I arrived on the vessel on August 31 and had my first meal on board that evening. I walked into the Officer’s Mess and was greeted by the Steward. He showed me to my seat and brought the food to my table and waited on me for the entire meal. Once I was done, he cleaned the table. It was quite nice to be waited on so promptly and expertly. As I sat there digesting my meal, I reflected on the meal and how impressed I was with the food. But would the quality stay steady?
That first meal was steak flanks with asparagus as a side dish. The dish was expertly prepared and the vegetables were freshly procured from the Savannah, GA markets. But such fresh vegetables do not last very long, even with modern day advances in refrigeration. With a 12-day journey ahead of us, I was curious as to what sort of meals to expect.
The first few days after we left port, we had a fresh salad for every meal. The tomatoes were ripe, the cucumbers were fresh and the lettuce was crunchy. The crew and I found ourselves in good spirits as people smiled and laughed their way around the vessel. While walking around the bow, I would find myself humming a tune while staring at the endless horizon, looking forward to the journey.
Soon, the tomatoes were replaced by radishes in the salads. Starchier vegetables, like cauliflower and broccoli appeared in the cooked meals. The dishes were still very comforting and filling. They gave much energy to everyone on board, as the officers would intently mark our progress on the navigation charts. The engineers scurried around below deck, adhering carefully to the maintenance schedule and taking inventory of all spare parts. During this phase, the ping pong games were very competitive. Everyone would intently concentrate on the ball and ready to smash a point for victory.
A few more days later and the radish-and-carrot salad were garnished with a few lettuce leafs. Carrots also show up in the cooked meals, alternating days with canned beets. The meals were hearty and got one through the day, but there is no more joy. One eats to work and works to eat. People become automatic machines, performing their routine and nothing more. This is the phase where drinking starts. Only later did I notice that patches of my hair had fallen off.
But then you run out of the root vegetables and dinner comes with canned peas. Canned peas have an odd effect on the human psyche. They are small wrinkled green dots that temporarily shrink your brain to their size. Capabilities for physical motion are greatly diminished and spoken language is reduced to babble. I struggled at times to have enough energy for a game of darts and could barely manage change my own clothes.
You wonder how much worse it can get, and then you see the vegetable of the day: brussel sprouts. I don’t exactly remember what happened after that meal, but I remember waking up the next morning having gnawed off the leg of my chair. In walking around the next day, I noticed strange graffiti around the vessel and zombie-like sounds emanating from the cargo holds.
Luckily, we were within site of Malta and a chance to replenish our supplies. Indeed, when at our next meal, when we had a bowlful of lettuce in our salads, the crew’s and my joviality returned to normal.
Now, dear reader, I do have to admit, this is a slight exaggeration of what happens due to the lack of fresh vegetables. But it does explain the straight jacket found in my closet.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Fruits of the Road Trip
Consider the grape. It is probably the most perfect fruit to have in the car while driving across the country. It is bite sized so it is easy to handle. There are no seeds to dispose of, at least if they are seedless grapes. They are juicy, thus they hydrate you on a hot summer’s drive. One can easily eat grapes while concentrating intently on the road. They are the most delightful gift a traveler can receive and I started off my journey thankful for a bag of grapes given to me by a friend.
Cherries, purchased in a roadside farm stand, are a good secondary choice. They too are bite sized and the stem makes handling the fruit very simple. The only downside is the pit. It is a minor inconvenience to collect them in your cheek as you begin to chew fresh cherry. Every once and awhile, you can shoot them out of the window in a steady stream, not unlike machine gun fire.
Probably the most difficult fruit to eat while driving is a watermelon. Ideally, you would want one hand to hold the knife and the other to steady the melon. This is the point where you wish you had a third hand to steer the car, but thankful that you have an extra foot (assuming your car has automatic transmission). As you eat your slices, your hands will become irreversibly sticky, but the smell of watermelon will be authentic, unlike the watermelon-scented air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror. That freshness will be short-lived, however, as the sugars ferment in the oppressive heat of a non air-conditioned car.
