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.

As I sit in my cabin, reflecting, pondering and typing up this post, pangs of bittersweet nostalgia overwhelms me. I know not if it stems from looking at the past month in retrospect or is it the fact that today’s Christmas and I am without my loved ones so neither merry making or celebrating another year that has come to past will take place. Or perhaps it is just a natural, instinctive romantic impulse that bubbles forth when I’m sitting, thinking and writing as I listen to the waves slosh by, feel the continuous buoying movements of the ship, feel the rays of sunlight shine into my room through the little porthole and rejoice at the fact that it’s sunny outside and at the ocean’s vast deep blue depths…

So! It’s been almost a month and a half now since I got stuck on board. Much has happened: both good and bad. Life has taken a dramatic turn and day by day, I feel myself slipping away. Restlessness and boredom has nudged me into paranoia, obsession and painful self-destructive tendencies. As my work demands only 20% of my time, I tend to use 80% of what’s left to amuse myself through alcohol, idle chatter and pursuing meaningless relationships. I grasped and attached myself to people, things, events—even when there isn’t anything to hold on to. Like a lost boat, I yearn to look for an anchor. Delusion has cloaked my perspective and space with such utter ignorance that I clamor and claw my way through blindly. Obviously, I meditate and read, to keep my sanity intact but barely.

One of the worst highlights was that I had some drinks with a friend that I trusted-we worked together previously on another ship-but after getting substantially tipsy, he tried to make a move at me. Now, this happened on the other ship as well and I had vehemently rejected his intentions. Having said that, my feelings towards him have remained unchanged since the last time and there’s nothing I expect from him other than a platonic relationship. If I’d the slightest interest or potential, perhaps I’d have encouraged it by flirting but I had no such ideas and was very sure that I did nothing to provoke his desires. But he did try to kiss me and I pushed him away. He didn’t stop and I started to get angry. Alcohol and emotional outbursts don’t go well together and hence leads to overreaction. I pushed him aside and decided to get back to my cabin but fell clumsily from the stairs. Seeing that, he came over to help me and accompanied me to my cabin. Gratefully I accepted but he wouldn’t leave from my cabin. I had to literally wrestle with him for him to go away. What happened after that was hazy but I remembered crying, asking him to leave me alone and wanting to see Ivan, someone that I’ve became really good friends with. I made my way to Ivan’s cabin, crying and ended up puking in his toilet and sleeping there (I’m used to sleeping over so I know I’m safe). Ivan said nothing; he merely let me do my own thing. The next morning, I awaken with bruises and gashes on my hands and arms- a painful reminder of the night before. I looked for Ivan and told him what happened—perhaps hoping to fish some reassuring words and comfort from him-but I got nothing. Instead, Ivan was apathetic and mentioned that I should have seen it coming. So it was out of my naïveté that the situation got worst? Was it my usual openness and trust in people has led me to my own downfall? At that point in time, as Ivan has suggested, it seemed so. I don’t know but I started to see the ugly truth of life onboard more starkly. Reality has reared its dark head- perhaps I just didn’t see it all these while. So my heart sunk deeper into despair and hopelessness. I felt like I fell in a hole and could not get out of it.

Having said that, there are times when it is not all that bad. There are little moments where golden rays filter through the cracks. My favourite times are dinner times. It has become a ritual for me to have my meal at 6.45pm, because that’s the time where Roberto, the pianist, and I will share a bottle of cheap white wine and chat. I will speak in Italian and he’ll speak in English-both encouraging each other to improve our languages. We’ll scribble on napkins to spell a specific word or to explain something in illustration. After that, Moreno and Francesca (my students as well), another musician couple, will join us, and more peals of laughter can be heard from our table. Very quickly, I learned my Italian phrases by heart. From Neapolitan swear words to Roman idioms, I was able to recite it by heart and use it whenever the occasion permits-thus commanding a new level of respect from the Italians. There are times when I was the source of amusement. It is funny while it lasts. Everyone now take for granted that I speak Italian because I keep hanging out with them!

