Back to Africa

OK, enough memories for a moment, and time to start planning for the future. I've just been accepted to present at an e-Learning conference in Zambia in late May (we really need more sub-Saharan Africa universities, and an e-Learning conference for African universities seems like a perfect fit), and while I'm in the neighborhood I'm going to revisit South Africa and make an initial visit to Botswana. So, I've already sent an email to my long-suffering travel agent Rochelle with one of those vague messages that goes something like - "so anyway, the conference is 26-28 May, and I really want to visit the four universities that I deal with in South Africa, but the main professor at Nelson Mendela Metropolitan University has to leave early, so I need to go to South Africa first - and I know the World Cup is being played there this summer so that might be a problem - so let's plan on flying into Johannesburg and catching a flight to Port Elizabeth, and then back to Pretoria, and then on to Zambia, and then, since we're flying over it anyway, let's try and put something together for a Botswana (oh, and could you check on the visa situation in Zambia and Botswana - oh, and note to self - send off passport to get extra pages put in it (remember what happened last time we tried to fly to South Africa and got stuck in Kenya because I didn't have enough pages), and then from Zambia back to Pretoria/Johannesburg, and then on to Cape Town. Oh, and could I get an aisle seat? Why the woman doesn't quit - or at least not answer the phone when I call is beyond me - but I think she actually loves the challenge - and at least this isn't the seven country marathon from this past summer.

Reflections on Things at Hand: A Rainy Day in Paris

Yes, still awash in memories, which I guess means I'm either in a comfortable place in my life and thinking about how lucky I've been or depressed and not seeing much hope in the future (grin). Or maybe it's just a delayed reaction to the enormity of turning fifty. Or maybe like Billy Pilgrim I'm just unstuck in time. No matter the cause, my mind has been sliding back more and more frequently into my own past, which is normally something that I try and avoid like the plague. On the way back from India in August 2004 I carved off several days in Paris as a treat. On one particular morning I had spent several hours walking through the Paris Catacombs, which I loved and have blogged about before. After leaving the Catacombs, and sitting in a little out of the way restaurant and downing a latte, I ventured out into a soft rain. It was one of those days when the rain was not bad enough to keep you inside, and the light was perfect for taking pictures. In the end I walked around the Jardin du Luxembourg and took in the scenery. It was a very quiet, uneventful and utterly unforgettable day. I remember telling my good friend David Kelley before his first trip to Paris that if he could truthfully tell me that he didn't love Paris I didn't think we'd be able to be friends anymore. We're still friends.

Reflections on Things at Hand: Michelangelo's Pieta

The summer of 2008 was mainly focused around my Faculty Internationalization Initiative trip to the Middle East, but on the way back I presented at a conference outside of Florence. Much earlier I included some stories and pictures about Florence, but for reason I never posted anything on visiting the Museo dell'Opera del Duomo and seeing the Michelangelo's Pieta (this is not the Pieta that he carved that everyone thinks of automatically, but the one he created very late in life). I think it popped into my mind again because of the upcoming trip to Moscow, which reminded me of the trip to St. Petersburg over Thanksgiving break. While there I saw a Michelangelo sculpture which had much the same feel and appearance as this later Pieta (that is, more "rough" and in some odd ways "abstract" than the more "smooth" and finely detailed Pieta). This Pieta is located in the Museo dell'Opera del Duomo, which is right in the center of Florence and not far from the famous Uffizi Museum. The Museo dell'Opera del Duomo is very modern and spacious and has some fine works, although everything there pales in comparison to the Pieta. Unlike the earlier work (completed when Michelangelo was 24 - he was close to 80 when he carved this Pieta), which features the body of Jesus spread out in Mary's lap, this one displays an older man helping to lift the body of Jesus. The speculation has always been the the older man was Michelangelo himself, and, considering the Renaissance emphasis on the artist as unique genius - and Michelangelo's own immense ego - this is very believable. I remember being astonished at Michelangelo's skill, especially considering his advanced age. Of all the different artistic genres the one that always consistently blows me away is sculpture - how do you take marble and turn it into live flesh or flowing robes? And that would be the medium wherein it would seem that old age could provide the greatest obstacles, although an older man's patience and experience would certainly serve him well.