But the oppressive heat makes cooking a pot roast easier. Just prepare everything as if you were going to put it into an oven. Then roll up all of the windows and put the pot in the sun while you drive. When you reach your destination 8 hours later, dinner will be ready.
Perhaps the most difficult dish to prepare in a car is a daquiri. This is because hardly anyone manufactures a blender with a 12V adapter. In fact, you will have to splice the wire yourself and modify the circuit of the blender to work in those conditions. Since it consumes a lot of electricity, you also have to drive your car extra fast to recharge the battery such that it can keep up with the appliance’s demand. This is best done on a rural interstate where there are fewer obstructions in the road.
Unfortunately, the state trooper in South Dakota did not accept that as an excuse as he booked me for speeding.
Cherries, purchased in a roadside farm stand, are a good secondary choice. They too are bite sized and the stem makes handling the fruit very simple. The only downside is the pit. It is a minor inconvenience to collect them in your cheek as you begin to chew fresh cherry. Every once and awhile, you can shoot them out of the window in a steady stream, not unlike machine gun fire.
Probably the most difficult fruit to eat while driving is a watermelon. Ideally, you would want one hand to hold the knife and the other to steady the melon. This is the point where you wish you had a third hand to steer the car, but thankful that you have an extra foot (assuming your car has automatic transmission). As you eat your slices, your hands will become irreversibly sticky, but the smell of watermelon will be authentic, unlike the watermelon-scented air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror. That freshness will be short-lived, however, as the sugars ferment in the oppressive heat of a non air-conditioned car.
But the oppressive heat makes cooking a pot roast easier. Just prepare everything as if you were going to put it into an oven. Then roll up all of the windows and put the pot in the sun while you drive. When you reach your destination 8 hours later, dinner will be ready.
Perhaps the most difficult dish to prepare in a car is a daquiri. This is because hardly anyone manufactures a blender with a 12V adapter. In fact, you will have to splice the wire yourself and modify the circuit of the blender to work in those conditions. Since it consumes a lot of electricity, you also have to drive your car extra fast to recharge the battery such that it can keep up with the appliance’s demand. This is best done on a rural interstate where there are fewer obstructions in the road.
Unfortunately, the state trooper in South Dakota did not accept that as an excuse as he booked me for speeding.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Voyage: 5 Seconds in Malta
Malta is pretty much as far off the beaten track of Europe as you can get. It is a little island between Sicily and Libya, stranded all by its lonesome in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea. On our approach you could see the entire width of the island in one fell swoop. Huge cliffs grew to the left and right with the gentle slope of the port city in front. However, the cannons of the fortress were aimed directly at the passage to the harbor, deterring anyone from the notion of invasion. Soon, little tug boats appeared and started to nudge us in the direction of our berth. It made me feel like a kid playing in a bathtub, except the tug was dark green and I wasn’t splashing around water.
Marsaxlokk is as far off the beaten path in Malta as you can get. It is at the southern tip of the island and there really isn’t much here except for some beaches, lighthouses, and the port. A quick walk through the seaside and you could feel the influences of all the cultures that intersect here. Pizza joints littered the streets gave it a feeling of lower Manhattan while the light sandstone gave the buildings a distinct Mediterranean look. All signs were printed in English and people drove on the left side of the road. The Maltese dialect is a mixture of Italian, English, French, and languages from the other 184 countries that have tried to conquer it. As far as I know, Turkmenistan is the only country so far that has not launched an invasion at one point or another. But they will correct that discrepancy as soon as they commission their navy.
Our arrival in Malta was not exactly opportune. We docked at 5:00 PM on a Sunday in this heavily Catholic country and were not able to leave the ship till nearly 6:00 PM. Since we were to launch sometime in the early morning, we had to be content with seeing as much as we could in the few remaining hours of daylight. The only thing that could have made the timing worse was if the thunderstorm lurking off the coast had decided to make landfall. Lucky for us, we only found all shops to be closed and the streets nearly deserted.
