It was another sunny day in Mombasa and as usual, outside the port, it’s bustling with peddlers selling their wares and taxi drivers shouting out deals to take you around the city or to the beach. I look at the entire scene with anticipation, hoping to embark on another adventure but alas, warned by my colleagues, it’s too dangerous to go out alone.

The last time when I went out with my musician friends, they found a young local girl who could speak Italian fluently. Dressed in bright garish red spaghetti strapped top, she could easily be mistaken as a prostitute but she wasn’t. She offered to take the 4 of us in one car to the closest beach and my Italian friends weren’t to say no to add layers of tan to their already dark olive skins. However, instead of the public beach, she took us to a private beach resort and told us that we can enjoy the beach in front of it. The beach was a disappointment as it was filled with algae and shallow waters. After swimming in the pristine beaches of Seychelles, every other beach fails in comparison. We spent that afternoon by drinking lots of beer and eating sandwiches at the beach resort’s pool.

Today, my friends chose to use the ship’s pool instead of going out. They said it’s not worth it. As for me, I still long to explore the fringes of Mombasa but there’s no one to share a cab or to take a walk with. The African sun blazed above as I sip my freshly squeezed orange juice by the pool, in my uniform and watch my colleagues prance around in their bathing costumes. Just the silliness of it all confounds me. The fact that we’re in Mombasa, Kenya has no relevance to them. All they want is to be a tourist, drink margaritas, and suntan. No, they’re not all that bad but still, nothing can convince them to take the road less taken. What about learning about the way Kenyans live, their daily routines, what makes them tick? Instead, they’re afraid, they can’t be bothered, and they’re dispassionate.

Yet another uninteresting day. Pffftttt.

I had never felt so frightened, desperate and frustrated in my life.

After I updated my blog in an Internet café in Barcelona, I went out to find my way back. As previously shown by a waiter who served me in a café, I walked the path that I thought would lead me out of La Ramblas and into the pier. But as I kept walking, I felt like I was walking into the heart of Barcelona instead of out of it. More markets, artists and shops littered along sight, tempting me with their dazzling display of Spanish goodies and artwork but all I could think at that time was how the fuck do I get out of here.

I was supposed to be back by 6pm and it was already 5. I know the meeting point wasn’t too far away but one wrong turn could lead me into nowhere. My heart pounded and my thoughts thud furiously. Think, think, think. I had no contact number, nothing. If I get back late, the ship will leave without me and I’ll automatically be disembarked. Being trapped in a foreign country without a passport and losing my job are both prospects that I didn’t look forward to.
Eventually, I turned to the closest person next to me and started to ask for directions. I may take pride in my poor Italian but I am a complete retard in Spanish. I tried to tell him that I was looking for the port but he only got more confused. And then, I remembered I took some pictures when I first got out of the shuttle bus. It was of a really interesting and probably important monument nearby. I showed the picture to him and his eyes flickered with recognition. He pointed to the opposite side of La Ramblas and told me to walked till the end of it.

I was aghast. La Rambla is freaking a few kilometers long…. I’d probably be late by the time I arrive at where I wanted to go. Nonetheless, left with no other choice, I walked. Kept walking. And I had to have faith in this guy’s directions. He had to be right.
Apparently, he was also going the same way. After a long walk, he assured me that it was the right way and I should just keep going until I see the monument.

10 minutes later, I arrived. My head cleared with glorious thoughts. As I walked closer towards the meeting point, I can see several company’s shuttle busses on one side of the road, waiting to take both the crew and passengers back into the ship terminal.

That was close!

Note to self: never to go off wandering if you’re prone to getting lost.
It’s not worth it.

Spent most of my time wandering along and around La Rambla..every alley seem to reveal something a little more….markets, galleries, architecture studios, museums…art spaces….a real beautiful place. Thick fog hung in the air…and the sunlight streaming through, it does look truly magical.

Have to find my way back now…am convinced that I’m quite lost.

