodle soup with beef and spices costing about 50 cents), I met a Cambodian guy who invited me to come with him to Phnom Penh to stay in house the next day, but I had plans. I booked a 3 day trip to the Mekong Delta early the same morning. His name was Parroth, and he was working in Ho Chi Minh City due to the poor economic conditions in Cambodia. We talked about our families and our home cities and then we parted. At night, while enjoying sashimi, nigiri and sushi at the Sushi Bar full of Japanese tourists and Vietnamese chefs (and much less than California Rolling!), I met a Norwegian man working at a NGO (non-governmental organization) helping to develop the people and community and relieve the poverty in Vietnam. We discussed Semester at Sea, but also the purpose of his NGO and altruism in general. He was happy here, but complained about the growing tourists in Vietnam. “But isn’t the growing tourism a good sign of a developing Vietnamese economy and ultimately the best for alleviating poverty?,” I argued with this polite, quiet and sophisticated European. “I guess,” he conceded, “but they’re ruining the solitude and isolation of this great country.” Only I saw the hypocrisy of his work and his meaningless altruism. The American man I met was more realistic and honest about his reasons for being here—he was in Vietnam because he didn’t want to live anymore in “Bush’s world of fear, hatred and terrorism,” and he lived like a king teaching English privately and at local schools. Saigon really is a cosmopolitan city—full of international restaurants, food stores, newspapers, people and growing skyscrapers!

I am also the director of my own destiny traveling alone—I go where I want. For lunch, I ate at Binh Noodles Soup, an old pho bo (“Phaw boaw”) restaurant 10 minutes outside of downtown Ho Chi Minh City. Binh’s restaurant has become part of the beaten path in Saigon, not because of the decent noodles, but the history behind the walls. Only 100 meters from the American Headquarters during the war, many soldiers ate here unknowingly because this also was the secret base of Viet Cong. While Americans ate downstairs, the Tet Offensive was actually planned here on the third story. Vietnam Vets often come back and remember Binh, now 86. However, Binh wasn’t completely safe during the struggle—he said he took a calculated risk for freedom and liberty. Late in the war, Americans stormed in when they discovered Binh’s true identity. One soldier held a gun to his head, but ultimately decided to send him to jail for the next 5 years. Binh survived, and came out of jail to restart his restaurant and once again serve peace noodles.

There were many sad stories here, but while on a tour of the underground Cu Chi tunnels, 100 kilometers north of Ho Chi Minh City, I heard the worst. Binh was my guide and a Vietnamese veteran of the war—he fought for the Americans. War changed Binh’s life forever, and this is the saddest story I have told to date. I will try my best to represent Binh’s passion, energy, emotion and detail, love and hatred. In this complicated and confusing time, he joined the GI’s because he was told of the “massacres and killing and torturing” that Ho Chi Minh was conducting in the north. In order to defeat this “evil man” who was ruining Viet Nam and murdering children and babies, he joined the U.S. Coast Guard in his native land. He had no options, he said. By 1963 when he enlisted, the VC controlled all the landscape and Mekong Delta, and the Americans were in the cities. Civilians were being moved to protected enclaves, given American rations and told to love America for “protecting” them from the VC. A new puppet government was installed in the south, a military man. But the Americans didn’t know how to fight here, and by 1966, 550,000 GI’s were here along with allied South Koreans, Mexicans, Australians, Malaysians, Taiwanese and others. It was a wrong war, Binh said, agreeing with many other politicians and statesmen, including Robert McNamara, Secretary of State. In the American controlled south, people lived like animals, he said. Meanwhile, Ho Chi Minh was supplied weapons by his comrades, China, Russia and Cuba, but refused troops—he said this was Vietnam’s war. HCM was Binh’s enemy, but his respect for this man was unconditional. The Tet Offensive, the night of the lunar new year, was the turning point in the war, when the VC came out of hiding and showed their true identities, taking over the U.S. embassy and controlling many new parts of the country in a matter of a few days. In 1969, he was sent to the U.S. for training, and had to the option to stay and get out of Vietnam. But this is his homeland, and he came back to take care of his ailing mother. He met John Kerry, then a Lieutenant working on the Mekong river boats with Binh in the south. Finally, in 1973, the American flags were taken down and the Americans left on helicopters before the North Vietnamese tanks rolled over the south. The VC and Ho Co Minh shook hands on April 30th in Saigon, and the boat people, over 3 million, fled Vietnam.

For Binh and most Vietnamese, the war was 150 years long, starting in 1855 and continuing until 1980, when China withdrew from the north after invasion and the Khmers were defeated in the south in the late 1970s. In the end, he served 7 years for the Americans, and paid the greatest prices of war. His grandfather was killed by a Japanese bomb in the 1940s, his son was lost in the war with Cambodia, and he was sent to defuse landmines in re-education camps or prisons in the north for 3 and a half years. Scars on his arms bear witness to the physical and emotional wounds he has suffered for decades. While at University, his girlfriend was also killed during the Tet Offensive. After the war, he even discovered that his uncle was Viet Cong. His own family. Just like the American Civil War, this was brother against brother—one people, same names. I still can’t comprehend how one man could suffer so much, and still laugh and tell jokes. “We are an honest, hardworking, welcoming people,” Binh said, “we don’t care about politics or war. We are communists only in name.” Before the Americans came, he promised his father he would become a doctor, but the war killed his life and his dreams. Now, soon to retire and trying desperately to forget the war as a poor tour guide, Binh is retiring this year. His son, a doctor, plans on taking care of him. “I wish you and your family happiness and success,” Binh finished, “and may you never see war in your country.”
I cried.

