Quote of the day: “Not gifted with genius but honestly holding his experience deep in his heart, he kept his simplicity and humanity.” Nanao Sakaki’s description of the great Haiku writer, Issa.

As I switched between movies, I return every now and then to the screen that showed flight information.

Destination: Pointe-a-Pitre, Guadeloupe
Ground speed: 536 mph
Distance since departure: 2983 miles
Flying across the Atlantic Ocean
Time to destination: 2.39
Landing Time: 6.10pm local time

I open the window shutter and let some glacial blinding sunlight in. Some iridescent snowflakes had formed a pretty pattern on the pane. Against the lucid blue skies, they look like crystals. Exquisite. Then, I return back to watching Jim Carrey’s latest film, Yes Man, and stretched my legs across the other two seats. Somehow I got lucky at the check-in and had secured three wide seats to myself.

Despite the harrowing morning, I still find, in some recess of my brain, the experience hilarious. It wasn’t hilarious in the comical way but rather the close calls, the running around and experiencing the zenith of frustration, left me with nothing but a strange calm and an edgy sense of humour. I marvelled at how finally things just fell into place. I felt like I should lift my head toward the skies, shake my fists at it and say to the divine, “Must be some kind of game you’re playing here but whatever it is, you’ve got me!”

Back in a nice three star hotel in Naples, at 4.45am, I was rudely interrupted by a call from the reception. “Get your things down now,” a voice barked in rapid Italian. “Your airport transfer’s waiting.” I remembered that it was meant to be at 5am, not 15 minutes earlier. I stared miserably at my things scattered across the room and started to pack.

At the check-in, I was told that my luggage would arrive at its final destination. I remember cocking an eyebrow in skepticism, since I had to transfer, not just from one flight to another, but from one airport to another, in Paris. However, I fought my doubts down and thought that perhaps after AirFrance took over AliItalia, they had some sort of new luggage technology. I forgot that Airfrance is equally as bad in losing and misplacing passengers’ luggage.

I had another transfer in Milan Linate, before Paris. I had only 10 minutes to run from arrivals to departure and worried inconsequently about my luggage not making it on time.

When I arrived in Paris Charles De Gaulle, I enquired about my luggage and whether I should pick it up in CDG itself before going to Paris Orly. There was a nagging thought that I was right and the earlier check-in clerk was wrong. The friendly guy behind the desk confirmed my worst fears but assured me that there’s a free shuttle bus to Paris Orly and it’s only about an hour between the two airports. I have plenty of time to pick my luggage up at the carousel and everything else. He checked in online for me and said, “Good luck, sea girl!”

I waited at the luggage carousel for 15 minutes but saw no sign of my luggage. There was only about 100 people on the flight so it was obvious that something went wrong. Spoke to the receptionist at the Baggage Service and she helped me checked through the systems to see whether it arrived. It didn’t and she told me to come back 30 minutes later. At 12.00 pm, I went there again and she shook her head apologetically. Told me that it was best if I were to lodge a claim and give her an address so that they could deliver it to the spot. I didn’t have an address of the hotel that I was meant to stay at. I rushed up to an international phone booth, paid 20 Euros for a phone card and started calling Costa’s emergency number for travelling crew. They said I should call Guadeloupe’s port agent. Called Guadeloupe’s port agent, got some sort of address and hoped for the best.

It was 12.30 pm when I headed towards the exit. I looked at my boarding tickets and it said boarding time 2pm. That means, if I don’t get to Paris Orly by then, I’ll be screwed. Time was running out. I was breathless and couldn’t think straight. Enquired for the shuttle bus stop but the French couldn’t speak English. Hand gestures took me around in circles. Eventually, found the spot where I should wait. Bus didn’t arrive. A crowd had already gathered and everyone was cursing. The bitter wind didn’t help.

Glanced at my watch-12.50pm. Merda! Ran towards the taxi area and asked the price to Orly. 60 Euros he quoted but he pointed ahead and say that I had to go all the way to the front to be part of the queue. It looked about 1 km away. Turned back and decided to wait for the shuttle bus. My brains were scrambled with thoughts that screamed, “I won’t make it. And the cost involved if I don’t.”