Until then….tomorrow is Ajaccio or something like that. No idea where.

Lots of love,
Ying

PS-Musty, will get back to writing some profound answers to your very interesting questions….

After a night of fitful rest, I woke up to a new day in Genoa. The air was crisply fresh and the sun blessed the city with its rays. It was still chilly but at least the sky was blue. At 9am, I was driven to the port to embark. Along with me was a sullen looking Italian. He helped me with my luggage but didn’t speak much. Through his conversations with the driver, I learned that he was the second cook.
When we arrived, a lot more new embarkees were already waiting. I underestimated the weather. Underneath my thin cardigan, I shivered and cursed the Crew Purser for taking so long to settle our documentations. My backpack was wearing me down and the large suitcase by my side kept toppling over. Like a midget, I kept balancing the weight between my shoulders while making sure that my suitcase doesn’t fall.

Eventually, after surrendering my passport and a copy of my contract, I was admitted into the ship. The Indian security guard who checked my passport, looked at me with a sneer: “What position are you? Animator? Hostess? Housekeeping?” It was the sneer that very much made me want to smack him on the face.

And then, a very young but good looking Italian guy, probably the incoming Crew Purser (meaning, he just embarked on the same day and hasn’t taken up his duties as the official CP) hustled all of us to a side. He tried to help to ease the crowd but to no avail. While the C.Europa is a big ship, it still has very narrow corridors.
I remained silent while everyone chattered away in different tongues. The Indonesians formed a group, the Philliphinos another, Italian another, Spanish and Latin Americans another. Everyone assumed I was either Chinese or a Philipina. I couldn’t be bothered to correct their assumptions.
Then, Luca, the photographer that I previously worked with on the MV CAL, walked by. I was glad to see a familiar face. He was my drinking partner in the crew bar last time. Good times then. We kissed each other on the cheek and chatted for a bit before he had to go off and run some errands.
The usual process of embarkation starts usually with the Crew Purser (the one who’s in charge of Crew members) will gather us in one room and start dispensing information and booklets. After an hour later, we were brought to the staff mess (the canteen for staff)….but not without going through a maze. I was amazed at how old and dirty this ship is. And how utterly confusing the way to get from one place to another. You basically had to meander around, cross ramps, pass some garbage rooms, wielding workshops, carpenter’s workshops, before eventually finding a stairs and then down another stairs..and…
Anyway, when we got there, we filled in some forms. The Cadet Officer came in to gather copies of our Basic Safety Training Certificates. You need to be certified before you’re allowed to embark. It was a young Italian boy, probably no more than 21 years old. Cheeky. Tried to tease me while giving back my certificates. Thank god it’s not my first time on the ship, else I’d have either felt really flattered or frustrated. This time, I just accepted his jest with a smile but kept a distance. These young officers can be trouble.
Then a Phillipino nurse, probably suffering from sore throat and a bad cold, made us declare our medical certificates and sign some forms. Apparently I had to have a yellow fever vaccination, which of course, my previous 100 pounds medical examination did not cover. However, I was told to walk to the other Costa ship to get it done. It was about a km away and I walked, with my backpack and camera pack and I wasn’t allowed in. The security guard said as my name wasn’t on the list, he couldn’t permit the entry. And then I had to walk back all the way, go through the maze again, to see the nurse and tell her the problem. This time, she sent me with a bunch of other people from the group.
In short, everything was all right after that. But evening came and I found myself alone at the dining table. Many others were chattering away in Italian or other European languages-each one had company because they work in teams. As for me, I work alone. I answer to the Director of Services, who happen to be a young man but very supportive but I can’t be hanging out with him, can I?
I want to get started on the classes soon so that I’ll have something to do but setting up is difficult at the moment because everyone’s busy. Even the Radio Officer didn’t really have time to attend to my laptop problems. Bah.

So I stayed awake at night, reading Eckhart Tolle’s new book called A New Earth, tried to listen to soothing music, put my mind to rest and hope to wake up to a new day.