It’s not surprising that Viet Nam is distinctly different—a testament to the struggle and pain these people endured to get where they are today. Women wear conical hats, gloves and masks to protect their skin from the sun to be more pale and attractive. Motorbikes and cyclos outnumber people on the crowded, chaotic streets of the cities with HSBC bank towers and old vegetable markets on the same street. Xeo, or rice wine, and Nuoc Mam, a fish sauce, complement a rich cuisine with varied tastes from spicy chilies to delicate spring rolls to chocolate banana pancakes to sweet and sour fish in a bowl. Before Confucianism or Buddhism arrived to Vietnam and before Cao Daism sprung up in the early 1920s, ancestor worship was a strong belief that the soul lives on after death and becomes the protector of its descendants. The hot, humid, sticky air is so wet you can drink it! Another Mister Binh I met, my guide in the Mekong River Delta, was a young, handsome man from the countryside. His father lost everything to the government seizures after the war, and he still fears talking about the government, whispering to me on the back of the river boats. But his family battled back. Binh has been a rice farmer, a bellboy, a waiter, a bartender, and finally an assistant manager and tourist guide all in the 1990s. Ultimately, Viet Nam’s war scars and socialist leaders cannot hold back Viet Nam’s entrepreneurial spirit, will to survive, and the welcoming, funny, and warm Mister Binhs.

Silence in Myanmar

Yahoo and Hotmail are banned. No credit cards or ATM’s are here—Visa and Mastercard pulled out. Coke and Pepsi are gone too. $20 fine for beeping your horn on the street. Phone calls to anywhere except Asia cost $12 a minute, cut off at the moment you mention Aung San Suu Kyi, the national elected leader again under house arrest. Talk politics to a local and you risk their life, we were told. Shop at stores with Myawaddy in their name mean you are supporting the military junta. There are officials and military people following and listening to everything—undercover officers patrolling the tourist locations. Two newspapers talk about the evil American empire and destructive imperialists. The military dictatorship State Law and Order Restoration Council (SLORC or 10 generals) even changed the name of the country without referendum from Burma to Myanmar in protest against British colonialism. This is the country that National Geographic described as a “bejeweled pauper,” blessed with rich natural resources such as timber, oil, jade, rubies, emeralds, topaz, and food stuffs but underdeveloped and left behind. It is a nation that went wrong. It sits at the bottom of Asia, a social and economic pariah with the 2nd lowest per capita GNP in Asia at $960 per person, but most people make less than 25 cents a day. The government controls the media, the hotels, the mail, the airlines and most parts of daily life. This is a pariah country cut off from the rest of the world. Even as I write, the United Nations and the United States were debating a complete worldwide embargo through the Security Council in December, unsuccessful due to the Chinese need for Burmese oil and timber. There is even debate between students, faculty, staff and our interport lecturer about whether or not we should go to this country, described as one of the most oppressive regimes in the world! We left the world’s largest democracy only 2 days ago to the world’s top most oppressive regime in the world, Burma. And indeed, Myanmar is one of the least visited countries in the world according to tourism statistics. Portrayed as a calm, free and laidback land, Burma is exactly the opposite. Listen carefully here: there is nothing but silence, repression and fear holding these great people down.

After traveling up the Ayeyarwady River to Yangon port, our diplomatic briefing the first night was conducted by the U.S. charje and diplomats—no ambassadors exist between these two estranged nations. They told us the grim details of this regime. 1100 political prisoners are in jail. The Constitution has been suspended since 1994, the elections in 1990 a distant dream. There are no freedoms of movement, privacy, speech, or assembly. There is no free press, no right to a trial or personal freedoms. The government spends zero to little money on education or health for fear of inspiring revolution with an educated and healthy populace. The capital of Yangon was even moved 250 miles north for fear of a U.S. invasion into the jungle where officials are dying from snake bites and high malaria infections. These rich military officials from the junta are banned from travel in most of the world. Compare this with some of the poorest people in the world. The embargo means that few goods come into the country from the West, and no souvenirs bought here can travel back into the States. Legally that is. Some foreigners are also in jail—one British example for distributing pamphlets in front of the government building and another American man for drug trafficking. In 1988, the worst massacre in Asia other than Tianamanen Square occurred here in Yangon—3000 were machine gunned down for protesting the regime in Inya Lake park.

Fear is the SLORC weapon on choice, and is created by the Military Intelligence, Department of Psychological Warfare, Department of Propaganda, and the Ministry of Information. Barricades, riot police, flak jackets, bayonets, rubber batons, rumors, misinformation, tanks, informers, bugged phones, surveillance operators, mass arrests, curfews and selective jail terms. In this manner, a small number of people control a vast populace, holding control by a thread through fear, hatred of colonialism, and false information. One million people are forcibly displaced throughout the country; the U.N. reports it is the most conflict prone country in the world. Out of 145, Burma ranks 142 on the World Corruption Index. Non-governmental organizations have all pulled out—no aid reaches Burma. The European Union and United States have placed trade bans on the country, but some Asian countries are after Burma’s rich resources. Indeed, China and India are now the only engagements with Burma. China desperately needs Burmese resources and inputs for its industrial machine, and China and India are played off each other by Burma by competing for the fat hydro-electric and gas energy fuel contracts.

In Burma, it is illegal to change money on the Black Market, gather in groups of four or more, have political conversations, express support or desire for democracy, or have foreign guests in your house. Officially the kyat or “chat” exchanges at 6 or 7 to the dollar, but on the black market can be traded for the dollar at 1100 or 1200 on the street. With inflation at 50% a year, this rate is constantly in flux. Only a few years ago, $300 was paid to the military junta in return for visiting and just entering the country. This fee has been removed, and the government relies solely on the profits of the drug trade to stay afloat. The irony is that government owned hotels, restaurants, shops, airlines and trains only accept U.S. dollars, not local kyat.

