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.

This article pretty much sums up my feelings and reasons for my nomadic lifestyle…

Wanderlust
Travel Stories: Some struggle to separate love and lust. Elisabeth Eaves has had a harder time distinguishing love from wanderlust.

http://www.worldhum.com/features/travel-stories/wanderlust-20090211/

PAST, PRESENT AND FUTURE
Current physical & mental report for Wandering Ying
Health status: Pretty good, been doing some exercises in my cabin. Am drinking loads of water though occasionally, I wouldn’t say no to a Rum & Punch or a Cosmopolitan. Am having white wine for dinner everyday-a mandatory ritual. Got a burnt face and looking as red as a ripe tomato.
Hair: Shoulder length
Height: Still damn short!
Weight: Probably a kilogram or two heavier.
Mental health: Light-hearted and content, riding the waves of life as it comes
Relationship status: SAS (Single as Ever)
Understanding Italian (the language): Still learning but it’s coming along brilliantly. Stashed a good deal of Neapolitano and Romano slang and ‘parolace’ (curse words) under my belt.
Understanding Italians (the people): Gave up on that a long time ago.

***
For the past few months, you’ve been hearing nothing but complaints and lamentations from me. I was a harsh critic, quick to condemn and even quicker to blame. I had high expectations for life onboard and the people around me. I needed to point the finger at something or someone, who or which I felt responsible for my unhappiness. I succeeded of course, finding fault after fault but I paid the price for it: it made me even more depressed. Even though I met people who told me otherwise (that they’re actually having fun onboard), I refused to lighten up and masochistically stayed stuck in my own rut. But as tides of life change, the ebbs and flows of destiny inevitably comes and goes, I slowly began to see that I was personally responsible for my own wretchedness. However, it wasn’t till I gave up trying to perfect my woeful life that life started to flow easier again.

I don’t speak Italian-but so what? It shouldn’t stop me from communicating. I don’t have a penchant to be social butterfly but so what? It shouldn’t stop me from having fun. I don’t enjoy treated like ‘figa’ but so what? It shouldn’t stop me from practicing the art of flirting and putting it to good use. I couldn’t find a like-minded who could indulge me in deep conversations but so what? It shouldn’t stop me from getting to know the various personalities that are onboard.
I started to listen instead of speak; I started to pay attention to whatever that requires my constant awareness. Somehow, I started to get to know more people. Those who didn’t speak to me before, like the African contortionists, the English dancers, the Italian electricians, the Receptionists, the South American shop attendants, the Animators-they all started to engage me in a conversation. My close friends and I suddenly had more things in common. We started to find humour in our language differences. Suddenly they were keener in learning English and found the patience to coach me in my Italian. I became more creative in sharing and learning. I started to draw comics for my close friends-starring ourselves as the main characters, using solely Italian for dialogue. They would laugh (as they actually understood the joke!) and then correct my grammar after.

Somehow word has gotten around that I was a decent teacher. More crew from the Entertainment and Tours department started to take interest and have been coming regularly for classes. As most of them have an upper intermediate level of English, lesson planning became more challenging but also rewarding. I could stimulate more heated discussions and could put my favourite literature to good use.

***
After my disembarkation from MV CA (the other ship that I’ll be going to, from April 18th onwards), I’ll be travelling with Tim through some obscure parts of Eastern Europe. We’ll fly from London Heathrow to Tirania, Albania. The trip will eventually end in Istanbul if goes as planned. Good old Tim has suggested whether I would consider getting an apartment and settling in Istanbul for a while. As I lack of any future plans (other than the US, South America and a MFA scholarship), I thought-why the hell not? I’ve only heard good things about Istanbul. It’s also not too far away, infact, it’s the center between Asia and Europe. Tim’s also a good friend so I don’t foresee any headaches that might occur in the future.

Funnily, just when I’m not desperate to be anywhere or to do anything in particular, other suggestions just pop up, like a multitude of possibilities flooding out of the open dam of Opportunities. I remembered there was a time when I was so ardent in trying to make a living in Italy…striving to find a shortcut to live there without having to marry someone or to be employed by a company… it sounded all so far-fetched then. It wasn’t easy, looking like a Chinese girl, fresh off the plane, clutching tightly to a Malaysian passport. However now, my friends are handing me open invitations to live and work in Italy. They’re more than happy to accommodate me for a while and are equally keen in polishing my Italian so that I could secure myself a decent job. Talk about Life (or God if you’re religious) working in mysterious ways! Anyway, I’m definitely looking forward to taking up the proposal after my Eastern Europe trip. Eventual decisions will be made based on the status of my bank account, relationships with people around me and potential ones that I will have along the way and how much I’d like Istanbul.