We jumped on the bus for Valetta, the capitol, and immediately I had a “We’re not in Kansas anymore” moment. For one thing, although Valetta is half the island away, it took us a mere 30 minutes to reach it. For another, the bus drove the entire way without bothering to shut the door! I thought, “Why did they bother installing one anyways? Couldn’t they have saved the steel and glass for some other construction project?” In addition, the bus would not even stop completely to let someone off. The bus would slow down and the passengers would hop off as we continued on our merry way.
Valetta was founded in 1566 on the eastern side of the island and its fortifications extend over 27 km. We entered the city walls and were welcomed by the historical architecture. Unfortunately, we did not have the luxury to admire any one site as our ration of daylight was running short. Eventually our wanderings brought us to a park on the top of a fortress overlooking the city and bay. The blue from the water, yellow from the stone buildings, and orange from the streetlights presented a magnificent feast for the eyes. By this point, the sun had set, making it too dark to do any more sightseeing. Instead, we settled down in an Internet Café and reacquainted ourselves with the rest of the world.
Indeed, our time in Malta was too short to satisfy one’s curiosity, but this sort of view can only inspire a return visit.
Marsaxlokk is as far off the beaten path in Malta as you can get. It is at the southern tip of the island and there really isn’t much here except for some beaches, lighthouses, and the port. A quick walk through the seaside and you could feel the influences of all the cultures that intersect here. Pizza joints littered the streets gave it a feeling of lower Manhattan while the light sandstone gave the buildings a distinct Mediterranean look. All signs were printed in English and people drove on the left side of the road. The Maltese dialect is a mixture of Italian, English, French, and languages from the other 184 countries that have tried to conquer it. As far as I know, Turkmenistan is the only country so far that has not launched an invasion at one point or another. But they will correct that discrepancy as soon as they commission their navy.
Our arrival in Malta was not exactly opportune. We docked at 5:00 PM on a Sunday in this heavily Catholic country and were not able to leave the ship till nearly 6:00 PM. Since we were to launch sometime in the early morning, we had to be content with seeing as much as we could in the few remaining hours of daylight. The only thing that could have made the timing worse was if the thunderstorm lurking off the coast had decided to make landfall. Lucky for us, we only found all shops to be closed and the streets nearly deserted.
We jumped on the bus for Valetta, the capitol, and immediately I had a “We’re not in Kansas anymore” moment. For one thing, although Valetta is half the island away, it took us a mere 30 minutes to reach it. For another, the bus drove the entire way without bothering to shut the door! I thought, “Why did they bother installing one anyways? Couldn’t they have saved the steel and glass for some other construction project?” In addition, the bus would not even stop completely to let someone off. The bus would slow down and the passengers would hop off as we continued on our merry way.
Valetta was founded in 1566 on the eastern side of the island and its fortifications extend over 27 km. We entered the city walls and were welcomed by the historical architecture. Unfortunately, we did not have the luxury to admire any one site as our ration of daylight was running short. Eventually our wanderings brought us to a park on the top of a fortress overlooking the city and bay. The blue from the water, yellow from the stone buildings, and orange from the streetlights presented a magnificent feast for the eyes. By this point, the sun had set, making it too dark to do any more sightseeing. Instead, we settled down in an Internet Café and reacquainted ourselves with the rest of the world.