Burma is also the 2nd largest producer of drugs in the world—a global trafficker of opium, heroin, methanphetamines and other narcotics. SLORC pacifies large areas of no-rule land by allowing for illegal trade, laundering money, and trading peace for the drug trade. They sell disputed Burmese land to China and India for rupees and yuan. Rich generals grow fat and retire while other generals rise up through the ranks to govern the land. In this strict Theravada Buddhism country, the military has completely lost the respect it once had by forcibly putting down the peaceful and loving Buddhist people. On a flight north to Pagan, three small planes sat on the ground at the airport next to the new terminal being built through a gift from a drug lord up north. Wow, it was beautiful. Amazing what millions of dollars of drug money can do to spruce up a dilapidated airport. The gift was given to celebrate the government’s new ceasefire agreement with this heroin drug pin in the lawless north.

I doubt our presence here meant much for political change. To go or not to go to Burma? Aung San Suu Kyi has asked nobody to visit Burma. Johnny our tourist guide hired through a locally owned company disagreed. But I was an observer. I watched and I listened. I talked to many Burmese people, the monks and guides and new friends. We live in a small world. At R.I.T., I met a student and her family while checking her into the residence halls. Her gracious and hospitable family welcomed me in Yangon. They treated me to a fantastic Baman dinner, but there was unfortunately less time than expected to visit her gallery. How many people can say that they showered with Buddhist monks in this isolated land? In five short days in Burma or Myanmar, I witnessed a magical, captivating land. Two days in Rangoon or Yangon (name changed to remove the old colonial name) and 3 days up north in Pagan or Bagan. Indeed many of the Roman language translations from the “bubble-like” Burmese have different sounds and transcriptions. There are 135 tribes in Myanmar and 8 peoples: Baman or Burmese, Chin, Kachin, Kayah, Kayin, Mon, Naga, Rakhaing, Shan and Wa. Among these people, we visited dozens of pagodas or temples, the circular gold centers protecting the statues of Buddha.

The people don’t complain, but proudly carry their culture forward. They continue the traditions more than any other Asian nation. Men wear longyis or traditional sarong-like garments and the women wear white thanakha or powdered wood make-up and perfume on their faces. The food is distinctly original with Shan noodles from the north and a blend of Chinese, Indian, Bamar and Mon influences. Fish, chicken and prawn curries are mixed with rice, chillies and masala spices. Burmese abstain from eating four-legged animal flesh, but there is some pork and beef available. Most popular is the mohinga (rice noodles with chicken or fish, spicy) for breakfast and as a snack all day. Oun-no hkauq-sweh is also popular, rice noodles with chicken in a spicy sauce made with coconut milk. Indian and Chinese restaurants complement the local food and are found on every corner in Burma. Fruit is for dessert with a wide variety of watermelons, grapefruits, papayas, melons, jackfruits, strawberries, pineapples and mangoes. I guess I’m also a culinary traveler—I go where my stomach takes me!

In addition to the food, the most influential factor on Burmese culture is Buddhism. Buddhism is the influential psychological, cultural and religious way of seeing and understanding the world in Burma. The religion started as a reformation to Hinduism in Nepal and India and spread throughout Asia in the 5th – 3rd centuries B.C. Siddhartha, a Nepalese prince, was born a Hindu. He lived an extremely sheltered life inside the palace, and only ventured out of the great walls at age 29. Here he saw four sights that changed his life and the life of millions around the world: Old age, Sickness, Death and a Sadu or wandering Ascetic. He began practicing a life of austerities for 6 years, and was joined by 5 other ascetics. He takes many trips outside the palace, seeking Moksha or deliverance, and eventually decides to leave. Later, when given milk and rice by a maid, he finds the Middle Way, a life of moderation. Sitting under a fig tree in Bodgaya with a mind resolved, he passed through many distractions and temptations and became the Enlightened One. This is His life. His teachings were shaped by his life and include the Four Noble Truths: dukkha, life is suffering; tanha, the cause of suffering is desire; the cure for suffering is to remove desire; and to remove desire you must follow the Eightfold path. Compared to Indian dharma or duty, the Buddhist dhamma is to escape the suffering and the traps of life. Hinduism worships all parts of life, the inner divinity of the world and the innate meaning in it; Buddhism teaches the exact opposite. All is in flux, the Buddha teaches, and all is passing and changing and empty. By joining the Sangha or brotherhood of seekers united in seeking enlightment, you can seek meaning. “Everything that has been created is subject to decay and death,” Buddha taught, “Everything is transitory. Work out your own salvation with diligence.” The Eightfold path, listed in all monasteries and pagodas in Burma, includes: Right Knowledge, Right Speech, Right Thinking, Right Conduct, Right Livelihood, Right Effort, Right Mindfulness, and Right Concentration. With 500,000 monks in Myanmar, each man is expected to take up robe and bowl twice in their life. Every young boy at 13 enters the monastery for a week, dressed up as Prince Siddhartha, he sits on ponies and is treated like a prince. With his head shaved and wrapped in red robes, he enters at puberty. He explores the life of austerity, and is expected to become a full monk at least once later in life after age 20. Indeed, anyone can join and leave the Sangha at any time, and 1/3 of all Burmese go into monastery during the rainy season. This way of thinking shapes the Burmese identity, and even their nature as giving, warm and hospitable people. One student lost her passport and all her money at a pagoda on my trip. Eight hours later it was found—the same place she left it in the open.

