Where the wind blows

I have moved.....

2009-10-07T08:04:00.000-07:00

....to Wandering Ying

Please update your bookmarks and be patient as the site undergoes continuous evolution of layout design and content.

A laugh out loud clip about Malaysians

2009-09-10T04:03:00.000-07:00

The good, the bad and the ugly threads that weave Malaysia's tapestry ....

Support 15malaysia

What's up lately...

2009-09-09T10:13:00.001-07:00

I am moving to Istanbul for a bit-is this for real?

What does it mean to be truly poor....

2009-09-06T11:13:00.001-07:00

DSC_0014, originally uploaded by kherying.

Being poor teaches you humility and some creativity. It allows you to appreciate and live poverty through other means and shifts your previous spendthrift consuming habits to more thoughtful, sensible and empowering choices. Instead of shopping at a TESCO's Express which is just a two minutes walk-away, you shop at ASDA which is a 30 minutes two bus rides away. You get exercise and a fridge stocked up with goodies for less than GBP 12 per fortnight.

:)

Bits and bobs of inspiration

2009-09-06T11:07:00.001-07:00

Bits and bobs of inspiration, originally uploaded by kherying.

What it takes to be creative and happy!

Around the Balkans and back

2009-09-01T15:12:00.000-07:00

Prologue

London

I ‘m back from my recent wanderings. Back while I was still on the ship, Tim, a friend of mine that I have only met and travelled with once, emailed me and asked what I was doing for the summer. I remember saying I don’t know and I don’t think I could see that far ahead yet. It was probably somewhere in February 09, and I was still working on the Costa Europa-the shittiest ship that I’ve ever been on. I was still in the midst of my depressing existence, not exactly enjoying life onboard. Every time, I would look longingly at the waves and wished it provided answers of some sort. I know I couldn’t be truly happy until I get off the ship. Tim said that he may travel around the Balkans and I said I’d join him once my contract finishes. “Cheap flights from British Airways to Tirana. 104 GBP,” he said. Tirana? Where in world is Tirana? I didn’t even know but the more obscure the names are, the more I like the sound of it. It turned out that Tirana is the capital of Albania.

When I told Moreno, Francesca and Roby, my closest Italian colleagues that I’d be embarking on a trip, somewhere around Eastern Europe, with an open-ended itinerary that would start from Tirana, they literally went speechless. I’ve never seen speechless Italians before. Their faces were a combination of horror, fear and disbelief. It was the most comical expression that I’ve ever witnessed. And then, Roby opened his mouth slowly and bellowed the longest ‘No’…. that I’ve ever heard. He went on to give me ten reasons why I shouldn’t visit Albania and it included rationales like: Albanians are thieves and they’re dangerous; they create a lot of problems in Italy for the locals; Albanians will kidnap and rape you… and etc. Moreno wagged his finger and blatantly called me crazy.

However, despite their ignorance and their contentment to not budge from their warped bubble of perspectives, I knew that they were merely concerned. Nonetheless, it didn’t stop me from buying a one-way ticket to Tirana. The flight to Tirana would leave from Gatwick Airport, London, on the 24^th of June, 2009.

As I was literally stuck on the ship till June 21^st, I didn’t have much time to research about the region or find out whether I need visas for these countries. There was a rough plan about the places we should cover but no just no itinerary at the point of departure. Tim said, wait and see. I said, we play by ear.

I didn’t even have time to worry about how travelling with Tim would be like, after not really staying in touch for these past two years. Tim was a friend of Steve’s. He was introduced to me because of his extensive knowledge about teaching ESL in various parts of the world. I have utmost respect for his decision to quit his high-flying lifestyle in England, to become a professional ESL tutor. We met in Perhentian Islands, Malaysia, two and a half years ago (thinking about it now…) and we travelled from there to Bangkok together. I’d shuddered at some snippets of our time together because I remember him as very judgmental, harsh, critical and brutally honest. But he was also very intelligent, interesting, generous, opinionated, kind but brutally honest.

21.06.2009-27.07.2009 (Together)

Albania-Montenegro-Kosovo-Macedonia-Bulgaria-Romania-Bulgaria

27.07.2009-06.08.2009 (On my own)

Turkey

Somewhere between Bulgaria and Romania, Tim visited Serbia on his own while I went on to Ploiesti, Romania, to visit Valentin for five days. It was difficult to get a Serbian visa while being on the road and I didn’t think it was worth it. Tim stayed back in Sofia, Bulgaria after because he found love. As for me, I plodded on because I was happy to travel solo again. I went on to find my own love in Istanbul, Turkey.

The next few entries would be chapters of each country that I’ve been to and its highlights. I’d try to make it as concise, as interesting and as profound as possible.

***

Grazie Mille to Tim for being the first to initiate this journey and for being a muse, an inspiration, a critic and a friend. If there’s anything that I learned from you, is the fact that no one can make you feel bad without your consent. Un abbraccio to you for your thick and outdated Lonely Planet Eastern Europe guidebook. Without it, we might find ourselves more lost than we already were.

Hugs to the two big boys (ex-British Paratroopers) that I met in Pristina, Kosovo. Thank you for making me and treating me like a Malaysian Princess. I wonder if things would be different if I’ve stayed on for another day.

A million kisses to Tsveti, my Bulgarian CS host(ess) who commanded us to make ourselves at home while we were in Sofia. Like a sister that I never had, she took care of me without being obliged to. Sofia won’t be the same without her.

Cheers to Valentin, his friends(Bogdan and brother, Luiza) and his family, Ovidiu and his family and friends (Tibi and Gabby) for showing us the true Romanian hospitality. I will not forget the day where Ovi and Tibi, drove all the way down to Brasov to pick us up and then took us around Transylvania till 11pm. Or how Ovi’s mum had cooked us meals but we never eat them on time.