The shuttle bus came at 1.10pm. It was full. At this point, I was glad that I didn’t have my 35kgs worth of luggage to lug onboard. I was small and could fit into any corners. The only belongings I had were my Crumpler camera bag and daypack.

Got there at 2.00pm sharp. Realizing the fact that I was already checked in previously via Internet, I dashed towards the departure gates. After I got there, there was still 5 minutes left to catch my breath. It was then where the bitter sensation of self-pity and wretched misery invaded into the pores of my skin. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for myself, feel angry at the fact that The Company booked me on such stupid flights and that WHY DO THINGS LIKE THAT HAPPEN TO ME? Why me, I thought, albeit knowing it to be a big cliché.

Then again, why not me. Everyone have a bad day at some point in their lives, everyone must have lost their luggage at some point in their lives-my time is now.
Must be a whole ball of bad karma snowballing down the hill and then triggered an avalanche of shitty events.

As for now, I could do nothing else but wait. So why not just enjoy the waiting moment?

Today, the ship slowed down to a speed of 10 knots to sail through the Suez Canal. The canal is busy as usual with ships in line, waiting to get through. I went out to the open deck for crew on Deck 6 and was greeted by a blast of cold wind and barren shores, with no signs of vegetation.

The sudden drop of temperature reminded me that we finally left the African sun behind and are crashing into the Mediterranean Seas soon…

It was 19th of November when I embarked….and by 15th of April, I’ll be off MV CE. I don’t know whether to heave a sigh of relief or to feel pangs of regret that it’ll all soon be over…

Next port of call: Alexandria, Egypt

From Safaga to Luxor

I had listened to the ancient whispers of the land,
And watched the sun rose and set upon the sands….
The wind had breathed to me the secrets of life..
As I crossed and wandered through the chambers, monuments and tombs,
I imagined the ancient civilisation that was once at its zenith,
Upon the same rocks and alabaster….

…

I unscrewed the large metallic screws that held my cabin’s porthole tight and looked out. The real threat of Somalian pirates has passed-we’re free to enjoy the transient but majestic ocean vistas once again. Looking out from Deck 3, the ocean appears close; occasionally a whiplash of water would graze the surface of the porthole. The night was jet-black, the horizons indistinguishable except for the lash, swash and slosh of the waves against the vessel, illuminated by the neon on the promenade deck. I pressed my face against the porthole, unable to take my eyes off the constant motion of the ocean and thought, “I never want to stop wandering.”

I remembered that particular day when I told my dad nonchalantly that I’m going to Myanmar to volunteer in a local village school. My mind was already made up and I was leaving in two days time. “When are you coming back?” he asked. To his horror, I said I don’t know.

It all started when I met Jeff, the Australian ex-Buddhist monk, now a freelance meditation teacher, who regaled to me how his world tours turned him into a Buddhist monk under the Theravadan tradition for 8 years. I wasn’t sure whether it was the unusual awe commanding presence that screams wisdom or the fact he could speak Thai and Burmese, chant in Pali and surf like a typical Aussie bloke, that made me want to be him. If such an unlikely character could command so much respect from the Buddhist community all over the world, then perhaps this unsuspecting awkward girl-next-door could be a world traveler, a writer on the road, a barista in Sicily, an aid worker in Sudan or a pianist in Harlem. I could switch from skin to skin, savouring every experience that different jobs, romance, lands and circumstances can offer. I was smitten by possibilities.

I broke up with my boyfriend of 5 years right after. I was only 23 years old and I couldn’t see him fitting in anywhere in this new life of mine.