How could a brutal military junta like Burma’s arise from such a peaceful, welcoming and religious people? Indeed, monks are calling for regime change, and have traditionally been targets of the military intelligence. Each day, as part of the Buddhist tradition, alms are collected, rice and daily food from the local people. The daily life of poverty includes pleading for the daily sustenance to keep them alive. In the past few decades, the monks refused to accept alms by turning their alms bowls upside down to soldiers and government officials. 130 monasteries were raided, and the process of buying off senior monks through new monasteries, trips and money began. In return for their cooperation, the Myanmar government gave the Sangha, or Buddhist brotherhood, expensive foreign trips, new monasteries, land and hush money. Many local people also gave over large tracts of land to monasteries, now totaling 1/3 of the total land, in order to escape government seizure of their land for arbitrary reasons. Now, the Sangha is so strong with such a large property wealth that the government is forced to work with them and continue to appease them. Yet, subtle forms of resistance go on, especially with monks calling for regime change abroad and informally in society. Quiet moral resistance to the regime occurs throughout the Sangha. In fact, Buddhism has become an active forum for social change.

Everyday life is still alive and vibrant in tea houses—tea houses for the military, tea houses for the underground opposition group and tea houses for the bureaucrats. Names are flexible, and change often, except when women marry. People like Dr. Monique Skidmore, our interport lecturer, are reflected in their Burmese names--“Tin Tin Swem” meaning strong but elegant. There are no first or last names, but a fluid and changing concept of who you are. Puppet plays are a popular past time where it is illegal for men to wear your hair below your shoulders. Traditional Burmese instruments complement skilled puppeteers’ fingers at the show we saw in Pagan.

To the north, where I flew for 4 days, foreigners are a rarity. Bagan, the land of 4,400 pagodas or temples, was developed for tourism by forced labor and people forced off their land. New Bagan replaced Old Bagan, surrounded by old walls protecting the pagodas. The pagodas are 800 years old, built under the last Burmese kings. And people stare at us. There are more pagodas than tourists here. “Mingalaba,” the children welcomed on the dirt roads as they ran up to see the White people. The pagodas are majestic sights, making for wondrous panoramas in Bagan. Most are neglected and free, allowing for exploration and freedom from tourists. Tight stairways lead up to wide-open views and others display vibrant murals depicting Buddha’s past lives. The people here don’t have much, and weave traditional lacquerware products like bowls and trays to make a living.

Each day at sunset, we took pony cart rides to watch the setting red sun over these ancient temples. Climbing to the top like Giza pyramids, hundreds of pagodas are seen across the horizon. The panoramas showcased palms set against the sun with goats and zebu cows feeding among the peanut and sesame fields. We learned how to sit properly in temples, with your feet behind and below you, never pointing at people—feet are unholy. Some delicate Western feet were burned after several days of no shoes on the hot bricks in the humid Burmese weather. When handing money or anything to other people, it is important to put your left hand fingers on your elbow as a sign of respect. Dress must be respectful, because no one will dare say anything if it’s inappropriate. We also were told not to show emotion on your face, especially anger, which means madness in Burma.

Our guide, Johnny, took us aside for an hour in an isolated village called Phwar Saw to see local life. Here where the locals didn’t know English and he trusted the people, we discussed taboo politics. This one great man expressed his opinions. Among the animals carting water and women weaving homemade cotton in thatch huts, Johnny fielded questions. In his view, the dollars and discussion outweighed the government sales tax. We are observers to report what is going on to the rest of the world. We buy local products and this money contributes to a better life for many. However, in Bogyoke Aung San Market in Yangon (or Scott’s Market under British rule), an army colonel’s wife owns the land and collects a 10% tax on all sales. Indeed, business can’t be legally conducted without a military connection. The government, we were also told, buys off small villages like this one by installing a water pump so locals don’t have to cart water 20 miles or more. Others receive intermittent electricity for their support. Still, ask many people on the street about the government, and they love the order and stability. If you are quiet, local life goes on. Many world journalists and researchers like Dr. Monique Skidmore are also banned from Burma—they published articles the government found revealing and scathing.

In Shwegadon Pagoda in Yangon, I chatted with a man who recently lost his wife and daughter. There is no health care in Burma he told me. He seeks refuge, calm and understanding from his daily meditations and prayers to the reclining Buddha. Life is hard, there are no jobs and he was retired. “No one will hire an old business man now,” he recounted. The government provides him 3,000 kyat a month to survive--$2 and 50 cents. He showed me around town to many of his favorite temples and monasteries, and we both learned from each other. One monk invited me to his English class to meet and chat with other monks. I asked about their families, their passions and daily life, but not politics. The discussions and sharing—maybe there was some good done after all by our visit. My impromptu guide departed at sunset—he didn’t want money he said, he wanted to work, but I gave him a few dollars anyway. Before he left, I asked his name. With fear and suspicion, he asked, “What—are you an informer?”

At each port, Semester at Sea organizes a welcome reception with the port universities and colleges. Not in Burma. One of the conditions for our visit is the agreement that we will not associate or meet with university students. Since 14 years ago when the young people organized and protested the military government, the doors to higher education have been closed. No universities have been here for decades. University campuses lie vacant, blown up and attacked during revolts, now just dead remnants of scholarship.
The new technical colleges recently opened have been moved 2 hours away from the capital to the isolated rice fields of Burma. Remote and uneducated, the people pose little threat to the strangle hold of the military.