And then, there’s also Ivan. He’s Italian, a true Neapolitan at heart. He struck me as special ever since he told me that he’s named Ivan by his dad simply because his dad was a communist. Intelligent, quick-witted, creative, worldly and he can speak all the 5 European languages and convince you that he should be the one who wrote Gomorra.In fact, he actually do look like the author himself! Unlike most Italians, he has lived in places like London, Malaga and Venezuela but he holds fiercely to his Neapolitan traditions. At the age of 29, he probably was more Neapolitan than most of his elders. Even the Hotel Director, who have lived in Naples for 20 years, would call him up for fun and put Neapolitan songs through the phone and say, “The nostalgia is too much…” Ivan has a usual calm composure and even if he were swearing at you, you wouldn’t know it. There was this time when I was helping him out in his office (he’s the Desktop Publisher-produces and translates the Today magazine and menus onboard) and when shit hits the ceiling, there was a sudden electric tension in the office. One of the hostesses provoked him and he retaliated by saying some nasty things back. And then she threatened to call the Assistant Cruise Director. Instead, he picked up the phone and called the Hotel Director, and said, “She’s a bitch! The hostesses are bitches!!!” She lunged at him but he leaned to the far right and I was in between the two of them. You may say that in times like this, it may sound mighty exciting but I can assure you it’s not. Ivan is also a fantastic musician. He sings Neapolitan folk songs and plays the guitar and the tambourine. As you listen to his soulful voice, it makes you think of images of a sailor, sitting at a rickety bench by the deck, calling out to the ocean, wanting to go home. He used to have a band where they’d tour all over Italy singing Tarantella and fusion Neapolitan classics. He also taught me some songs and made me sing the chorus with him. Yes-Ying singing in Neapolitan!!!! I wish I could show you the videos I took of him when he’s singing but that’ll come in due time. Having Ivan around is great but as he works close to 15 hours a day, we always end up hanging out in his office. However, it also feels that I’m addicted to his company because other than him (he speaks great English) there’s no one else as interesting or one that I could actually connect with. But I think this attachment is also very unhealthy because along with it comes a lot of unnecessary pain, anxiety and loss of perspective.

I miss speaking English incredibly. I realised that not being able to express myself naturally has limited my social network a lot. I told Moreno and Francesca about how bored am I and they told me, “Ying, everyone on the ship is bored.” And I agree but most people either work 10 hours a day or they speak Italian. If you speak Italian, no matter how bored you are, you can’t get more bored than me.
Oh well, enough about me. Surely life onboard is more than me, myself and I. Sometimes I wonder if I’m too self-indulgent. Every time as I pass through the garbage disposal section, a narrow corridor that I’ve to take to get to my cabin, I always meet this Crew Steward. He’s a young man from Indonesia, probably in his early twenties. He’s always mopping that floor and it makes me feel bad that I’ve to step on the spaces that he just mopped. I wonder how he feels about doing the same damn thing everyday. I wonder if it’s better to be told of your function onboard and all you do is keep fulfill that function and nothing more. If you’re meant to mop the entire corridor, from dusk to dawn, 7 days a week, 8 months in a year, how does that feel? Surely it keeps your thoughts to the minimum and if you could make peace with that, you’ll be a happier person?

Anyway, thank you for everyone’s well wishes. To those of you who’ve been sending me emails, just to let you know that your missives are taped on my wall. It’s to remind me that there’s a still world out of this ship, and in that world, things still work the same way as I know of it.

Or maybe I’m not seeing the lesson that I’ve to learn on board. The quicker I find out the reason why I’m put into this situation, the quicker I’ll be able to make peace with my situation.
I guess I can pontificate forever if I don’t stop myself. This long post will have to suffice for now.

The next time, I shall write about the places that we’ve been to.

Much love,
Ying of the seas…

There is a fine line when it comes to striking up friendships on a ship. Most people will confuse your offer of friendship as an invitation to your cabin or a proposal for a temporary partner and of course, this applies only if you’re a female on board. And so after you smile at them, talk to them, they’ll start stalking you down or send you random love notes. Yes, I used to get that when I was working on the other ship.

Scraps of paper were slipped under my office’s door, and on it was scrawled: I love you. There were phone calls from some random waiter or security guard, telling me to meet them at a certain place and time. I was petrified. For a while, I wouldn’t talk to anyone because I couldn’t trust any of the lot. When you finally found those people that you can open up to, you thought you could rest in relief, but no, because then they start to be attracted to you. Which is flattering, except that they are married, engaged or taken. It’s a very frustrating cycle that I’ve learned to withdraw quickly from. You learn to protect yourself. You put up all these defenses so that you can avoid the drama.

But the problem is, I have a habit of making friends with men first, simply because they’re more easy-going, funny and less uptight. Being not very ‘feminine’ myself, I blend in well in a company of men: I can guffaw as loudly as they can, tell bad jokes and am as loose tongued.

Today, I made friends with a number of people: Fulvio, the Chief Children Animator, a female photographer from Honduras; Ismael, the Kitchen Steward and George, the Hotel Fitter. Now, George seem to have that glint in the eye when he said, meaningfully, that the contract will go by quickly if you have good friends or someone to go through the contract with. That makes me snap back my defenses immediately. Well I think George is kinda cool but that doesn’t mean I want to sleep with him and by all means, I’m not into looking for ‘temporary partners’.

Thank god I’m now older and wiser. I’m going to enjoy myself on the ship, enjoy teaching the crew and stay away from the desperate.