In Yangon, Myanmar, I stood next to the 200 cm tall Dutch backpacker, in a local Pizzeria and allowed the fellow volunteers to hoot with laugher at the amusing contrast. As he turned to look, I flashed my brightest smile at the towering figure. It was then we fell in love with each other. As we spent our remaining time travelling together through Myanmar and then eventually my home country, Malaysia, and Thailand, I had adsorbed everything I needed to know to become a proper ‘Amsterdammer’. I could recite one to ten in Dutch, roll out the strangest and archaic Dutch sayings, memorize names of canals and streets, imagined myself sitting on the ledge of the window, staring out into the canal as the Heineken horse clops by and nursing a glass of white wine as the sun shines. I even had a hankering for raw herring even though I’ve not tasted it at that time. The best cure for hangovers apparently. My heart started to beat for Amsterdam but then my bank account dried up. After Teun left for Amsterdam, we kept in touch briefly. Despite the lack of correspondence, he mentioned that ‘his flat is always open to me’. I was heartbroken, but not completely. A faint hope glimmered in my heart as I returned home for a job. I needed something to get by until I have enough to leave again.

Then, I met Gio, the Italian motorcyclist who was remaking his own version of Motorcycle Diaries. Instead of traversing a good chunk of South America, he wanted the world. By the time he arrived in Kuala Lumpur, he had already crossed 22 countries. Two years later, he crossed 6 more. I completely bought his Italian charm and pizzazz-his bright eyes, alluring voice, devil-may-care spirit were irresistible. After exploring some fringes of the tropical jungles together on his bike, I was ready to transport myself to Italia. I was giddy consuming the Italian energy and wanted more, more, more. I wanted to speak Italian, eat Italian, wear Italian, be Italian. But then he left.

Then, there were other loves, other friends. I was an American, a Kiwi and a Gypsy (Zingaro!). It was a full immersion course on various cultures through the different relationships forged. I was a child of the world without leaving the confines of home.

A few months later, I dumped my cheap RM 50 backpack that I bought from one of the bargain stalls along Petaling Street for a snazzy new dark blue one, with plenty of grey straps to buckle and clasp. Deuter-its German brand, offered a promise of durability and strength. Whatever clothes and books I could fit into the bag, I did. I owned no other possessions. In the morning, I went to the Immigration Department to collect my new passport and by night, I was already on a night bus to Hat Yai, Thailand.

I wandered across the exotic and historical lands of South East Asia for another 6 months before I promptly bought myself a one-way ticket to Amsterdam. I wasn’t hoping to revive the old flame but I was curious to see the land that only exists in my imagination for so long. The prospect of stepping onto another foreign soil, that is so culturally different from the one that I’m brought up on, exhilarated and ignited my lust for the world again.

If there is an exam on how to become a proper Dutch, I would pass it with flying colours. I was the epitome of tourist turned native. The herring seller on Albert Cuyp markets remembered my name, friends of Teun invited me over for dinners, his family doubled with laughter and amusement whenever I surprised them with a Dutch phrase, I knew the difference between koor ballens and the regular guys, I remembered names of local bands and festivals, I followed the Dutch cyclists for Tour de France on TV, and the cute looking bartender never failed to wave to me whenever I pass by Kingfisher Bar. If we had a hangover, we’d treat it with a herring and a beer after. If the weather is good, we’d start drinking at the terraces or on Museumplein from 3pm onwards. If I don’t turn up for a dinner party or a night out in The Kingfisher, people would ask Teun why.

I was in a gig alone in Melkweg when a guy tapped on my shoulders and told me that he recognized me from the Kingfisher Bar. How? “You’re always drinking with the giants,” he said.
However, 3 months later, I was no longer able to support myself. My initial plan to look for an under-the-table job was thwarted as the Dutch authorities are strict with employment policies. I was skint like a church mouse and Teun was beginning to feel cramped in his own studio flat.
It was then when Italy offered to take my hand and kissed it. “Are you still interested in the crew lecturer job that you applied 8 months ago? Can you come to Genova for an interview?” came that fateful e-mail from Costa Cruise Lines.

You’ve gotta be kidding me, I thought.

It was the beginning of autumn. The sky was a dreadful grey as the rain beat down hard on us. Teun had volunteered to send me to the Amstel Bus Station on his bicycle-with me sitting on the rusty backseat and my 15 kg backpack slung across the bar that rests between the handlebars and the saddle. I left Amsterdam, clutching the 50 Euros and a mobile phone that Steff, another close Dutch friend, gave me. Everyone had wished me luck in a farewell drinking party that was held the night before. I had voiced my doubts in securing myself the job but Teun said, “Nonsense. A year ago, you said you wanted to come to Amsterdam, and here you are now. 24 years old and you do whatever you damn please. You’ve got spunk for such a tiny woman, you know that? That’s why you fit in well into my group even though we’re bunch of forty-year olds. You have our respect, Ukkie Pukkie,” he said, using that nickname he gave me since our days in Myanmar. It was an affectionate term for someone so small in size.