There is a popular Burmese story among these peaceful and religious people. Some years ago, there was a famous and respected monk in the country, and three prominent generals often sought his council. In Theravada Buddhism, especially with a Burmese twist, the nats or spirits are highly respected and revered, and monks can see the past, the present and the future. On many occasions, these three generals from the military junta came to see the future of their lives and the rule of the country. However, being a strict and religious man, the monk refused to tell them—the future will unveil itself, he used to say. The generals were relentless, and the monk finally provided a bowl of water to these evil men. He said, “I will not tell you the future, but you may ask one question.” The generals asked who will rule Burma once the powerful and revered monk dies, and they quietly peered into the water. They thanked the monk and never spoke of the water ever again. Life in Burma continues and few people complain. “Life is suffering,” the Buddha preached, and people find a way to survive. Aung San Suu Kyi, the nationally elected woman president, remains under house arrest. The debate about whether or not we should go to Burma continues on our ship after our departure. The poor people appreciated our American dollars, but the government showcased the international tourism as tacit approval of the government. Burma was a life-changingly beautiful country—Myanmar indeed means golden land in Baman. The Burmese endure with such grace, and I am lucky to have been here. I am a smarter, wiser traveler because of this experience. In the end, the Burmese story has an open climax, just like Burma’s future—the great religious man and monk died 2 years ago. Still the people wait for their leader Aung San Suu Kyi to shine beyond the water and rise into the government, but the silence continues.

An Indian Reality

Maya. It is a Hindu root concept probably 4,000 years old. Roughly translated, it means veil in Hindi, but is best represented as “What is apparent is not real, and what is real is not apparent.” It is both the imperfection of our senses and an illusion that is easy to get lost in. On the streets of Chennai, Delhi, Agra and Mamallapuram it is hard not to get lost in maya—this is the raw and powerful and yet disturbing image of India, the second most populated country and largest democracy in the world. People hate and love India at the same time. Walk down the streets, and you are overwhelmed by beggars and unusual smells and strange sights. Meanwhile, the Indian government is alarmed that very few people who visit India ever return, 3% exactly—a serious problem for tourism. Here on the Indian sub-continent, cut off and nestled south of the Himalayas and among the holy rivers of the Brahmakutra, the Indus, and the sacred Ganges, is one of the most diverse and unique lands in the world, with 17 officially recognized languages and a culture, dress and food unique only to South Asia. India, not Britain, is actually the second largest English speaking population in the world, a language that now binds the language divide. (Britain is the third!) Officially known as Bharath Matha, or Mother Land in Hindi, this is India—vibrant, alive, and powerful. According to the overwhelming majority religion Hinduism (80%), the purpose of life is to penetrate Maya, or this veil, and see the real life. My goal is the same, to make a passage to India and see beyond some of the horrors of daily Indian life into the resilience, richness, beauty and power of the Indian people and culture.

Our port city is Chennai in the southeast, a city still recovering from the tsunami in 2004 with over 8,000 casualties. However, I spent very little time in our port city in the state of Tamil Nadu, south India. I went north for four days to Delhi, the capital, and Agra, the holy city of the Muslim Moghul empire and the Taj Mahal. The majestic Taj Mahal and Agra Fort revealed the advanced civilization of the Moghul empire. The white Mausoleum attracts millions to a city a few hundred miles from the capital Delhi, including many Indians who love to travel. Rickshaws, small motorcycle taxis with room for 2-3 Americans or 4-6 Indians, are the favorite form of transportation around town, costing as little as 10-20 rupees, about 25 cents. Beggars, touts and hawkers are everywhere, trying to sell everything. They are tough negotiators and talented salesmen, but they are making a meager income where the Indian government classifies poverty as making less than 20 rupees a day—enough to feed themselves one meal a day. The distinct north is very different from the south, a testament to the Muslim influence and countless invasions from other peoples like the Mongols.

Silk and sarees are the industry of the south, made famous by one of the seven holy sites of Hinduism, Kancheepuram. I spent one day exploring this rich land in Kancheepuram and Mamallapuram. Our bus driver leaned on the horn as he took us through rice paddies, palm trees and temples that date back thousands of years. Here the once illiterate populace worshiped at the rock carvings and statues that told stories of man and animals, epic battles between demons and gods. In the south, the food is spicier, the colors more vibrant, the people darker, and the belief in Hinduism stronger. This is the India of the media—tropical forests and bintis and dirt roads. Diseases are rampant, but there is a resiliency and resourcefulness of Indian life. Many people choose to see the poverty, despair, and lack of opportunity, especially among the Dalits, “untouchables” outside of the caste system. But I am an idealist. Indians survive; just like they have for thousands and thousands of years.

This is an ancient civilization, with temples and languages and architecture that makes Europe seem young, where gods number as many as people. The Europeans, when they first arrived, were baffled by the erotic and sexual images on the sacred southern Hindu temples. The Victorians in Britain were astonished by depictions of aroused men and sexual orgies on the walls of temples, but Hindus worship the sexual side of human nature because the pursuit of love is encouraged. All life is sacred according to Hinduism, and life is celebrated. In Indian society, dancing at temples is a necessary part of worship, and according to belief, divinity is in everything—animals, plants, and all forms of life.

Elephants, gods, temples and armies—it’s not surprising that chess or chattajonga was invented in South India. The Vijayangar kings of South India practiced their military prowess in games that lasted as long as battles, sometimes up to 2 or 3 weeks! This great game is similarly played today, with modern rooks replacing elephants and king and queen replacing the Indian generals. Indeed, in ancient times, the mighty elephant could jump over weaker pieces, demonstrating the military might of elephants in battles old. These unstoppable beasts of Imperial India were a force to be reckoned with under the great leader and builder Raja Raja. His men herded wild elephants, not domesticated beasts of burden, but only the biggest and meanest bulls to become war elephants. Legendary mahmuts, or elephant trainers, then fed the animals arak or rice wine and attached razor blades on trunks and tusks after weeks of training. Due to their intelligence, dexterity and strength in battle each amazing elephant, military strategists presume, equaled 6,000 horses in battle.