Reflections on Things at Hand: Bandra

Yes, back to India again. Mrs. Gary's Apartment was located in Bandra, which was about ten minutes or an hour (depending upon the time of day and that moment's level of traffic insanity) from Champlain's campus. It was also only a few blocks from the ocean. It was a very nice neighborhood, alternating between upper middle class and pretty posh, especially for those lucky enough to have places on the beach. There were nice restaurants and coffee shops and ice cream parlors, and also more mobile food stands where you could eat in the park down by the waterfront. Almost every evening, when it wasn't actively in monsoon season, I would end up walking in the direction of the shore - plenty of tree-lined cool streets. Sometimes I would make it to the waterline, and other days I would just wander for hours around the neighborhood. Even in a neighborhood that nice going for long walks took lots of negotiating because it was difficult to find a long stretch of "uninhabited" sidewalk - people would put up little shops on the sidewalk ("we don't need no stinking permits") so you were constantly climing up and down off the sidewalks. There was this one little boy who was in charge of this huge cart full of bananas and I would stop by every couple days to haggle - I'm sure he now owns property based on what I overpaid. There was also a man with a roadside stand of used books and, as is sometimes the case when I'm overseas, I start getting "homesick" for Dickens. Before I go anyplace I sit down with my friend Sarah Cohen, the librarian who talked me into writing this blog in the first place, and figure out what book I should read on the trip - so, for instance, before I went to Morocco for the first time we figured out which Paul Bowles novel to read, etc. I had brought several India-themed books, but I was over there for an entire summer and eventually I needed to read some Dickens (my favorite). I found a beat-up used copy of Great Expectations at this little stand and, even though it was missing the last ten pages, I still was going to buy it - I'd already read it a couple times and even had two copies at home anyway, but I got it into my head to buy it anyway, figuring that I'd end up leaving before I finished anyway, and at that point I'd just leave the book in Mrs. Gary's Apartment. However, the merchant, sensing that I was operating under some sort of Dickensian mania, would not haggle with me - again, assuming that as an American, and a large American, I was rolling in money. I would literally stop by almost everyone day, for something like two weeks, and resume this high drama. Finally, one day I was in another part of town and stumbled into a more legitimate used book store, and bought an actual complete version of Great Expectations and went back to the stand and showed the merchant that I had bought a copy and told him how much I had paid (which was less than what he wanted for the more dog-eared incomplete copy) - he just smiled, and asked me if I wanted to buy one of the other books. When not pestering poor Indian used book salesmen, however, I would usually just end up sitting down by the water's edge, watching the sun go down.

Reflections on Things at Hand: Slovakia

Sadly, one of the biggest victims of the camera theft in Barcelona, besides a couple hundred extra pictures from China and the pictures of Barcelona itself, were all of my pictures from Slovakia. I passed through Slovakia a couple times during the summer odyssey. I flew into Bratislava on the way back from China, before catching a train up to Ruzomberok for a conference, and then catching another train on to Austria, before passing back through Bratislava on the way to catching a flight to Madrid. On the way to Spain I had a day to walk around downtown Bratislava, which I absolutely loved. Folks who complain about the expense of visiting Europe should consider Slovakia - much less expensive than neighboring Czech Republic, Austria or Hungary, but very beautiful - with loads of history. On the initial trip to Slovakia I was scheduled to speak at the Catholic University of Ruzomberok at a conference. I can state without any reservation that I have never, ever been treated so well at any conference. They were extraordinary - from answering all of my questions to picking me up at the train station to feeding me royally to taking all of the main speakers on a whirlwind tour of Slovakia after the conference to taking a detour on a late night, rainy trip to the train station so that I could say that I had visited Poland. Absolutely amazing. It's one of the places that I am considering for my sabbatical, and I can't imagine a more pleasant group of folks to spend a few months with. Ruzomberok itself is a fairly sleepy town, although it had just opened up a western coffee shop as well as a more western nightclub (both owned and run by one of the students at the university). The guy who ran the nightclub was great - he'd talk to you for a few moments and then order you a drink. You might then say that you wanted to drink something else, but he'd just shake his head and "your" drink would arrive - and, he was right, it was fantastic. The Catholic University of Ruzomberok is first-rate. Again, sadly, all the pictures are gone, with the exception of ones that my friend Janka sent me. On the last night (which I had photographed extensively) we were up in the mountains and ate at this little mom and pop restaurant - just an amazing group of folks (including a Dickens scholar who was kind enough to allow me to pester him endlessly about Dickensian subjects). It was one of those moments when you just realized that there would be few times in your life when you would be that completely satisfied. Here are some pictures that my friend Janka (she's the one in the hat) - along with pictures of Kathleen (an ex-pat from the US - the one standing behind me while I look like I'm meditating) and my good friend Katarina (in the black t-shirt). The last year has been pretty brutal, and that's one of those moments that recharged my batteries - I don't think I've had so much fun since the world was young.