Thanks to all our CS hosts in Romania (Tia & Frank), Kai and Kemal (Istanbul) and the lovely travelers that I’ve met along the way (Alex, Juliana, July, the Swedish guys, the Australian girl, Giulia & Niccolo, Iacopo, Riccardo, Jacobo, Ivan, Ester, the French couple, Sondes, Melahat, Jet Set Zero crew: Jen, Rob and their CS guests) and whoever that I’ve failed to mention but nonetheless not forgotten.

Most of all, tanti bacini to Nick, the treasure that was awarded to me at the end of my travels. His kindness and love have provided me with a shelter over my head in Istanbul, endless interesting conversations, necessary intake of good food and alcohol and a sanctuary to be who I am.

The Return of the Wanderess

2009-09-01T10:24:00.001-07:00

Skipping down Hyde Park

Departure

2009-06-19T03:02:00.000-07:00

21 June 2009-Disembarking from the ship. Flying back from Copenhagen to London Heathrow.

I will update this blog again real soon.

Departure from Naples Airport to Pointe-a-Pitre, Guadeloupe

2009-04-25T14:49:00.000-07:00

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 Costa 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?

Suez Canal Transit

2009-04-03T01:53:00.000-07:00

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 Costa Europa. 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

Ying was in Luxor and Sharm Al Shekih-Egypt

2009-04-02T13:05:00.000-07:00

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....

...

Wanderlust

2009-04-02T12:58:00.000-07:00

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.”

***
The article that I discovered on World Hum (refer to previous blog entry), reminded me of myself.

What exactly is this insatiable wanderlust that has urged me to throw myself into the maelstrom of romance and ‘consummation’ of far-flung lands? I am not an explorer, a historian nor even an avid tourist, yet consumed with a certain kind of restlessness, I had packed my bags and had set out for the unknown.

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.

The yearning heart, the laughter, the tears, they’re all part of it.

Wanderlust-an article

2009-03-30T08:03:00.000-07:00

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/

What's been going on..

2009-03-29T01:11:00.001-07:00

PAST, PRESENT AND FUTURE
Current physical & mental report for Wandering Piccola
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 Napolitano 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 Costa Atlantica (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. Yolanda, 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!
***

Just a quick update

2009-03-28T07:22:00.000-07:00

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. My contract on the Europa will effectively terminate on the 15th of April and I will be transferred to the Costa Atlantica 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 Carribean, 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,
Piccola

Me, flirt?

2009-03-03T04:55:00.000-08:00

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 Costa Europa) 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.

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 innuendoes. Yes, they can be very good looking but I can't stand boredom. In other words, they're as dull as ditchwater. 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 onboard good for you?"

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 UN 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.

A day in a Crew Lecturer's life

2009-03-03T04:42:00.000-08:00

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 in 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 did 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.

No go at Reunion Island

2009-02-14T02:47:00.000-08:00

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.

One of those rambles again...

2009-02-14T01:45:00.000-08:00

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

Happy Valentine’s Day.

Buddha Bar nights in Mauritius

2009-02-03T08:39:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Doing alright...

2009-01-28T23:22:00.000-08:00

This too, will pass.

Finally, after a month long of being stuck in a situation that I lack courage to change, nature took its course, and removed the thorn that had pierced me. Of course, if I were stronger and more mindful about my situation, I could have easily removed the thorn myself. After all, life situations only become problems when your mind makes it so. Your ego personalizes it and your sense of self is reinforced through the pain and misery of it.

“There is no salvation in time. You cannot be free in the future. Presence is the key to freedom, so you can only be free now.”

I can’t believe I’ve waited this long for the thorn to be removed. I’ve had good advice from those who cared, that I should take the responsibility to make myself happy but instead, I rather suffer in grief, unease and anxiety.

Anyway, the past is the past. The past can no longer hurt me, unless I let it. I am now feeling much better. In fact, I perennially feel a sense of calm and presence. There are of course some events and people that ruffle me but I let it go. I try not to hold on to it.

***

I finally dared to sign up for the excursions offered on my ship. I don’t know why I never wanted to do it, since it’s free for crew. Besides, I’ve always been complaining about having too much free time. So on one random day, I decided to sign up for it and one of them took place today. It was a hiking cum swimming excursion in Nosy Sakatia, Madagascar. At this point of writing, I’m still reeling from the excitement and admiration at one of nature’s finest landscapes….but a month ago, I took it for granted that Madagascar was like every other country. This must be the disease that plagues everyone working onboard. We assume that since we’ve managed to get ourselves to these countries for free, we don’t have to get all excited about the places we go to. We complain about the lack of internet access and the lack of convenience, the heat and the humidity, the poverty and the aggressiveness of the citizens and a whole lot more. Yet when I was on the excursion on my own (with other passengers), it felt so different. For the first time I felt, HELL, I’M IN MADAGASCAR! The sparkling green waters are just as magical as the ones in Seychelles. The villages, sparse, small yet incomparably lovely, reminded me of the shacks in Myanmar. People don’t have much yet they find somehow find a way to live their lives in dignity. The Malagasy tour guide, Herve, was merely a young chap who’s still doing his third year in university. He’s paid 15 Euros for every excursion that he goes on. He spoke English with a heavy Creole accent but his intensity, patience and humourous way of delivering information won us over. We spoke a bit while we were relaxing on the beach.

He thought highly about my job and said wistfully that he too wished that he could travel like I do. It’s his dream to go to a university in Europe and then continue to work there. He frowned a little when he heard that I’ve been away from Malaysia for quite sometime.