22 Nov- Savona, Italy
23 Nov-Naples, Italy
24 Nov-AT SEA
25 Nov-AT SEA
26 Nov-Alexandria, Egypt
26 Nov-Port Said, Eygpt
27 Nov-Suez Canal Transit, Egypt
28 Nov-Sharm El Sheikh-Egypt
29 Nov-Aqaba, Jordan
30 Nov-Safaga, Egypt

1 Dec-At Sea
2 Dec-At Sea
3 Dec-Aden, Yemen
4 Dec-At sea
5 Dec-Salalah, Oman
6 Dec-At Sea
7 Dec-At Sea
8 Dec-At Sea
9 Dec-Mahe Port Victoria, Seychelles
10 Dec- Mahe Port Victoria, Seychelles
11 Dec-At Sea
12 Dec-At Sea
13 Dec-Mombasa, Kenya
14 Dec-At Sea
15 Dec-Mayotte Comoros Island, France
16 Dec-Diego Suarez, Madagascar
17 Dec-At Sea
18 Dec-Mauritius Port Louis
19 Dec-Reunion St.Denis, Reunion
20 Dec-Mauritius Port Louis

The swells are strong and they keep slamming the ship with such relentless force.

At this point in time, we’re crossing a turbulent zone. I had to literally hold on to the railings and walk sideways with my back leaned on the metal pipes and wall. The floor is slippery with water; somewhere is leaking. Watertight doors all over the ship are closing; I hear intermittent alarm bells, cautioning both passengers and crew to stay put and safe. As the ship tips extreme left, everything from the right slid across the floor. Thank god I’ve nothing on the right side of the room except for shoes and my suitcase. I am not seasick as I’ve been through it before on the Other Ship but the movement on this ship scares me. Through the porthole I could hear the fury of the ocean, bellowing, pulling, pushing, swallowing, crashing. It’s as if nature is avenging itself; making its vengeance felt. The ship is at the mercy of the storm.

I pray we’ll navigate to safety.

If there’s one thing that I need to come to terms with, it’ll be about the practicality and the usefulness of my position as a Crew Lecturer or an English Teacher. I have battled with this for ages ago, since the very first time I started working with the company. There were times when I questioned why the need for this position when everyone else is already getting by with speaking broken English. However, safety issues became a problem for the Chinese crew. They weren’t able to communicate instructions or report emergencies to the officers due to their limited grasp of the language and were all sent to my classes. All of a sudden, I had a job to do again. In a very egoistic sense, I thus become important again. No longer was I the person who’s caught having three cups of coffee within 15 minutes due to lack of work. I was no longer the epitome of “The Good Life” because I was working hard, just like everyone else.

However on this ship, everyone CAN communicate in English. In fact, it doesn’t really matter if they can because half of the crew speak merely Italian. The passengers are mainly Europeans, thus rendering my service worthless and my position, redundant.

If I were to view myself from the outside, I must appear to be pretty pitiful. No friends, no colleagues, no work. Even Randy, the Crew Bartender, took pity on me and gave me free coffees. That is the least I could do: drink.

You have no idea how tiring it is for people to stare at me, peer at my nametag and then ask, “So what exactly do you do? You teach? Which language?”

As of now, I couldn’t start anything, as I couldn’t even get hold of my boss to hand my beeper. There’s much to do but if I don’t have a basic tool of communication, no one could get hold of me and thus no progress. I can’t be sitting in my office the entire day, filing nails.

There are some who actually admired my position, telling me that I’m lucky not to be given anything to do. Well, the thing is, I know I’m supposed to be something.. so it’s harder not to be doing anything when you know you need to do something. I couldn’t really concentrate on reading or writing because I know there’s a job I’ve to do but I can’t carry out…because my job is so dependent on everyone else.

I am very, very, very close to throwing the towel. There’s nothing I can do
Maybe it will change. Maybe when they realize that I’m just gallivanting my time away, they’ll start to pay attention to my work. If not, they’ll just have to kick me out.

Simon, the Canadian host, joined me at the dinner table. We were previously acquainted from another ship. We had some mutual friends and also, he was the lover of a close friend of mine.

He’s very talkative, very zany and wild but still good company.

The conversation began like this:

“Nikki laughed when she heard you’re on the Europa with me. She sends her regards.”

“Oh, how’s she? I’d love to have her here with me.”

“So you really liked her huh?”

“Yeah, she was sweet and nice. Great sense of humor. I really respected her. Does she have a boyfriend now, or is it the same one?”

“Yeah-the Engineer.”

“Still the same fucking Italian?”

“Yeah man.” Laughs. “Anyway, yesterday you said you wished to go back to Asia to join your girlfriend. Who’s she? Which one?”

“Girlfriends I mean.”