The incessant and historical battle between Hindus, and their many gods, and Muslims and their one Allah continue, and underneath this mixed society the hatred still carries on to this day. One day before our arrival in India, three bombs went off in the northern sacred city of Varanasi in temples and railway stations, a popular destination of Western tourists. A fourth and fifth bomb were defused, but the damage was already done. 15 dead and counting; 101 injured in the attacks. The blasts were aimed at "soft" targets "to create tension and disrupt communal harmony," Indian Home Secretary V.K. Dugal said, describing the “terrorist attacks.” Parts of the city have been cordoned off, with temples as far as away as Delhi on high alert. No one has claimed responsibility, but based on the attacks on this 16th century Sankat Mochan temple known as the “Liberator of Troubles” and the timing one week before the Hindu rite of spring, Holi, or color festival, on the sacred Ganges River, these attacks are similar to previous bombs in New Delhi and elsewhere near major Hindu holidays. Semester at Sea cancelled trips to the sacred city of Varanasi, but other trips north to Delhi were deemed safe. These tensions are high in the northern part of India, which show the distinct Hindu and Muslim influences in the south and north. The conflict rages here in the disputed north, with several attacks on trains during the week across the country, but nowhere more violently than in the north state in Kashmir. Pakistan and India, two nuclear powers with thousands of troops on each side of an arbitrary line drawn on the rich, cold ground, are locked in conflict over religion and culture. The land, according to many experts, should be Pakistani, but India claims this land as part of its historical summer vacation spot for government officials and high Brahmans up in Kashmir and the Himalayan mountains. It seems that Gandhi’s dream of a unified Indian state, Muslims and Hindus living together after British rule, was a failure and eventually fell apart to ethnic and religious tensions, creating East and West Pakistan, later to become Pakistan and Bangladesh. Indeed, after Indian independence, Gandhi was murdered by a Hindu extremist who believed Gandhi was too pro-Muslim. “Hatred,” the Buddha said, “will never put an end to hatred. Love alone puts an end to hatred.”

Exactly what is the legacy of Gandhi? We visited many statues and tributes to the respected defender of human rights and non-violence, but the conflict he challenged rages on to this day. Indeed, religion is a complex mix in India. One day in a rented cab on the streets of Old and New Delhi, we listened to the calls of prayer at the largest mosque in India, covered our heads with turbans in a holy Sikh temple and funeral, took off our shoes and socks at a Hindu temple, and meditated at a Baha’i House of Worship in the Indian capital of Delhi. The Baha’is are a mix of modern religions from Persia or Iran. Similar to my beliefs, they accept the Baha’i principles including the common foundation of all religions. In the 9 sided Baha’i houses of worship like the Lotus temple in Delhi, they read from earlier revelations like the Qur’an, the Bible, Hindu Vegas, and Buddha’s teachings. They meditate for the abolition of extremes of wealth and poverty, equality of men and women, elimination of prejudice of all kinds, universal peace, and the essential harmony of science and religion. On our visit, people from around the world handed out pamphlets and discussed the 9 sides and history of Baha’i. Despite all of the superficial differences between world religions, I truly believe there is a similar heart or core to understand a greater being, something larger than ourselves, and live a good moral life.

We cannot discuss India without addressing the Indian population of 1.1 billion people, and reasons abound for India’s skyrocketing population. First, mortality rates, or death rates, are falling dramatically, and this figure now matches the 8 people in 1000 in the United States today. People are living longer and the fertility rates continue to be high, declining from historic sky high numbers. The Indian government, for its part, has tried to manage this growth rate, but most of Indian society is still agrarian, relying on human power and children’s hands—valuable economic resources. In 1952, the Indian government passed a national Family Planning policy, installing 4000 urban birth control clinics across the country, where only 1 out of every 4 Indians lived. Later in the 1960s, this voluntary policy became more aggressive with billboards and advertising showing the success of smaller, 2 children families. Secondly, most Indians also marry very young, especially girls, and these babies then have babies. Lastly, Indian governmental efforts have not been very successful at managing the population size because of the Indian preference for boys. The dowry paid to sons’ fathers remains a powerful economic motive for most impoverished rural Indians. Although the government has outlawed tests to distinguish male from female fetuses, they cannot shape the cultural preferences. In this diverse and different land, India is set to surpass China’s population, currently with 1.3 billion people, soon in our lifetime probably within the next 20 years. India’s current policies changed, starting in 1976, by increasing marriage ages to 18 and 21 for females and males, linking financial aid to states with stronger population curbs, increased money for voluntary sterilization, and widespread sex education in the schools. However, we need only look at U.S. consumption rates, and any expert would agree that the States, not India or China, is the overpopulated nation.

Another part of this unique social fabric is the caste system, a Hindu religious and economic practice whereby your karma or past action dictates your varna (“color” in Sanskrit) or ranked social order. This system is so pervasive that other religions in India practice the caste system, such as Christians and Muslims. The four varnas, Brahmans (priests), Kshatriya (warriors), Vaisha (merchants), and Sudra (artisans) as well as the avarna or “untouchable” class, represent a rank based on ritual purity and are justified by Hindu sacred texts. These Harijan or “children of God”, a Gandhian word meant to uplift, or Dalits (“suppressed”), are outside the system. They used to wear bells to warn people nearby of their arrival on the streets. In the practiced class system, there are thousands of jatis, where many arranged marriages stay within the jati, websites now devoted to helping arrange marriages. Class and marriage and often poverty, this is all part of your atma, coming at birth and becoming part of your existence, but there are opportunities for change and flexibility in the caste system. There are several ways out, such as doing your dharma (or duty) and being reborn in a higher caste, changing your behavior within the group or working in caste free contexts or opting out to Buddhism or Christianity. The caste system is an old tradition in India, but one that changes and shifts in this modern era.

