I’m going to tell you a sob story about our night out in Reunion Island….

Sometimes, I hate it when Roberto gets all negative. He’s one of my closer mates on the ship, one that I’d wine and dine with, one I’d scream curses at unabashedly and not feel guilty about it, one that I’d tell my secrets to and I love him to death but he can be such a downer when it comes to planning outings. It doesn’t help that he’s Italian and that he belongs to my father’s generation. Of course, he’s way better than dad but he still is unable to shake off the wisdom and caution that all mature people possess instinctively.

We were discussing over dinner about our plans to go out in Reunion Island. The problem with having musicians as friends is they can never go out of the ship any earlier than 12.30 am because they have to work until then. According to Fernando, the printer, St Dennis and St Giles have excellent night life. There are rows and rows of bars and pubs to choose from. Sounds fun. But the downside is, it will cost us at least 24 Euros for a two-way cab. Another downside that we anticipated is that maybe there wouldn’t be any taxis at that time of the day. But I fought for optimism and asked the group to be positive. Let’s just meet at a certain time and just go and see what happens. Roberto and Claudio agreed but with utmost reluctance.

At approximately, 12.30 am Giancarlo(GC), the production manager, came by and told me that we should walk out and check out the situation. After all, Moreno only finishes at 1am so that gives us plenty of time to haggle with the cab driver and then go back to pick the rest up. So Giancarlo and I took a walk….a very long walk…to the gates of the ship terminal, just to find out that it’s locked and the place completely desserted. Being Giancarlo, a go-getter and a die-hard party animal, he went into a Think Hard mode. We couldn’t believe our rotten luck. Roberto’s suspicions were confirmed. So how are we going to go back and face them?

Eventually, GC and I walked back to the ship and waited for the guys at the gangway outside. 5 minutes, no Roberto and Company. 15 minutes, no Roberto and Company. 20 minutes later, a trickle of people came out but they’re not Roberto and Company. They are the Engineer Officers and Animators. So not our group. Yet as GC and I got tired of waiting for Robby and gang, we decided that we should go anyway. We were told that there’s another exit but it’s at least 25 minutes walk away. We thought we would try-together.
So the Engineers, the Animators, GC and I attempted the long pilgrimage towards to other Exit. To cut the long story short, when we got to the other Exit, there were no Cabs. We got the Security to get us a cab but a long 30 minutes wait made us turn back to the ship. If that’s not bad luck, I don’t know what is. Thank goodness there’s a pretty cute looking Engineer that I’ve got a schoolgirl crush on, who was part of the company and that it all worthwhile. *giggles

We then went to the Bosum Store where they celebrated the Bosum’s final days before he leaves for Italy. We had some Sangria and danced to some Latin Music.

At 2.30 am, I left the Party and saw Luca, the TV Director, at the corridor. He told me that he climbed over the gates (really huge ones!) and managed to hitch-hike to St Giles– just to find out that every bar there was closed.

Drat.