I’ll be going back to London, that’s for sure but I don’t know if I’ll stay. We’ll see. Time will tell.

***
I have been reading a lot, ravenously devouring different types of books from the ship’s library. Whenever I can, I would also download stories from the Internet. Yolande, a good friend from Malaysia but whom I knew in London, sent me The Harmony Silk factory, an International bestseller written by a Malaysian. Apparently there’s another equally good book by a Malaysian called An Evening is A Whole Day but I haven’t got a chance to look into that yet. These books serve as a reminder that I should shut up about writing a book and just bloody write one! At the moment, I’m also enjoying Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness-a book that every traveller should read. Man,that dude can sure write!
***

We’re now doing a 25 day crossing back to Italy, calling at several ports in North Africa and Egypt on the way. We will arrive in Naples on the 7th and then in Savona on the 8th of April. My contract on the MV CE will effectively terminate on the 15th of April and I will be transferred to the MV CA right after. I will embark in Guadeloupe on the 18th.

I’m definitely looking forward to that as the itinerary will involve a short cruise around the French Caribbean, a Transatlantic, the Fjords and then The Baltic states.

As I’m coming close to the end of this contract, there are loads for me to reflect and ponder upon. It will definitely trigger another post. Watch out for it.

Love and Light,

Ying

I don’t think I’m drop-dead gorgeous but I don’t think I look that bad either. Surely a quasi-cute, single and available twenty-year old something would be able to secure herself a nice, interesting chap-not just for the cuddles and kisses with but also for good company. I don’t need it, am really not desperate but sometimes, it’s nice to spend time with another like-minded from the opposite sex, no?
Okay, fine, I’m a little neurotic, overtly verbose, laughs like a hyena, not smart enough, too tiny and too schoolgirl looking compared to the Mediterranean goddesses of the Front Desk (Reception) onboard but still …..

“I haven’t had much practice with flirting. Smiling and having a light banter with wicked innuendoes inserted haven’t been much of my current activity despite the fact that the ship is filled to brim with very hot, European men. The Italians especially has such exquisite features, complete with honeyed skins, long eyelashes, dark curls and gleaming champagne-coloured or azure blue eyes.
But, as I don’t speak enough Italian, the only time their eyes crinkled with mirth and amusement is when they’re laughing at me-not with me. My bad command of the Italian language usually summons hack throaty, unstoppable peals of laughter from the male species and I usually end up looking quite stupid-like a confused blonde, caught in action. If that’s not it, it’s usually because they’re not interested in a banter in the first place. Their sense of humour is terrible and they either take things too seriously. If not, they are not listening in the first place or their jokes usually involve putting another person down. What they’re really interested in, is to seduce me with their over-keened eyes, pour more wine into my glass so that when I’m sufficiently drunk, they can bonk me senseless. In some ways it feels like I’m transported back into college, where boys couldn’t hang on to a conversation or couldn’t even surrender to just a good banter, due to urgent, animalistic, raging hormones.

Whatever happened to witty conversation that helps fuel eroticism? Obviously most Italians (onboard of the MV CE) are not introduced to that. Perhaps they don’t need it. All they need to do is look good, offer someone a Colgate smile, batt their eyes (yes, the men), give a wink and then girls would just melt.

The Italian Casanovas

So, they’re usually put off by me or just plain confused, whenever I smile and give them a huge slap on the back, like a fellow mate in a pub, whenever they inch too close or they started to slip in sexual physical innuendos. Yes, they can be very good looking but I can’t stand boredom. In other words, they’re as dull as ditch water. Yawn.

So come one fine Mauritius night, where the usual gang and I were hanging out in Les Enfant Terribles, a less kitschy club compared to Buddha Bar, Roberto, in his drunken stupor said to me: “Ying, I don’t understand, why you don’t have a man? No man on boat good for you?”

Roby and Moreno-my two best friends who couldn’t understand why I like being single onboard

I chided him in my lousy Italian, “Haven’t we been through this before? The men on the ship are not interesting, are bastards and they break my balls! How boring! You understand?”

“Yes, I know. You are our principessa (princess) and you got high standards. No, just for sex, you know. Not be your marito (husband). You cannot find any?”

” Ma, si! They’re so ultimately boring that it won’t even lead to a one night stand! It’s better to sleep than to be with them.”