Indeed, our time in Malta was too short to satisfy one’s curiosity, but this sort of view can only inspire a return visit.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Voyage: On Crossing Gibraltar
Sight of land! What a wonderful change to the monotony of sea. Two continents at once fill your view with mountains growing out of the water on both sides. We arrived at the Strait at 8pm and saw the mountains reflecting the deep orange glow of the sun. Mark Twain, in his The Innocents Abroad puts it succinctly, “The picture … was very beautiful to the eyes weary of the changeless sea”
During the ten days of the ocean crossing, there is a slow but gradual buildup of tension. This tension comes from the constant rumbling of the engine, the rocking movement of the ship, and the difficulty to find quiet places to get away. It was considered eventful if we saw one ship in a day. But every day, you cheerfully carried on by looking for the simple amusements to occupy the mind.
But here, the entire traffic of the Mediterranean is squeezed through a channel 13 miles wide. First we saw ships, over a dozen on the horizon. Then we spot birds. And finally, the green mountains make their majestic appearance. At that moment, I got caught off guard by a wave of relief that flowed through my body. It was the culmination of a week and a half of patiently enduring the slow passage of time. It did not matter that we will not dock for two more days. Land has been sighted. Land is near. It brought comfort to the mind and soul.
Sadly, we crossed Gibraltar itself after dark. It was a blurry silhouette against a black background. For most of the next day, we hugged the African coast, passing Algeria, Tunisia and going between Africa and the Ile de la Galite. I asked the 2nd mate why we were traveling so close to land when the Mediterranean Sea was so large. He shrugged his shoulders and said, “So we can get cell phone and TV reception.”
It is nice to be close to land!
During the ten days of the ocean crossing, there is a slow but gradual buildup of tension. This tension comes from the constant rumbling of the engine, the rocking movement of the ship, and the difficulty to find quiet places to get away. It was considered eventful if we saw one ship in a day. But every day, you cheerfully carried on by looking for the simple amusements to occupy the mind.
But here, the entire traffic of the Mediterranean is squeezed through a channel 13 miles wide. First we saw ships, over a dozen on the horizon. Then we spot birds. And finally, the green mountains make their majestic appearance. At that moment, I got caught off guard by a wave of relief that flowed through my body. It was the culmination of a week and a half of patiently enduring the slow passage of time. It did not matter that we will not dock for two more days. Land has been sighted. Land is near. It brought comfort to the mind and soul.
Sadly, we crossed Gibraltar itself after dark. It was a blurry silhouette against a black background. For most of the next day, we hugged the African coast, passing Algeria, Tunisia and going between Africa and the Ile de la Galite. I asked the 2nd mate why we were traveling so close to land when the Mediterranean Sea was so large. He shrugged his shoulders and said, “So we can get cell phone and TV reception.”
It is nice to be close to land!
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Voyage: On Breakfast
When I boarded the ship, I was very determined to follow a regular routine. I felt that it would be healthy to do so, given the long stretches of daytime that needed to be filled. On the Oceano, breakfast was served between 7:00 and 7:30 every morning, so I made it a goal to wake up early enough to enjoy it every day. The first few days were nice – I was able to rise with plenty of time to spare. As we crossed the Atlantic, however, the earth began to conspire against me. At least once every other day, we would enter a new time zone. Pretty soon, it became more and more difficult to wake up at 7:00 since 7:00 kept moving forward by an hour.
It was such a frustrating experience. Here you are, thinking to yourself, “Ok buddy, just get up this once and you’ll get acclimated.” But then the time changes and now 7:00 is an hour earlier than it used to be. You lie awake in bed, unable to fall asleep till 2:00 or 3:00 in the morning and by the time your alarm rings, you only feel like putting it on snooze till 10:00. Pretty soon, I was happy if I woke up by noon, for any later and I would have missed lunch too.
When we reached GMT, I felt that it was the perfect opportunity to set my internal clock to what would be my new time zone. I diligently set my alarm for 7:00 and swore to get up, no matter how difficult the task. Indeed, I was proud that the next morning I dragged myself out of bed and down to the Officer’s Mess. When I arrived, I was puzzled that the plates were put away and found the kitchen strangely quiet. To my horror, I realized that I had neglected to change the time zone on my alarm clock. By now, it was well after 8:00AM and the cooking staff had retired for the morning.