It is incredibly expensive to use the internet onboard but pangs of nostalgia and sudden urge of homesickness got the better of me. Starting with 0.50 Euros on the counter, I went to the various favourite websites of mine like Facebook and Couchsurfing and browsed through friends of the new and past profiles. Seeing how settled everyone is, where milestones in life are marked by yet another new car, a well-deserved pay-rise, birth of a child, a marriage, a promotion, the list goes on, makes me go green with envy sometimes. I wish I can anticipate Friday nights, make plans, have weekly routines, meet friends, complain about work and do those mundane things that everyone does but hates.
Ship life is surreal and is still is. You can’t make dinner-you go to the mess and you eat from plastic trays. You don’t make friends but seeing one another so many times make the both of you acquaintances-partners in crime, sharing the same fate and space. Days are marked not by the numbers on the calendar nor the names of the week but rather the names of the port. Having a good time means drinking to your hearts content, playing foosball and if you’re lucky, a good conversation thrown in. Neither speaks the same language fluently so you learn to simplify your vocabulary and hence watering down what you mean. You learn to understand body language instead, watch the eyes of the orator and the accompanying gestures and you make your own conclusions. And when all fails, you turn to silence for company. You don’t have a phone number (some do though) but you have an email address or a beeper where you can be reached. Your house number is your cabin number and an invitation to someone’s cabin is more intimate than an invitation to someone’s house for a cup of tea. You don’t use cash on the ship, you just swipe your personal crew card. It’s your identity card, your credit card, and your life. If you lose it, you cease to exist.
You have an assortment of lounges and bars on different decks to choose from instead of having an array of choices on different streets and suburbs. From time to time, you yearn to yank the fridge door open to pull out a snack but you learn to go to the pastry corner of the enormous galley and steal a croissant instead. You learn to nod when someone says Ciao to you-and you efficiently reply in response but usually in a tone devoid of enthusiasm unless that someone is your friend. You learn to answer to a dozen of different names, each spoken with a different accent. You learn to stay low, keep your eyes and ears open but pretend to know nothing. You learn to stay out of trouble, not to get involved and if anything, save your own ass first. You also learn not to trust.
You learn to accept live by certain rules and regulations; you accept the boundaries that dictate your time. Docking in different ports doesn’t mean travelling; you just see different things and buy things in different currencies.
By the time I finished lamenting over my need for an ordinary life, it was only 15 minutes but the counter showed 19 Euros. And then I realized, for now, for this moment, what an extraordinary life I’m leading. All of a sudden, I was grateful for this opportunity to sway from the default path that everyone takes, and for that, I shouldn’t miss a beat. Not for anything in the world.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

My colleague and I, hanging out while waiting for a cab

It’s always a night of debauchery when the ship docks for the night in Mauritius. Being deprived as we were, we’d all chip in money to pay for a cab that takes us to a strip of bars and clubs, near Grand Baie Beach. It usually costs us about 10-12 Euros per person, to and fro.

On good nights, blankets of stars would dot the sky. I’ve never seen so many stars before…it seems like every constellation in the galaxy is out there, twinkling and winking, trying to show us our destinies. I usually get a good amount of star gazing as the journey from the port to the club takes about 45 minutes.

The usual hangout joint would be Buddha Bar, a ludicrous club that plays bad electronic music, filled with women dancing on podiums, sleazy man, prostitutes, foreigners, locals and the crew of our ship. Local beers cost about 3 Euros. According to Simon, that bar belongs to some Belgian Flemish dudes. He pointed out the owners to me, two fat white men, sweating profusely in the humidity and heat.

The club isn’t amazing but the crew make do with what they have. Somehow, everyone ends up there and it’s nauseating. On one hand, the familiar feeling of seeing and dancing with the people you know gives you a warm fuzz but on another, you feel like you’re dancing back on the ship, only with a different setting.

Camilla, the children animator and I in Buddha Bar

I’ve seen lecherous men eyeing me quizzically, trying to guess if I was a prostitute, a local or a foreigner. My ‘exotic’ Oriental looks, combined with my black top and white shorts, confused them. My company of friends tells them I’m a foreigner but me hanging out with the old dudes (some of my friends are pretty old) may give them the idea that they’re my sugar daddies or something like that.

That night, everyone, including the crew, would try to score. It doesn’t matter if they’d come with their partners or lonely and desperate- after large quantities of beer, everyone’s single and available. It’s a night where no one will remember the next morning, so might as well indulge your inner most desires. It’ll all be forgotten when you step into the confines of the ship. Such liberty gives me a flutter in my stomach, knowing that you can get away with anything but I usually stay out of trouble. I do go around, searching for a piece of decent conversation but no one wants to talk. Men just wants to leer and grope. For that, I return to my group of male friends where I’m their teacher, best friend and princess-and hence, am protected and safe. But when my friends get too drunk and want some piece of action (with someone else!), I’d cross over to the food vendors opposite the road and get myself a nice hotdog or hot kebab. I’d sit on one of the stools, by the dusty road, and chomp on my food contentedly. At 3 am, such snacks are heaven sent!