After 9 months on the ship, I was a full-fledged English Teacher and a seafarer. I spent the summer after in Genova, riding the back of my ex-boyfriend’s motorcycle. My hair spun in the wind as we snaked through the different coasts of Liguria. My daily routine consisted of baking in the sun, swimming, rowing, riding and eating. I was part of the family; I was turning Italian.
The relationship didn’t last however and I was back to being a Malaysian, living out of a backpack, without a home. After a grueling process, I got a shinny UK Working Holiday visa sticker on my passport. London became my next home and suddenly my reality changed again. This time, I was the bohemian Londoner who harbored aspirations to be a novelist. I was a smiling barista working along Carnaby Street, having weekend coffee rituals in Monmouth and Amano Café, chatting to random strangers in Borders on Oxford St, going for walks in the different parks, going for Writing and Italian language classes, taking CSers around town and working on my novel. Whenever I could, I did weekend trips to Glasgow, Amsterdam, Cork and Paris.

I was perfectly content in London: I had beautiful friends, had little rituals and spots to attach myself to, little weekend treats to look forward to. I had things that I call my own: a Macbook, a digital SLR camera, an Ipod Nano. I thought I never want to leave, I couldn’t foresee another upheaval in life. I thought at 25 years old, I’m finally ready to settle down and yank up the domesticity scale. But I couldn’t live near a few blocks away from London Bridge, in a flat that hovered between Zone 1 and 2 on my meager café earnings. I was burning out fast and I didn’t even have time to write anymore-the whole point of me being a vagabond in the first place. I wanted to experience the romance of life so that I could write about it.

There was a vacancy on the ship again-this time with an Indian Ocean itinerary. North Africa, and the tiny ex-French Islands scattered like jewels just off coast East Africa sounded mighty exotic. Despite my dislike for working for Costa again, I knew I had to do it. Just one more time, I told myself. Just one more contract and I’ll have enough to do whatever I want to do next.

Tears rolled down as I hugged Musty goodbye at the airport. Musty was my partner-in-crime in London ever since we met in a CouchSurfing Rise Festival music event. After I got through immigration checks in Heathrow Airport, I got calls from both Camilla and Olga. I sobbed like a baby, talons of grief tore my heart, thinking of the people that I had to leave behind. If passer bys didn’t know any better, they would think that I had spent 5 years in London. I was only there for 5 months.

Here I am again, approaching to another fork in the road. What happens after this, I don’t know. I know I will despair at the farewell embraces that will inevitably follow when I disembark in two week’s time. Friends wanted me to live with them in many different places but that must wait as I still have another two months to go on another ship. Pesaro, Napoli and Pescara await me. Eastern Europe calls. Istanbul bellows. United States patiently seethes on the other side.
“When you come Ying, I’ll introduce you to my friends and family,” said Roby seriously while sipping a glass of white wine. We were having dinner in the Staff Mess. “You promise to come and stay? You can stay in and write your book whenever I’m out playing in different bars.”

“Sounds good to me.” I replied. “ Maybe I can go also go for Italian lessons in a nearby university.”

“But before that, you must come and live with me. We can work in a bar together. I have a friend who can give you a job. 3 months-va bene?” Francesca offered.

Moreno, Francesca’s boyfriend, narrowed his eyes and said, “Someday you will take over the world, Ying, with that face of yours. All you do is say, I’m Ying, I’m really small and I’m from Malaysia. And then, the world opens up to you.”

What he meant to say is that I’m putting my petite size and Chinese doll, tapering eyes to good use. Yes, but in the first place, I have also opened up my heart and seized the opportunity to throw my soul upon the wind, when the cage door opened.

As Elizabeth said in her article, if you open up yourself to the world, anything can happen.