I went back to my cabin in a gloomy state. In a dream-like stupor, I rummaged around my luggage for awhile and found a beaten up granola bar. It was a gold mine. I feasted on it and savored the taste for a whole three bites. It was the best breakfast of the entire voyage.
It was such a frustrating experience. Here you are, thinking to yourself, “Ok buddy, just get up this once and you’ll get acclimated.” But then the time changes and now 7:00 is an hour earlier than it used to be. You lie awake in bed, unable to fall asleep till 2:00 or 3:00 in the morning and by the time your alarm rings, you only feel like putting it on snooze till 10:00. Pretty soon, I was happy if I woke up by noon, for any later and I would have missed lunch too.
When we reached GMT, I felt that it was the perfect opportunity to set my internal clock to what would be my new time zone. I diligently set my alarm for 7:00 and swore to get up, no matter how difficult the task. Indeed, I was proud that the next morning I dragged myself out of bed and down to the Officer’s Mess. When I arrived, I was puzzled that the plates were put away and found the kitchen strangely quiet. To my horror, I realized that I had neglected to change the time zone on my alarm clock. By now, it was well after 8:00AM and the cooking staff had retired for the morning.
I went back to my cabin in a gloomy state. In a dream-like stupor, I rummaged around my luggage for awhile and found a beaten up granola bar. It was a gold mine. I feasted on it and savored the taste for a whole three bites. It was the best breakfast of the entire voyage.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Voyage: A Stubby Note
The experiment has failed. Enough was enough. After two weeks of natural growth, I shaved off my facial hair. Please note, I did not say, “I shaved off my beard,” or “goatee” or any form of hair growth that we would recognize. The only thing I succeeded at in those two weeks was to grow long stubble. It wasn’t very uniform nor dense at all. In essence, it was ugly.
The plan was to go from California to England without shaving and to see what would happen. Somewhere slightly east of the Azores, I noticed each of the crew shaving off their beards, one after another. I took a good look at myself in the mirror and realized in horror what everyone else was seeing. I looked like a prickly pear, a badly mowed lawn, a porcupine in puberty. The crew must have been internally laughing at me. And so I shaved, eliminating from my face what was not meant to be.
Satisfied with my work, I went to dinner. I walked into the Officer’s Mess and to my bemusement, the third mate broke out in laughter. With food in his mouth, he said in broken English, “You got sick of your face?” He tried to hide his amusement at my change in appearance.
My attempt at preventing the crew from laughing at me had failed. I could only take consolation in no longer being a walking cactus.
The plan was to go from California to England without shaving and to see what would happen. Somewhere slightly east of the Azores, I noticed each of the crew shaving off their beards, one after another. I took a good look at myself in the mirror and realized in horror what everyone else was seeing. I looked like a prickly pear, a badly mowed lawn, a porcupine in puberty. The crew must have been internally laughing at me. And so I shaved, eliminating from my face what was not meant to be.
Satisfied with my work, I went to dinner. I walked into the Officer’s Mess and to my bemusement, the third mate broke out in laughter. With food in his mouth, he said in broken English, “You got sick of your face?” He tried to hide his amusement at my change in appearance.
My attempt at preventing the crew from laughing at me had failed. I could only take consolation in no longer being a walking cactus.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Voyage: On Smells
During my fifth day at sea, I began to miss something that I had taken for granted – odors. Let me explain. I am not talking about the smell of athletes foot or the stink of rotten trash. Rather, the Earth itself gives off a smell that is noticeable only when it is missing. Here on the ocean, there are no trees giving off fresh oxygen, no moist soil giving off the smell of a fresh garden, no animals giving off odor to either attract mates or to keep away predators. Here on the ocean, there is a characteristic lack of any smell.