“Don’t you miss home? Don’t you want to see your family?” he asked.

Such questions are far too common and people are usually puzzled when I just shrug in response. How am I supposed to answer such a question? How can I tell them that I feel ambivalent? Home, my heart would scoff, where is it, anyway? My family is not my anchor, like everybody else. I’m not sure if its due to my mom’s demise or that my dad remarried but since 18, I no longer felt that I could rely on the family entity. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve nothing but respect and love for them yet I feel no sense of attachment. I don’t know if this is normal but I don’t feel like I’ve to live with them in order to prove that I’m a filial daughter. I know that they can take care of themselves perfectly and vice-versa. My dad, like every other dad, is probably worrying sick about me traversing the world yet he has a life that he gets on with…and probably understands by now that I do too.

***

Latest Report: The ship was unable to dock at Tamatave, Madagascar due to the rising rebellion that’s going on in the capital city. Instead, we’ll have an additional day in Mauritius. I guess our itinerary has brought us endless intrigue and excitement-from pirates to political rebellion, I wonder what’s next.

Inspiration for the day

2009-01-09T07:18:00.000-08:00

"You cannot manifest what you want, you can only manifest what you have." Eckhart Tolle, A New Earth

Mombasa

2008-12-27T03:34:00.000-08:00

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.

One month later....since my embarkation date...

2008-12-25T12:18:00.000-08:00

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 onboard. 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 onboard. 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...

Happy Holidays!

2008-12-25T01:16:00.000-08:00

Wishing everyone a wonderful Christmas and a fantastic New Year!

Missed you guys a lot....

More news soon.

Love
Wandering Ying

Thin fine line

2008-11-23T05:52:00.000-08:00

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 onboard. 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.

Current Contact Details

2008-11-22T02:27:00.000-08:00

Phone number:+39 3342917327
Postal Address: Kher Ying TEY
Crew Lecturer
M/N Costa Europa
Mauritius Shipping Corporation CORALINE Ship Agency LTD
Nova Building 1st Military Road
PORT LUIS
MAURITIUS
Email address: europacrewlecturer@costa.it (but please CC your emails to kherying@gmail.com as well)

Itinerary (Crossing Cruise from Savona, Italy to Port Luis, Mauritius)

2008-11-22T02:20:00.000-08:00

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

MARE ARRABIATA (Irritated Seas-Navigating towards Savona, Italy)

2008-11-22T02:19:00.000-08:00

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 Allegra 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.

USELESS : Navigating towards Savona, Italy

2008-11-22T02:16:00.000-08:00

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.

DINNER TABLE CONVERSATION (Navigating towards Ajaccio)

2008-11-22T02:14:00.000-08:00

Sy, the Canadian host, joined me at the dinner table. We were previously acquaintances from the previous 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 Allegra 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.”
A
nd 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.”

DRUNK (Navigation: towards Ajaccio)

2008-11-22T02:11:00.000-08:00

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.

LOST (Port of Call: Barcelona)

2008-11-22T02:08:00.000-08:00

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 Ramblas 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 Costa 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.

Just a quick hello from Barcelona

2008-11-20T07:19:00.000-08:00

Spent most of my time wandering along and around La Ramblas...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....

Day 2 on Costa Europa

2008-11-20T07:18:00.000-08:00

I can see that everyone’s already judging me, from the way I look, from my position and from who I talk to. Fortunately, I met a number of colleagues that I used to work with on the other ship like the Master Valet (he basically serves the top 5 officers namely the captain, staff captain, doctor, safety officer and chaplain), some restaurant guys, some musicians and the First Officer. The First Officer and I never really spoke but we’d exchanged some pleasantries. Over here, he seemed like he was really glad to see me. His eyes grew wide when he met me, kissed my cheeks and then pinch it after that. That’s really nice for a change because Officers are usually quite arrogant and sleazy.

His physical stature reminded me of Marco, the previous First Officer for Engines back on the Allegra. Not too tall but broad shouldered, tanned, and a shock of wavy dark and grey hair would frame his temples. Very distinguished looking. Marco and I got along very well without speaking much English. I met him a month before I disembarked from my previous ship. We could connect at a level where we both shared similar perspectives in life. Those times, we would sit outside the Crew Bar, underneath the stars, and with a beer in our hands, traded stories. He would keep supporting me to write my novel and would tell me stories about his motorbike, his amazing Buddhist sister, his Sicily and his ex-wife. I think he had desired to be with me but I was with Giorgio (even though Gio wasn’t onboard at that time) and wouldn’t imagine of betraying our relationship. Marco knew that and he respected the boundaries; he remained sweet, helpful and attentive, like a good friend. We would keep chatting into the night…. those dreamy talks about our destinies and direction in life. Those were the one of the best times on the other ship.
Will I be able to find someone like that on this ship? A good friend that I could connect with without the complications of romance and physical intimacies? I wouldn’t hold my breath since it’s too vast to make any instant connections but again, time will tell. And there must be reason why I’m here…. Someone that I’ve to meet, someone to teach me a lesson, something that I need to know… hopefully, every day, a new insight will be revealed.

Embarkation in Savona

2008-11-20T07:16:00.000-08:00

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 C. Allegra, 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....

From Columbus Hotel, Genoa

2008-11-18T12:40:00.000-08:00

I am trying to access the Internet as if my life depends on it but the Vodafone wifi access they have in Columbus Hotel is really weak. Nonetheless, it’s not going to stop me from telling this story.