“Alright man, way to go. From the ship?”

“Well, just all over. I’ve got this Malaysian girl that I’d see every time the ship docks at Kota Kinabalu. Met her in Brunei actually. She told me she was from Kota Kinabalu and I said, no way! My ship goes to KK every fortnight…maybe we can hang out! I’d take her back to the ship, go get food at the buffet and then spend the whole afternoon making sweet love. After a bottle of champagne of course.”

“Wow, Titanic literally. Did the porthole fog up?”

“Heh, you bet. Yeah and then, there’s Yuko, the Japanese chick I met in Hong Kong. Really hot.”

“Hmm.”

“And yeah…wow, come to think of it, I’ve slept with so many girls from all different countries. Hmm…it’s been 5 days now…wait Ying, where are you from?”

“Malaysia. You’ve slept with a Malaysian so I’m off the list. Phew!”

“Awesome. I went back to Canada after I disembarked from the ship and I hooked up with this Guadeloupian. She’s real choice.”

“Hahah. Another box to check.”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t worry. The ship has a buffet of personalities for you to choose from. I’m sure you won’t be sexually deprived.”

“I don’t know, man. This ship…”

“Oh, so you’ve checked it out?”

“Of course, are you kidding me? Did you see the two dancers sitting at the table next to us? They’re hideous! Could be potentially interesting…though I doubt so.”

And so the conversation proceeded to us counting the amount of women he slept with, the nationalities involved and with whom he was involved with (in regards to the previous ship we worked on). Yes, it was all gossip. I feel awful indulging in it but it was nonetheless lighthearted and hilarious. I don’t know if he detected the hint of sarcasm in my tone.

Having said that, I think he deserves credit in being non-pretentious. It was refreshing to see someone so honest about his sex life. He wasn’t in any way bragging but more like throwing it out on the table as if it were casual facts. I like the fact that he could talk about it so easily and seemed to appreciate these girls that he had been with. I don’t know if he was a heartbreaker but whatever it is, I’m not in the position to judge him. Why the moral uppity? He wasn’t asking me to condone his behavior; neither was he trying to preach the benefits of being sexually active.

He merely shared and I listened.

“ So what are you doing later tonight again?”

“Don’t even think about it.”

My little misadventure did evoke some cravings for alcohol so I went to the Crew Bar and got myself a glass of Campari Soda. For the uninitiated, it’s an aperitif drink that Italians would have before food. It’s potent, taste a little like cough medicine and cheap. 0.48 Euro cents.

Some people come and go but I hung around to speak to Randy, the Phillipino Crew Bartender. Niice chap; friendly and easy-going. Genuinely interested in listening to people. Some guys from the engine stopped by. They usually have do me a look over and then decided that I’m not worth their time…. I don’t speak Italian and they can’t be bothered to do the whole sign language thingy unless I’m a carbon copy of Angelina Jolie. It’s all very functional. They come to the ship to work, and if they need women to share the bed with them, they’ll ask. But forget about friendships and chats. They don’t need that. Nonetheless, one stayed back to talk to Randy and after, finding out that I spoke some Italian, we continued chatting for a while.

The fact is that, if you don’t speak Italian on this ship, then you’re practically hopeless. Speaking English gets you nowhere unless you just want to hang out with the British dancers who are all mainly 18-21 years old. The ship is large enough to have everyone form nationality or language cliques. You are not forced to use another language because there’ll be enough people in your department who speaks your native tongue. It’s a shame but that’s how it is.

Everyone stays in their clusters: the entertainers; the officers; the technicians; the bartenders. Why bother trying to strike a conversation with someone else especially when you don’t have to work with them?

It’s a Couchsurfer’s Hell.

Then, Eduardo from Honduras walked in. I was already on my second Campari bottle and the world swirled a little. Seeing Eduardo again made me grin with genuine happiness and alcoholic merriment. He is the upholsterer of the ship, a sweet old man, probably in his late 50’s. When he smiled back, I could see his black and gold teeth. We had always enjoyed each other’s presence despite the fact that I don’t speak Spanish and him, English. But we would just smile and smile and smile.

This time however, I could manage some Italian and started talking. Italian and alcohol don’t mix well- I can tell. I started rambling about my vacation in London, why Giorgio and I are no longer together, his vacation, why I missed the previous ship, gossip about our previous colleagues, why this ship is shit-etc.

By the end of it, I had to excuse myself, took huge gulps of water and leave the Crew Bar. I felt embarrassed because two bottles of Campari Soda (they’re probably 75ml each) knocked me out. Even a Jaegermeister is slower than this!

One of the Sous Chefs stopped me and asked whether I was okay. I guess I must have looked REALLY TIPSY.

Ah. I guess I’m settling in quite well already.

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….