Reflections on Things at Hand: CMC Vellore

I think that some people have an almost mystic connection to a place, and apparently for Scudders it is India. Of all the places I've ever visited it is by far my favorite, for any number of reasons. I'm a historian - and who has a more rich and varied history than India? Plus, there is a definite spiritual side to my nature that finds common ground with the deep spirituality of India. I don't try and gloss over all that is wrong with India - and lord know there is enough wrong there. I always think of India has a place that can make you cry twice within a block, the first time in wonderment and the second time in anguish. However, I think it is somehow deeper than that. There is a branch of my family that has been going to India for almost two year hundred years as doctors and missionaries, which is what led my father and I to make the epic train journey from Mumbai to Vellore in early July 2004. We wanted to visit the Christian Medical College and Hospital in Vellore (usually just referred to as CMC Vellore) in Tamil Nadu in southern Indiana. The hospital was founded by Ida S. Scudder, a very distant relative, around a hundred years ago. Apparently the story is that she was visiting her father, a missionary, and was unable to help out three women facing difficult labor (they could get no male medical assistance because of societal norms and at the time Ida had no training). Ida was horrified when all three of the women died, and she went home and graduated from medical school at Cornell. She then returned to India and set up a one bedroom clinic, and then kept expanding into the Christian Medical College was founded. It has since become a very well-respected hospital and medical school. My dad and I knew about the school and contacted them, and they were very excited to have us visit - even going so far as to have a special ceremony for us (even though we explained that we were from the other side of the family did not routinely produce doctors [although my dad is a physician] and missionaries). We took the train down and spent the night at a guest cottage associated with the hospital (and had the surprising comfort meal of fried chicken, mashed potatoes and vanilla ice cream with fresh mango). The next day we had a tour of the hospital, but, unfortunately, we cut the trip short so that we could make a wild trip across India to make it to the Taj Mahal for the 4th of July (another posting in and of itself). My father and I, and my half-sister Annie, would really like to make it back to Vellore for a more extensive tour, including their community work out in the villages. My father was really impressed with the facilities, and it led to an interesting discussion about how medical tourism is becoming a more popular option.

Reflections on Things at Hand: Paan

OK, so how can one talk about India without talking about paan - I mean, come on, there are only thousands and thousands of paan stands in Mumbai alone. Like a lot of things, both good and bad, I was introduced to paan by my wonderful friend Raj, and we never went anywhere that did not include a trip to a paan stand, and there always seemed to be one open no matter how late we were out. Raj was much more like to go for the more traditional paan, which was a betel leaf wrapped around an areca nut, and also a little tobacco thrown in. Raj swore that it was good for you, although he'd start sweating almost as soon as he popped it into his mouth. You'd leave it in your cheeks, much as you would with chewing tobacco. There were several varieties of paan, and also variations between the more amateurish efforts of clumsy paan merchants and the more skilled products from true paanwalas. My friend Al, being more manly than me, will get the more hard core paan - and even that has varieties based on the amount of tobacco involved (I can just see he and Raj now). To my eternal shame, I never advanced beyond "sweet" paan, which was the betel leaf flavored with, again, depending upon the vision of the different panawala, sugar or candied fruit or fennel seeds or coconut. It's not entirely a healthy habit, of course, as anyone who has seen the betel stained teeth and suffered through the endless spitting can attest. Still, it is undeniably Indian (although common in other parts of southeast Asia) and thus it holds a romantic appeal to me.