I flew out of Heathrow to Genoa, Italy, via Munich. The transition was smooth and I was really impressed with Munich’s airport. Avant-garde art pieces hung on the walls, the floors were clean and glossy, interesting shops and cafes that ooze chic and aroma of fresh coffee beans. While I was in waiting at the departure gates, I thought I saw some familiar faces but didn’t act on it as I was too exhausted and wasn’t looking for company. In fact, I was too busy missing people in London.

When I arrived in Genoa, one of the company’s cab services picked us up. I realized that I wasn’t the only one embarking on that particular ship tomorrow; there were others too. One dark and tall Eastern European looking man called out to me. I said “Ciao” and immediately he launched into a full-blown Italian conversation that I couldn’t quite keep up with. He spoke rapidly and with deep Romanian accent. However, I tried, but injected some English into it.

There were two classical musicians from Hungary, a casino dealer from country unknown and a bunch of people from the engine department from Romania, including the guy who spoke to me. After that I completely tuned off because they started to speak in Hungrarian/Romanian. Apparently, the Eastern European languages are quite similar hence they can understand each other.

As the cab drove towards the heart of Genoa, my heart sank lower and lower. All of a sudden, I feel impending solitude and lack of peers. I know I will feel claustrophobic on the ship again. The Italian higher management on the ship will again give me a shit and all those sort of things. Am really not looking forward to it. I do pray that my experience on the C. Europa will be different from the C.Allegra. Previously, I suffered from anxiety attacks for the first few months simply because I didn’t get the respect I deserved, people were mean and there were a lot of language barrier. Thank god I settled in quite nicely after that.

I’ll just see what tomorrow brings. I won't be embarking on the C.Europa till 2pm. As of now, I’m grateful for the fact that I’ve a nice hotel room, hot shower and snow white towels. The exhaustion from the previous day is starting to take its toll.

Good night from Genoa.

Leaving London

2008-11-18T10:24:00.000-08:00

To embark on a new journey, you have a set of rituals to follow. One of such is to start a new blog, a new journal, a fresh blank page because what is past, has gone and you are no longer who you were. Memories remain as vivid thoughts, conjured whenever you need them but has no power to taint the present reality unless you drag it along with you, unable to let go.

I am about to take on another journey, taking on another contract as an English Crew Lecturer on an Italian Cruise Ship. I have previously done it before and have sailed Northern Europe and East Asia with it, so this is not at all foreign to me, but having settled down cozily in London for the past 5 months, shedding the layers of my wanderlust, unpacking my suitcase and allowing myself to stay, and then to leave it all behind again, pains me greatly. I am quite surprised myself, to find the attachment to my new found friends and lifestyle in London, so strong and overwhelming. I felt pangs of hollowness after Ken (a guest at my shoebox room for a few days who then became a good friend!) and Musty (another London CouchSurfer that I’ve grown close to and am quite fond off) left Heathrow Terminal 2. It felt almost surreal to say goodbye to them, especially to Musty, who had became very much my partner-in-crime and someone that I’d always call for help or to chat shit. But what took the cake was that when Camila called, I was choking back tears. As she wished me well and told me that I’m going to have a wonderful adventure, I blubbered next to the mouthpiece like a sappy idiot. And then as if that wasn’t embarrassing enough, Olga called and my tears continued to roll.

Messages continued to beep on my phone, telling me that I’ll be missed and that I’ll truly enjoy myself. In many ways I was touched but more so, frightened by the fact that I am again removing myself from the familiar and plunging into the foreign. I guess I was caught off-guard; I wasn’t prepared to leave.

There are still coffees to drink, conversations to indulge in, people to meet, sights to take in, books to be read, writing to be done; I wasn’t done with London just yet.

For a moment, I felt ‘homesick’; thank you to the London crew for sharing your lives with me.

Onward and hey-ho!

Journey updates

2008-11-18T10:17:00.000-08:00

I didn't make it to Amsterdam. Everything happened too quickly. I had many things to settle like library books, writing assignments, my novel, people to catch up with before I go and all those sorts. I was also hosting Ken, a CouchSurfer who has dabbled in almost everything from race cars to producing films and things just escalated from there.

Nonetheless, I'm now in Genoa, Italy, waiting to embark on Costa Europa tomorrow. Since I won't be living up in London, this blog will probably be the best portal for me to tell my stories to those who're keen to follow.

Onward with the stories then!

Where will Ying be?

2008-11-05T05:51:00.000-08:00

Nov 6-9: Cork, Ireland

Nov 13-16: De Pijp, Amsterdam

Nov 19 2008-2009: Costa Mediterranea and Costa Europa

A much awaited disclaimer

2008-10-31T03:36:00.000-07:00

Who knows when am I going to update this blog again? For the fact that I keep making promises about wanting to keep this virtual portal active has rendered me a liar as you can see, other than an occasional life snippet, there is nothing else. No extensive commentaries about life, no discourses about my current lifestyle or urgent headlines about people and places. It will be interesting if this serves as a column for a certain media publication, and I, the correspondent. That would mean, racking my brains and digging the slush juice from within just to stay within the periphery of deadlines. But the truth is, balancing online existence and living the real life can be a tad bit difficult. More often than not, I just want to live my life and not really, to write about it. It’s like a photographer who’s tired of looking at his surroundings through a lens and decided to put his camera away for a while. Without a black and grey gadget in between him and his present moment, he can breathe the fresh red, ochre, yellow autumn air and smile under the glowering orange sun. He’s now a participant of nature instead of an observer, an outsider.

Also, I rather dream and fantasize, let the thoughts and ideas marinate in my head instead of putting them into words. When those little, nitty, grubby nuts and bolts of my thoughts are put into words, they lose its magic. For me, anyway.