Roberto nodded sagely, as if he understood. And to change the subject, he decided to get me to buy him some beers and a burger. He said his English is not good enough to order anything. I gave him a murderous look but he gave me a drunken smile and I knew it was hopeless.

So I went to perch at the hamburger stand and tried to order a burger to Roberto but amongst the other tall clubbers, I slipped into oblivion. So, I waited for the crowd to clear. Two Mauritius Chinese boys (yes, they look like college kids) started to speak to me in Creole but I said I’m not local and I’d appreciate it if they could speak to me in English. They asked me about my ‘vacation’ and whether I liked Mauritius. I told them yes but it’s unfortunate that everything is so expensive. One of them told me that we’re probably ripped off but there’s nothing I can do since I don’t speak Creole and can’t pretend that I’m a local. A foreigner who was at another end of the burger stall, who seemed to be eavesdropping, suddenly guffawed to himself. Curious, I shouted over the din, “What are you laughing at?”

“Well, you’re the second person that I hear, who’s speaking American. There’s one at the dance floor but he’s a jerk. But of course, I don’t mean you. Hi, I’m Alex. From Manchester.”

“Right. Is that what you do at burger stands? Listening to people’s conversations?”

“No, but I couldn’t help myself. So what are you doing here? You’re probably here for a night and then you retire back to your luxurious hotel suite after that?” he mocked.

“Kind of. I’m here for a day and then I return back to the ship.” That elicited a surprised look from him.

45 minutes later, we were still talking and teasing another. I soon found out that Alex is half-Italian, half-English and he works with the United Nations in Mauritius. But half of the time, we were just talking shit about being on the ship, pirates and political rebellion, and his job. It was absolutely refreshing to be speaking at a pace that someone else could keep up with, laugh like a hyena again and be cheeky. I don’t know if we were flirting but we definitely had a great conversation, without the help of alcohol. We just went on and on; it was someone had just turned on the taps in our mouths. Just then, my colleagues would come over to pinch my cheeks, sling their hand over my shoulders, and try to butt into our conversation.

However, it soon became time to go back. The taxi driver that we hired was already calling out, reminding us of the time. It was a shame but we had to stop talking. Unfortunately, it’s get contact numbers and in the end, I just casually said that I’ll see him again at the same bar on the 28th Feb. Whether or not he or I will show up will a story for another day.

Sugiana Ngyakan knocks on my office door, and shuffles in. He looks terrified. I don’t blame the poor boy, after what turned out to be the most grueling lesson two days ago.

At first, we had attempted a simple comprehension passage on the computer. After that, I got him to read the passage aloud. It was about a shopping list, things you had to get before a picnic. He had read the passage-hesitatingly missing most of the ‘S’es and giving incorrect emphasis to certain words. This young Indonesian boy is a Night Cleaner, sweet and shy but rather dreamy. Again and again, I pointed out his mistakes but he had only smiled and repeated them over and again. I had let him be. Then, I had asked him to jot down some vocabulary that I think might be useful. I dictated the words and he jotted it down without a word. When I reviewed his sheet, I realized that he couldn’t spell. And even after I corrected his mistakes, he was still confused. It then dawned me that he doesn’t know the correct pronunciation to the alphabets.

“Okay, the alphabets in English. Now, repeat after me. A, B, C…”
The problem was, he couldn’t remember his Gs and Js and K’s. The hour wore on with me drilling into him the English Alphabet system and him, looking more and more miserable each time. By the end of it, we were both exhausted and there was no progress. He couldn’t remember all 26 of them and neither could he pronounce H, J and K. He cowered under my impatience. I softened after seeing his inevitable confusion. Perhaps he was a slow student at school.
I had relieved him from the class but I made him promise that he’ll memorize the alphabets.
“Miss Ying, you erase board after this? I am shame. Still learning A, B, C,” Sugiana pleaded. I nodded and then he had left, with his head hung low. I had felt awful but it had to be done.

Yesterday, he passed me by at the corridor and he said, “Miss Ying-when is next lesson? I want to be good in English.”
“Tomorrow. Don’t forget what you’ve got to do.”
Today, I had the whiteboard filled with all the alphabets but left some blanks for him to fill in. Slowly, he pronounces each and everyone of them correctly and does not leave a single alphabet out.

“I did it!”
“Yes, indeed you did it. Now that you know the alphabets, shall we continue?”
He eagerly nods. His eyes now gleam with keenness and enthusiasm.

Me teaching

One of my favourite students, an Animator, working on past tenses

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.