PS-Forgive me if the formatting of this blog is a little off….I’m still trying to figure out the Spanish keyboards….

“Motor, cheap cheap,” Someone shouted into my ear. Amidst the honking traffic and other yelps of similar offers, I smiled ruefully and shook my head. “2 dollars, go where? I wait. 2 hours, 3 hours, no problem!” another quipped. We were surrounded by motorbike taxi drivers as soon as we stepped out of the port’s gates. Giorgio, his dad and I only have a few hours to trapeze around the charming Ho Chi Minh City and they only have one aim: to get souvenirs for their relatives and friends in Italy before they leave South East Asia for good.

If it were just Giorgio and I, we would not hesitate to take up one of these motor guys’ offers but there’s also Enrico to think about. As adventurous as he is (a 71 year old Italian making it to the Far East is already an amazing feat), Giorgio wouldn’t hear of Enrico on a motorbike, and especially not in Vietnam where motorbike accidents were as common as flu.

In the end, we decided to hail a proper metered taxi down. It would be a nice walk, from Saigon port to the hub of the city, but without a map, it’d be like the blind leading the blind. I asked the taxi driver to drop us off at Rex Hotel so that we could get some money changed and then, I’d be able to take them to the Ben Thanh Markets-the famed bustling market area where the entire building is dedicated to foreign shoppers.

Shopping with the two men is so easy. They’d pick up one thing, and if it’s okay, they’d buy it. For example, they wanted to get a traditional Asian dress (ie: the Ao Dai or the Cheongsam) for Enrica, Giorgio’s cousin. Without hesitation, they went into the first clothing store that they saw, noticed something they like, asked me whether I liked it, got me to pick out a colour, asked for the price, the price was decent (18 USD) and they bought it. No trepidation, no haggling, no fuss. Next on the list was a similar dress but for Enrica’s daughter, who’s only 10 years old. They asked the lady if she could find a similar type for a younger girl and once she came up with one or two choices, they got me to make the choice, and they bought it! Man!

Giorgio, his dad, and I

I had Vietnamese girls asking, “Madam madam, where are you from? You’re so pretty. Where is your husband from?” They must be thinking I struck gold by having a European boyfriend. Maybe they thought I must have picked him up from somewhere, charmed him and now, we’re on our honeymoon or something.

Giorgio’s dad asked me to pick out something I like. “This gift is not from Giorgio, but from me. Pick anything you like.”

And since it seems rude not to accept a gift, I chose a nice cloth handbag that has a myriad of colourful patchwork on it. It was 20 USD but his dad bought it anyway.

Giorgio looked at me and smiled. He was glad that I was getting along well with his dad. And as for me, while I don’t really need the bag, I see the gift as a symbol of acceptance and appreciation. It speaks volumes for Enrico to give me something. Whether or not there is an underlying message behind the gift, it is nonetheless a sweet and thoughtful gesture. Most of the time, when I want to buy something, Enrico wouldn’t let me pay it. He’ll get Giorgio to change more money so that he can buy it for me instead. So much for the rumour that Genovese are notoriously known for stinginess. I remembered the time when I was in a bar in Amsterdam and I was served by this Italian bartender. He had asked me of my plans and I told him I was heading to Genova for a job interview. He snickered and said that Genovese people are have their fists tight in their pockets; best not to associate with them.

Who’d have thought that I’ll now have a Genovese boyfriend who turns out to be the sweetest, funniest and most generous?

3 Bus tickets: 3.00 BND
Pizza Hut lunch: 32.50 BND
Afternoon tea at a local’s house on stilts: PRICELESS

In a floating home in Bandar Seri Begawan, Brunei

“Ying, we can go now! Dai, dai, my papa and I meet you at the gangway, NOW!” Giorgio barked into the phone. I was startled at his urgency, checked my watch again and wondered how come he got off Watch early: it was only 11.25 am.