But does mean I’ll stop this blog? No. I guess this is more of a disclaimer. I will write and spin tales whenever my heart takes fancy but if I don’t, it just means that life’s been more than a handful and I’m facing it, head on. And for you blog addicts (bloggers and blog readers alike), don’t let your blog define who you are.

Choose life, live it well.

A weekend jaunt to the capital of lowlands: Amsterdam

2008-09-12T14:09:00.000-07:00

"All tales of youth involve a large measure of folly..." begins Bill Barich in his essay and I must say, I can easily attest to that.

Last Friday, I found myself out in London's cold, under a dimly lit bus stop, waiting for N381 to come. After countless of clicking and changing itineraries on the Transport for London homepage, it was prescribed that I should take night bus N381to Parliament Square and then change for bus N44 that would take me directly to Victoria Coach Station. From there, I would be able to board the 3.30 am National Express coach that was supposed to take me to Gatwick Airport. And I was meant to check in at 4.20am and board the plane at 6.20 am for Amsterdam. And as luck would have it, if I don't catch this 381, the rest of the plan can go to hell.

The clock ticked and minutes passed, still I saw no sign of N381. It was already 2.15 am and I wasn't alone. Another man hidden under the shadows, stood close to the bus stop but away from the lights. My heart beat a little faster, wishing the bus would come. I started contemplating options. Perhaps I should take a taxi. It shouldn't cost me more than 10 pounds to get to Victoria Coach Station but first, how do I take one. Should I call for one or should I simply flag one down? Being a foreigner in a country is difficult-you are not bestowed with innate knowledge of a local. Being a foreigner means even to take a mere taxi, you have to learn how to do it the right way. Anyway, whilst I was going through a series of choices, I saw the headlights of a double decker approaching. My near-sighted vision had me asking the man in the shadows. He stepped into the light and told me it was N47. He looked nice but blast the bus services, I needed the bloody N381.

-Where do you have to go?

-Victoria Coach Station.

-Oh no, but that's C10!

-I know, but C10's services terminates after 1am. And I've got a damn flight to catch.

I got on the bus and asked the bus driver for my predicament. It seemed like N47 would take me to a bus stop near Trafalgar Square and then from there, I could board N44 to Victoria Coach Station. Shivering in the cold, I could only board the bus happily, hoping that N44 would also come in time.

***

Schipol Airport welcomed me with a cafe latte from Starbucks. I was worn out, thoroughly beat, and after being sleep deprived for the last 36 hours, I could only bless the coffee company that stands for American Imperialism with gratitude. As the first shot of caffeine drenched my blood stream, I shrugged my fatigue off and set off to find my way to Teun's place.

I continue to be amazed at my tenacity to meeting and drinking with him again. Last summer was a glorious period of sunshine, alcohol and drama. Friendships were formed, the heart was lifted, broken and then lifted again. When Teun proudly shared with me his personal anecdotes of his life and in the city that everything took place, I thought it sounded like a kingdom of treausres-only crazy miracles can happen here. I vowed to see it, and I did, last summer. I lived and breathed the city, through Teun and his mates, which now became my mates too. Now, I was back for 30 hours, ready to relive history.

Tram 5 took me right into the heart of Museumplein (Museum Square). The city basked under warm golden rays last summer but now, it looked a little intimidating with ominous clouds hanging in the background. Perhaps it was too early. I walked across the sprawling park, in front of the Rijksmuseum and past the underground Albert Heijn supermarket, tasting the biting cold and admiring the Dutch early birds who were already playing frisbee with their dogs. Despite the greyness, the grass was in tender green, covered with spots of fresh dew.

The way leading to Teun's place was familiar; it felt like going home. I just had to find the canal, the Ruysdaelkade street, and it would lead me to the green telephone booth outside Marjan's Tiller Gallerie and Teun's studio apartment is just two floors above it. As winding through a series of streets that are named after artists like Johannes Vermeerstraat, I arrived at Hobbemakade which is right opposite Ruysdaelkade (yes, Ruysdael is famous for his Dutch light paintings). Amsterdam is a city of details; it's the little things in the pictures that makes the entire portrait 'gezellig', a feeling of cosiness or a sense of belonging. It's like, if that cat wasn't sleeping on the window pane, it would have changed the entire picture.

I saw two ducks, walking clumsily along the canal....a dark blue boat.....black and white bicycles leaning against walls that are covered with wild ivy and climbing vines...perfect postcard views, except for the fact that my photographic skills are too meagre to capture that momentary expression.

I crossed the 'Spronken Bridge', a bridge in front of Teun's place that hasn't been named and he wanted it named after his family and slowly, in great relief and triumph, I rung his doorbell. The white door buzzed open and I climbed up the familiar narrow stairway. The steps were cluttered with newspapers, letters and sales brochures, just like how it always was a year ago.

-HOIIII!!

-Heya!!!

And I jumped into Teun's arms as we embraced and he held me up high, like how a father holds a child. Teun's towering figure of 6 ft 6 (200cm) made it difficult for conventional hugging hence such extreme measures of affection must be taken. I pushed open his apartment door and walked into the narrow space that I once shared with him last summer. Everything was the same; everything was in place.

***

London and its residents

2008-08-26T16:10:00.000-07:00

I’ve come to enjoy London and its peculiarities. It is an amazingly massive city with much to offer-it has every option available for everyone who seeks it. If you’re a struggling musician, you’ll have no qualms looking up pubs that organizes open mic sessions so that you’ll have 5 minutes of spotlight which could lead to a big break or you could be a Bulgarian musician, hoping to earn that scholarship from Goldsmith’s college while working two jobs to support your tuition fees. Everyone has a story.