Another old belief is the sacred cow of India. This tradition can’t demonstrate a more different place from America, a nation that counts beef and McDonald’s as two national icons. The zebu cow, or ubiquitous Indian symbol, is critical to the agrarian society, and as commonplace on the streets of India as the cultural head bob. Worth more alive than dead, the modern cow provides important dairy products like milk or yogurt, manure and dung for cooking and fertilizer, and male calves that become oxen bulls, castrated for transportation and animal tractors. It is both the symbol for health and abundance, and is scattered throughout the Indian landscape, including holding up traffic in every city I visited while drivers lay on their horns.

“From walled city to global city.” This is the banner displayed in Delhi. India is making the move from traditional to modern as the outsource capital of the world. Indeed, the customer service lines you call for most American companies like Dell Computers and other IT firms are answered not by Mike or Tom, but Sanjay and Gita. Trade with the United States has been very lucrative, especially for cities like Bangalore that have promoted their low cost labor costs coupled with a highly educated and intelligent populace. Seventy-five percent of Indians still live in the countryside, but cities like Goa and Bangalore are supporting a new Indian middle class, with Baliwood movies multiplexes in Western-styled malls. Throughout the sub-continent during my travels, Indian people were inquisitive, educated, informed and warm. They asked questions about my job, my time in India, my passions and my family. Unique compared to other places around the world, there is a love of America. Bush visited the week before we arrived, meeting with Prime Minister Manohman Sigh, the first Sikh P.M. of India. While Bush is experiencing one of the lowest approval ratings of his presidency, the Indian populace loves him! Unlike Clinton, many folks told me, Bush knows how to stay out of Indian politics and history, alluding to the conflict in Kashmir. With the ink still wet from an agreement about nuclear energy and weapons between India and the States, Bush found success he couldn’t find in the States.

In each country, I collect a paper, not for the glowing articles about W. but to show the important daily topics for Indians in Hindustan. Each day there is a section titled “Matrimonials,” parents looking for a suitable, arranged suitor for their son or daughter. It is the mix of modern and traditional in India.

One of my favorite reasons for traveling is seeing the world through a different lens. There are many ways of seeing and understanding the world, and I have two favorite examples in Hindustan. The first demonstrates the two worlds between men and women in India. On different occasions, men enjoy many more privileges and benefits. In line at the Taj Mahal, women were scrutinized by security, while men walked quickly through, enjoying an extra 30 minutes at the great mausoleum. Even while boarding the plane, the privileges granted to men were apparent. Women in front of me were disregarded while flight attendants asked to carry my bags and put them into the overhead storage. “No, no, I protested, I’ll put my backpack under my chair.” “But you won’t be comfortable,” they insisted, “give me your bag.”

While in Agra, my group also had the privilege of visiting Mother Theresa’s Ashram, a home for the physically and mentally disabled and elderly, often neglected and abandoned by their parents for reasons like polio or birth defects. We talked with the older folks and played with the children, some of which were locked in cages. “It’s for their protection,” the Christian nuns reassured us. Many students cried, moved by the powerful images of suffering and overwhelmed by our powerfulness. Our guides took a different view. “Do not feel too sorry for these people,” she taught us, “they are paying for their last lives.” Many students’ mouths dropped, but I inquired. For our guide, life is about karma, the law of cause and effect, good and bad fortune. In past lives, these sufferers of polio and mental disease must have done bad things. In essence, they get what they deserve. Students were outraged. One bright student challenged back. “Christianity isn’t much different,” she said, “we believe that people get what they deserve and good acts are also selfish.” In the end, our guide believed in karma and good acts too—she brought me kheer, a favorite Indian dessert that is a sweet rice pudding for dinner.

India was intense—the sights, the colors, the smells, the food, the streets. For me, India is best represented in the Hindu statue Nataraja or Lord of the Dance. It is a chaotic and busy, but controlled sculpture of Lord Shiva seen everywhere at hotels and businesses—in one hand conquering demons and another conquering ignorance. According to Shiva worshipers, He is dancing the world into existence and beating the drums that are creating the universe. This land is so different from any place I have ever visited before, and only Lord Shiva could crush my previous ignorance of India and reveal the Indian reality hidden behind the maya.

Spring Break Mauritius 2006

White sandy beaches. 88 degree waters. Palms and the wispy tall casuarina trees grow well in the sandy soil. Romantic hideaways and azure lagoons with rich bays teaming with local catches. This is Mauritius, the Hawaii of the Indian Ocean, created by the now dormant volcano Trou Aux Cerfs. One of the chain of independent islands called the Mascarene along with the Seychelles and Reunion islands, the Rhode-Island-sized Ile de Maurice is a nation paradise in the middle of the Indian Ocean near Madagascar. Mark Twain said that God created Paradise based on his Mauritius visit. Here at the end of the world, the people are as warm as the weather. Called the Rainbow Nation, the multicultural culture is made up of Indian, African, European and Chinese, well represented with a multi-colored flag. With over half of the population Hindu, the culture is Indian dominated, with the richest curries and Creole foods. The green hills and extinct volcanic soils dot the landscape with sugar cane fields that still cover the island since colonial times. The Dutch, the British and the French all claimed Mauritius as a stopping point and colony in the lucrative trade with the East, but the French had the longest influence. The colonists are long gone, but their influence and way of life remains—cars drive on the left here but French is the national language (even the island name Mauritius was taken from Dutch royalty). Now as we enter the middle of our voyage, the students went south to celebrate in Flic-en-Flac, and a group of us, 14 staff, headed north to the Grand Baie region, specifically a small fishing village called Mont Choisy. Here we celebrated our Spring Break with beach and pool time, alcohol and cards, Creole and Indian food, scuba diving and deep sea fishing. I refused to plan my time on vacation, but I found adventure and magic, luck and fun in my spontaneous travel in Mauritius.