Not knowing what to expect, I changed and met the both of them at the gangway. Giorgio’s father greeted me with his usual friendliness and cheeky inside joke that we shared. “No, vai via, okay?!” (Literal translation: No, you go, okay?!)

The Brunei sun was burning. Around the Muara port, there isn’t much to see. Newly imported cars gleamed at a corner and scraps of junk metal scattered across the empty bitumen lot at random locations. It wasn’t attractive and I haven’t got the slightest clue what Giorgio had in mind for the day. It was usually me who planned and it was usually me who thought up of things to do….but today, Giorgio was impatient.

“Buzzi told my father that we can go to the aquarium. We just have to take the public bus. 45 minutes,” Giorgio explained.

“Si, bas venti otto!” Giorgio’s father quipped.

And so, we walked towards the bus stop, not knowing where exactly but according to them, a couple hundred metres from the port. Putting on my best Malay accent, I asked around for directions. We found the bus stop but there wasn’t bus 28. No one has heard of bus number 28 and no one knew where the aquarium was either.

“Tengok ikan, tak de?” Some of the locals there would shake their head no.

In the end, we decided to take bus number 38 to Bandar Seri Begawan, which is about 45 minutes away, with hopes that we’d find the aquarium later.

The bus that we took is a tiny 20 seater or so. Everyone starred at us, but not with contempt or hostility. In fact, they looked at us curiously, as if half-expecting us to spout out flames from our mouths.

The scene outside the window was picturesque if seen through foreigner’s eyes. The bus bumbled along the tiny street, passing by quaint wooden houses on stilts, mangrove forests, banana, mango and coconut trees, local children screaming in delight, big mansions that looked not unlike the bungalows that are seen in Malaysia’s rural districts, elegant mosques with colourful minarets and checkered domes, the windy muddy river and tropical greenery. What might be a mundane sight to a Malaysian, is seen as exotic, outlandish and adsorbing by the Italians. I was surprised that my knowledge of being able to tell the difference between a palm and a coconut tree qualifies me as an experienced tour guide.

We eventually arrived at Bandar Seri Begawan at half-past one. After an ordinary lunch at Pizza Hut, the only restaurant that seemed to agree with Enrico’s taste buds, we walked towards the riverside. Giorgio thought it’d be nice for us to tour around the famed Kampong Ayer-an entire village or community on stilts. As we approached the river bank, a couple of water taxis (speed boats) circled around and nearby, each of the driver trying to get our attention. We chose the one who boldly shouted, “20 dollars for an hour!” It wasn’t too expensive and we thought why not. After all, he wasn’t talking about American dollars, British pounds or Euros.

We cautiously stepped onto the boat’s narrow wooden bow and was greeted by a convival, “Mind your head! Mind your head!”

The driver was a dark-skinned man with a gregarious smile, one that’s so welcoming that you wonder what’s in it for him, to be taking us around.

“Where you from? Italia?! Football’s very good….eh? Apa dia cakap? Oh, yes, yes, Brunei’s mangroves have snakes….no, no…yeah?”
The conversation continued like this for the next hour.

He invited us to his house after that. At first, I was pretty skeptical but since Giorgio and his dad weren’t apprehensive, I thought, why not. It turned out that his house was a nice wooden house on stilts, painted in cerulean. His five year old son looked at us shyly as we climbed up the steps. His wife, Manis, had already prepared for us, a selection of Malay’s finest tea time dishes-satay, peanut sauce and sweet milk tea. His house looked like any other Malay ‘kampung’ houses but it was special in some ways because we barely knew each other and all of a sudden, we were invited into someone’s personal sphere. It’s like having a crash course in Malay culture. Giorgio’s father was delighted. He continued to chat nineteen to a dozen while Giorgio and I acted as translators. It felt surreal. Between sticks of satay and cups of tea, he told us about his simple life in Bandar Seri Begawan. Everything’s free including education and medical institutions. He showed us the picture of the royal family and Enrico, Giorgio’s dad used his mobile phone to show him a picture of the fish he caught.

That was a moment of what life should really be.