Sometimes, I see the patrons of LEON, the café that I work in, and I wonder about their backgrounds, the relationship they have with the ones dining with them (often a clashing difference) and their stories. Their foreign tongues and strange credit cards tell me that are not British-so what are they doing in London? Are they like me, who couldn’t get a working holiday visa for anywhere else but for the UK? Do they harbour dreams to make it big in London? Did they think it’s a city paved in gold, a land of freedom, hope and opportunities? Are they merely on their vacation?

Anyway, I spoke to Ulpu the other day-what brought her to London. It was Muse, apparently. Yes, the band. Ulpu’s a very quiet girl from Finland but she dresses in the loudest and most garish colours. Sometimes she turns up at work in hot pink stockings, sometimes a lime green ones. Her crazy, unruly dyed bright orange is held back by a neon blue headband- a stark difference against her pale, creamy skin. When she was in high school, it wasn’t that good for her. She was a social outcast and she didn’t enjoy mixing with her mainstream classmates. She doesn't drink and she doesn't enjoy being with pissed people. And then she got interested in Muse. She enjoyed their music so much that she started stalking the virtual world for any information about them. And in time, as she became a permanent resident in some forums, she made some good friends who loved Muse just as much.

And then they decided to move to London, where they feel that their passion and enthusiasm are more accepted. They’re free to love and worship who they want. Nobody think they’re crazy. In fact, London loves those who are a wee bit kooky.

Ulpu has attended at least six Muse’s concerts-all over Europe. She remembered one of the most significant moments was when her friends and her, held a banner that read, “We wouldn’t have met if not for you”…and as she said that to me, her eyes teared in nostalgia.

She has no ideas for the future but at the moment, she’s content being in London. “People here don’t judge you as much,” she said. “I don’t think I’ll ever be going back to Finland.”

Food business

2008-08-26T15:44:00.000-07:00

Perhaps my taste buds have gotten a little more finicky about how I like my Malaysian or even Pan-Asian food but even the best restaurants, proudly carrying rave reviews by Time Out, Zagat and The Guardian, have failed my expectations. Being a Malaysian, food is really a simple affair really. The eating process is without frills. I don’t need to be entertained or amused. I just want my tongue to be tantalized. Make a plate of char kuey teow, savoury and well-oiled, salted accordingly, will put a very happy smile on my face. I don’t care if the portions are too small or the restaurant’s deco isn’t exquisite or charming enough-those are secondary. But dish out an over-sweetened one while claiming your restaurant to be the best in London is outlandish, wrong and a terrible sin.

That’s why, I was sorely disappointed by Cha Cha Moon (Ganton Street) after turning up with deep hunger but leaving with an empty stomach. They can’t even spice up the food properly. I ordered a Penang Prawn Noodle dish and I think I was served something that looked like ramen, drenched in sweet orange sauce, topped with a handful of bean sprouts and prawns. You should see my face; it was a face twisted in horror.

I thought Nick claimed, you can everything in the UK! So why can’t I get even a close to authentic char kuey teow, chai tao kuey or prawn noodles?!?!?!

Oh dio, ma che schivo!

Observation

2008-08-26T15:10:00.001-07:00

Two men in deep conversation, head towards the cafe, swing the glass door open and stride in. One has a dark blue coat and a purple, red and green bow, clung tightly around his neck while the other wears a white shirt with thick pink stripes, and on top of it, an ordinary black coat. The one with a long nose and white hair, glasses perch at the bridge of his protruding breathing organ, looks like a professor from a blockbuster. Because movies have painted portraits of eccentric professors to be such while in reality, he could be a scriptwriter, an interior designer, a librarian or a bank clerk.

The cafe, sterile and cold, dressed in a minimalist design, has an even colder personality behind the counter. Her hellos are crisp and her reluctant smile adds no warmth to the frozen atmosphere. Her eyes does not meet theirs as she asks them for their order. The sleek walls, lighted up by light boxes, gleams in the black, pink and silver interior. Typically, such establishment will thrive in superstar cosmopolitans like Tokyo, Hong Kong or Canary Wharf-where bankers and solicitors congregate and negotiate, where black folders get slapped on the silver steel table tops and then be taken away after a series a firm handshakes. It is a meeting point for people who has no preference of the atmosphere where they dine. The place is merely functional. Who cares whether the waitress smiles at you when the business deal is sealed? They have more important things in mind.

You won't find the creative, zany, flashers and exhibitors here. You won't find the nostalgic, the melancholic and the dreamers either. The intense feelers, the compassionate healers and clairvoyants avoid cafes like this like bad karma, because there is no place for passion nor empathy.

Delectable goodness

2008-08-26T13:53:00.000-07:00

This is bliss. These few moments of pure rest, of not working, of not having to anticipate what someone who intends to dine in Leon wants, of not having to grab a lemon, ginger and mint quencher from the frozen shelves with grace and of not having to ask, “What would you like?”. Almost every week, I have a two days off (decision not up to me, unfortunately) but for the past few weeks, the two days that were supposed to be a ‘me’ time were dedicated to someone else. There was Cory, my first CS guest from US (but living in Bonn, Germany) and there was Adam, a mate of mine that I met in Myanmar while I was volunteering there. In fact, it was him who hosted me in his and Zeya’s apartment for the two months that I was there. I spent a crazy 30 hours in Glasgow, catching up with Adam before he had to return to California, 2 days after. It wasn’t that I really minded, after all, it was all good fun and tremendously exciting, since the prospect of working is less appealing but having used every ounce of my muscle while working, sometimes all I want to do is just crash and chill. Or just spend my time doing nothing.