In addition, the water we drink is distilled sea water. It has gone through the most stringent of a filtering system that takes out any and all contaminants that may exist in it. In effect, it is tasteless, without any of the common minerals and nutrients that we associate with tap water. As the days went by, I began to have a longing for mealtime, and I realized that it was not only because of the nourishment, but because the mess hall smelled different. To be precisely, the mess hall had a smell, a familiar smell that broke the monotony from the lack of it.
Imagine my surprise then, when, on a round of the deck of the ship, I came across the Filipino crew roasting a suckling pig on spit. Now, I knew that Saturdays were barbeque days, but I had no idea that meant a whole pig. It looked very happy and content, but probably not very comfortable since its rib cage was cut open and all of its innards removed. The smell of salted meat permeated the entire stern. The entire crew was there, relaxing and having a party. Pretty soon, one of them hands me a beer and we sat there shooting the breeze.
Apparently the pig is something of a tradition. It usually happens on ocean crossings, and apparently is common enough that stores at ports sell whole pigs. In fact, one of the crew mentioned that he had never been on a ship that did not have this tradition. I took a look off the stern and spotted another freighter off in the distance going in the other direction. I could imagine that, on the stern of the other vessel, a group of Filipino drinking beer, roasting a pig and giving a toast to the universal seaman’s barbeque.
Two hours later, I was sitting on the wing of the Bridge overlooking the water. The sun was setting behind us, the speakers were blasting techno music, and the alcohol flowed freely. All of the people on board the vessel were there, officers, engineers, cadets and able-bodied men. The chief engineer grilled the sausages and the captain made his special pesto sauce. We milled around, laughing, sharing stories, and having a great time. There was even a whale sighting off the starboard side. For a moment, you drowned out the constant rumbling of the motor and could forget that you were on a vessel going full speed across the Atlantic.
The barbeque was a welcomed distraction from the daily routine. Today, we were people enjoying good food, good beer and good company. Tomorrow, we would be back to being seafaring voyagers and void of any smells.
In addition, the water we drink is distilled sea water. It has gone through the most stringent of a filtering system that takes out any and all contaminants that may exist in it. In effect, it is tasteless, without any of the common minerals and nutrients that we associate with tap water. As the days went by, I began to have a longing for mealtime, and I realized that it was not only because of the nourishment, but because the mess hall smelled different. To be precisely, the mess hall had a smell, a familiar smell that broke the monotony from the lack of it.
Imagine my surprise then, when, on a round of the deck of the ship, I came across the Filipino crew roasting a suckling pig on spit. Now, I knew that Saturdays were barbeque days, but I had no idea that meant a whole pig. It looked very happy and content, but probably not very comfortable since its rib cage was cut open and all of its innards removed. The smell of salted meat permeated the entire stern. The entire crew was there, relaxing and having a party. Pretty soon, one of them hands me a beer and we sat there shooting the breeze.
Apparently the pig is something of a tradition. It usually happens on ocean crossings, and apparently is common enough that stores at ports sell whole pigs. In fact, one of the crew mentioned that he had never been on a ship that did not have this tradition. I took a look off the stern and spotted another freighter off in the distance going in the other direction. I could imagine that, on the stern of the other vessel, a group of Filipino drinking beer, roasting a pig and giving a toast to the universal seaman’s barbeque.
Two hours later, I was sitting on the wing of the Bridge overlooking the water. The sun was setting behind us, the speakers were blasting techno music, and the alcohol flowed freely. All of the people on board the vessel were there, officers, engineers, cadets and able-bodied men. The chief engineer grilled the sausages and the captain made his special pesto sauce. We milled around, laughing, sharing stories, and having a great time. There was even a whale sighting off the starboard side. For a moment, you drowned out the constant rumbling of the motor and could forget that you were on a vessel going full speed across the Atlantic.
The barbeque was a welcomed distraction from the daily routine. Today, we were people enjoying good food, good beer and good company. Tomorrow, we would be back to being seafaring voyagers and void of any smells.
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