Coral reefs surround the islands, making for some of the most beautiful and cheapest scuba diving of the world. For a mere $30, our patient instructor taught us the basics in a pool for an hour before a 40 minute adventure under the water. Blowfish, lionfish, parrotfish and triggerfish surrounded us and the corals. It was like a Disneyland adventure under the waves. I immediately wanted to go again, deeper and deeper into the coral reefs filled with anemones, moray eels, and stonefish.

Another day was reserved for deep sea fishing in the Indian Ocean. Mauritius is described as one of the top five fishing destinations in the world for marlin, sailfish, swordfish and other game fish like tuna. I joined five students on a full day fishing expedition on the west coast of the island for 8 hours. Although the fish were sparse, the company was entertaining, and, surprisingly, being out on the turquoise water was picturesque. We followed the birds with our lures and rods and drove the boat through flocks of birds feeding on the surface of the water. I asked when the last big catch—only two days ago an 800 pound marlin was caught on the same rout. In the end, the birds were more successful than us but it didn’t take away from a fun experience.

I visited both cities and beaches. Port Louis, our port city, is teeming with life, best seen through the bustling open air markets and bazaars selling produce next to wooden dodos. Dead as the Dodo never was more true. Sega, the national dance and music, was pumping, a music originally conceived by African slaves as a diversion from the daily injustice of their lives. The accompanying dance allows the dancers to let the music take over and abandon themselves to the drums—I heard the connections to the Caribbean calypso and music from Salvador.

On land, pink pigeons, tortoises and dodo birds are national symbols of another time in Mauritius, before the colonists. Behind the beautiful beaches and gorgeous mountains of the island are the scars of environmental degradation and extinction of dozens of species by colonists and, more recently, multinational textile and agricultural companies. The ironic story is that the extinct dodo is now ubiquitous in markets, sold to tourists and represented in wood carvings and salt and pepper shakers and on every t-shirt in the bazaars. Charles Darwin and the Her Majesty’s Ship The Beagle came to visit these rich, endemic nature populations in the 19th century. Cut off from the far away continent, birds, mammals and lizards took their own evolutionary path here. Rats, deer and mongooses came only a few centuries ago, preying upon the island’s lack of predators and eventually killing off the flightless birds like the dodo. Few native forests remain from before the 1500s, but Mauritius is now marketing itself away as an upscale eco-tourist get-away location, distancing itself from the textile industry of the past few decades. With national parks like Black River Gorges National Park and Sir Seewoosagur Ramoolam Botanical Gardens of Pamplemousses, the nature is as breath-taking as the pristine beaches. These gardens showcase the beautiful palms, some that flower once after 40 years and then die, and the sacred Hindu lotus flowers. Amazon waterlilies cover the water with 6 foot giant lilies with flowers that are white the first day and close red the next day.

I cannot mention a tropical island like Mauritius without mentioning pirates. In fact, in the 18th century, in the golden age of pirates, Mauritius was considered a pirate capital. Supported and hidden by local Mauritians and the French government, they thrived on attacking British traders coming back from India.
More recently, pirates are gaining strength worldwide and wreaking havoc in the maritime world. The International Maritime Bureau estimates that $13-16 billion dollars are lost each year from piracy around the world. Preying on slow moving ships like cargo freighters, fishing vessels and oil tankers, pirates steal from the small crews and specifically, the pursers and lucrative crew incomes. To make matters worse, fewer than 1% of pirates ever get caught, mostly due to collusion and bribery in many governments, but also international waters and national boundaries. Many navies, like Singapore, patrol the problem hot spots like the Straits of Malacca in Southeastern Asia or Hong Kong and the South China Sea, but they cannot chase the pirates when they flee into Indonesian waters or elsewhere into other countries’ waters. Other popular pirate locations like Somalia and the Caribbean Sea are havens because of the lack of order, like Haiti in the Caribbean or East Africa where Somalia is essentially government-less and run by warlords. Our ship, the M.V. Explorer isn’t a target thanks to its size, security (sheer number of people aboard), distance from ports and speed (it’s the fastest cruise in the world with a top speed of 30 knots). We will be traveling through the Straits of Malacca this month, with only security on our top deck, going full speed with escorts at our port and starboard sides through the narrow passageway. Even scarier, while most pirates are entrepreneurs themselves, others are gangs and organized or political terrorists. All are dangerous, proven by last year’s attack on a British cruise ship, the first attack on a passenger ship in 20 years.

Mauritius, with its mostly Indian and Hindi-speaking population, still oddly considers itself African. They compete in the African Football Cup and discuss African problems. Even with one of the highest per capita income and the difficulties of leaving the isolated, overpopulated (1.4 million people) island, many Mauritians visit France, the cheapest flights (29,000 Mauritian rupees or $1000) and balancing the overwhelmingly French tourist populations that visit the island on long vacations.

Between tourist, fun stops like the beaches, I chose the public transportation, the bus, around the island. Traffic is horrible, but the bus took me through the rural middle plateau of the island, passing small subsistence farming and squatters on small plots of land near sugar cane fields. This is the real Mauritius, and despite the reputation as a tolerant, accepting society, there are real disparities between the Creole French speaking and Hindu Indian populations. Nowhere was the Hindu faith more apparent than our arrival, when the extravagant rainbow colored Tamil temples had recently celebrated the Maha Shivaratri celebration or Shiva festival. Simpler temples were on some beaches, like Mont Choisy, statues to the sea, who is worshiped like a god our hotel employee told me.

Despite the beauty and relaxation of the island, I will probably never return. Mauritius’ picturesque beaches are simply too far around the world, isolated in the middle of the Indian Ocean, faraway for all but French tourists. Now we are headed to India, and we left port early to miss an upcoming cyclone speeding across the warm, summer waters of the South Indian Ocean. And so wraps up our Spring Break will the phrase that goes, “what happens in Mauritius, stays in Mauritius.”