For the past few days, I had craved for a good mug of hot chocolate, which the best is to be found at Apostrophe Café. It has several branches around Central London and I stumbled to it accidentally after Michael and I passed by the one on Great Eastern Rd, East London, and he remarked with great enthusiasm that it serves melted hot chocolate! Just the way I liked it, after having tasted something like that in a bar in Genoa. After work, last Sunday, Musty and I hungrily seek out the one on Regent Street. As I brought the mug of steaming chocolate to my mouth, and allowed the chocolate to slowly flow from my tongue and through my throat, I thought I’d die in ecstasy. Musty must have rolled his eyes at some point, watching me swoon over a cuppa, but he did enjoy it very much as well.

The initial plan was to have a repeat experience, to treat myself to one on the recent Monday but my lunch with Noel had me pigging out on Nando’s peri-peri chicken instead. After lunch, I ordered a Milano Hot Chocolate at Café Nero but it paled by comparison. It was just cream, chocolate powder and hot water.

So my craving got more intense, built up after a week of deprivation.

Hence, now, parked on a wooden bench in Apostrophe Café, Baker Street, I write this blog, with my heart and mind at ease. A Granta’s Book of Travel by my side, my Moleskin journal on top of it, my Macbook whirring softly and the nasty wind outside-this could very well be a picture of paradise. All mine.

The London Underground

2008-07-30T17:41:00.001-07:00

The constant rush in London gets into me all the time. It’s a busy, flowing, sprawling metropolis that never cease to stop despite the time of the day. Other than the zoo activities that happen daily along Oxford Street, the underground is also a source of annoyance to me. Perhaps the stations were built in pre-historic times; platforms zig-zagging against each other, different tunnels leading to a myriad of entrances and exits but none to the platforms that you’re looking for, filth and smell of dampness and decay festering below. And the mad pushing, shoving and steady throngs of faceless strangers that zoom within these claustrophobia only nudges me to fight my way to exits so that I can reach a place of refuge where motion cease to exist. But every now and then, during my instinctive escapade, my ears would pick up a gentle strain of a violin or a furtive dance across the nylon strings…..time stops for me. Someone is playing an instrument somewhere, creating magic with their fingers and their voice for the masses, who probably don’t listen. But for me, my heart will soar with joy. The moments become still…I float out of reality. During those sole moments, I feel like I belong to London. The music connects. It’s just me and the music. That’s why, the next time I see a musician languidly strutting their stuff, I’ll nod and spare them my change.

Leon's

2008-07-25T16:12:00.000-07:00

The job

2008-07-21T14:00:00.000-07:00

The job that I got is at a health-food chain restaurant called Leon's. They have about 8 restaurants all over London. While each branch has a different decor, every one of them shares the same policy of producing good and healthy meals/drinks with loads of passion and sunshine. When I was first interviewed at the branch near London Bridge, I was immediately impressed. They asked me if I'd like coffee while waiting for my turn. A guy named Andra, from Bermuda, gave me an application form and asked me a few questions after I finished it. The interview questions included what the standard ones like availability, experience and some background details. He also wanted to know what will inspire and bring out the best in me. In the end, we talked for a good hour, speaking about food and traveling. I left the place with my face flushed, revitalized and immensely pleased for no apparent reason.

They gave me a four hour trial at Carnaby Street where my task was to help Adita from Poland, to prepare salads. It was fun running around, sprinkling broccoli, rocket salad, cous cous, aquina and yoghurt toppings on some of the salads. 4 hours went by without me noticing it.

Tomorrow will be Leon's new staff member's orientation day. Andra called it his Magical Mystery Tour. I like the sound of it. He'll probably feed us with what it means to be part of Leon's family.

Didn't know that there are so many procedures involved in getting a job in a restaurant. It felt more difficult than getting a PR or journalism job in Malaysia, where I usually got hired after one interview!

For more information about Leon, check out this website

Which way?

2008-07-20T13:48:00.001-07:00

I was disoriented when I touched my oyster card against the card reader and walked through the gates of Oxford Circus Underground. It was 7.25am and I was on my way to Leon's for my 4 hour job trial. Andra, the recruitment consultant of Leon's has arranged it in such a way that if the management in the Carnaby Street Branch likes me, they'll pay me for the 4 hour trial and then hire me to be one of their team members.

I looked at my worn out and stained Central London map( was duped into buying it by one of the foreign exchange counters guy who changed my Euros into pounds but surprisingly, it proved to be quite useful) and back again at the names of the exits. Should I take the Agryll Street exit or the Regent Street exit? A rosy-cheeked, middle aged man, dressed immaculately in pressed black suit, stopped and called to me, "Do you need any help?"

I told him that I needed to go Carnaby Street. He motioned me to come with him as he'd point me into the direction that I wanted. He asked me if I were Japanese. I shook my head and revealed to him that I was a Malaysian. He was pleasantly surprised and said that he is planning to a trip to Malaysia some time soon. Maybe I could help.

Yeah, why not, I said.

He gave me his business card, wished me luck for my job trial and waved me goodbye.

I turned over the grey card in my hands to see his name.

"Noel Saunders-Managing Director of John Lewis"

Wow.

And I got the job too.

Perche?

2008-07-20T13:38:00.001-07:00

The reason of the breakup has became clearer. We both want the best for each other, and seems like the best thing to do is to let each other go instead of putting each other through a 'triste' life. Yet while we're no longer bounded by the label and its concept, we will still spend hours speaking to look into each other eyes, sharing our daily lives and trying to care for each other in whatever way we can.

Perhaps, that's for the best; for now.

I still do dream of him every night. I wonder how long will these dreams last.

An email from last Christmas. It was a post-christmas report on my life on the ship

2008-07-12T15:36:00.000-07:00

I overheard myself saying to the onboard fitness instructor, who also happens to be my good friend, Nick: "You know what, I realise that I'm only happy when I'm a little tipsy. That's why you often find me in the grumpiest in the morning and happiest in the Crew Bar." Seems like these days, life on the ship becomes more bearable when I have a glass of Jagermeister by my side. My choice of drink for the night varies. From bubbly champagne to tequila shots, from a Jack Daniels to a Ramazotti, a glass or a bottle of alcohol isn't expensive at all, especially when crew gets 50% off all drinks. Furthermore, if I have an allowance of 150 Euros each month to drink in the passenger's lounge. That's where I'd take good old Nick, a Chesterfield (UK) lad of Canton origin, Niki, the Hong Kong beautician from the spa, and crazy Silvia from the most devious part of Italy and spend my allowance on them. After all, what use is of a good drink without good company?

I started to wonder my indulgement in alcohol, the source of my boredom and of course, where did I start this keen enthusiasm in alcohol consumption. It's obvious that the constricting life onboard may be one of the reasons why alcohol provides my brain a free reign of pleasure while the where....where did I start..made me trace back to the crazy bar (as Kathrin would call it the Wunderbar) beneath Hanoi Spirit House....while I was a mere amateur in drinking. Good memories those..ah...and guys, you are all guilty of moulding me into being an alcoholic! I'm serious !!

So, from Hanoi to Bangkok and then Amsterdam and then Italy and now moving around the seas of South East Asia, I don't think I've stopped drinking! Everyone's amazed on how this puny girl can take her liquour! Gone were the days where I was found sprawled over the toilet floor or puking all over the bar...nay, I've progressed. Amazing. And these few months, I've been alive and well, still working on the Italian passenger cruiseliner.

I am still getting used to the idea of being a teacher but surprisingly, I don't do too bad in it. Infact if there's anything that I could find joy in, in my job, is the teaching part. The rest like working under an Italian management or socialising within this tight network of freaks and sailing weirdos, sucks. Really. I miss those travelling days where I could bump into 5 people and 4 out of the 5 turn out to be the friends that I'd travel forever. On this ship, everyone's idea of the world and their interaction with their surroundings are the exact of those that I'd find in big companies all over the world. Be it South Americans, Philipinos, Italians, Spanish or Chinese, they think that just because they hang around 10km within the port's vicinity means they've seen the country. They spit prejuidices and conclusions that are hardly anywhere near the truth! They're hardly curious or keen to find out anything else. And you would think, working on a ship, with such varied personalities from all over the world will cultivate this sense of multicultural mindedness. Wrong! It's the same story again and again-the Italians stick within their own groups;the Chinese, Chinese; Spanish, Spanish..etc. It's sad to feel so totally unaccepted by a group of people just because you don't speak their language or share their culture. I cannot even begin to tell you how difficult it is to make friends. No wonder those who tried and failed, now retreat back to their paisanos (countrymen) or became jaded about friendships onboard. It's a shame that every friendship here is formed based on convenience or with a basis of benefit. As a girl, especially one like me, who enjoys hanging out with the boys, gets the hardest time. They don't seem to grasp the concept that just because I asked them out to the beach with me doesn't mean that the invitation would extend to my cabin at night. Must be the doldrums that made their mind overtly imaginative! And whenever I refuse their sexual advances, they would stop talking to me the very next day. It's a strange world, I tell you.

Having said that, sane and normal people are hard to come by. And if they do, you'd have to learn to cope up with them when they leave once their contract ends. And then, you come to ponder about the concept of impermanence and its wisdom. Like the other day, when a guitarist friend of mine, Fausto, left for his home in Milan, I almost cried. Another precious one leaving. His spirituality and sincerity has always left me gaping in amazement. Someone so Italian yet so zen.

There aren't many times when I didn't think of just throwing in the towel and disembarking myself. It can get so stifling, so imprisoning, so depressing. Steve, the guy who introduced me to this job, apologised in one of his emails, stating specifically that he's sorry if Costa has corrupted my soul. After 9 months of being on another Costa ship, he's now a free man, walking the way of a vagabond in The Dark Continent-South Africa. And if anything else, freedom means something indeed, after being on the ship!

Just the other day, I had a tiff with my Hotel Director. I totally don't get the guy-who at first think my position is a joke-made me carry out duties like embarkation and immigration stuff just because he thinks I've nothing to do-and then later these days, keeps appearing in my office in the wee hours of the morning, demanding I start. Thus, even though if I don't work physically for 11 hours, my brain is always on work! From the minute you get up and walk out of your cabin, you're reminded that you have a job to do and you have to do it. Even at 1am, when you want to retire for the day, you still feel guilty for watching DVDs or just hanging out at the Crew Bar. If anything, I feel like I'm living in an island of fear. The vessel is the epitome of Foucault's Panoptican. Don't do anything wrong, else security will get you. Don't do your work and Hotel Director will kick you off. Don't get on the wrong side of the captain else he'll also kick you off. Don't do port manning and they'll issue you a warning. Use the wrong entries or exits and you may get fine. Fear, fear, fear.

Well, who would have thought, a dream job would turn into a nightmare? On the other hand, being a Crew Lecturer entitles me to a single cabin, and being alone in my cabin does inspire me to turn to pen and paper to express myself. I've also been reading tonnes of books and watching a dozen of DVDs. Also been picking up some Italian and Spanish.My Italian vocabulary is no longer limited to swear words and I can carry off a basic conversation with an old Italian signora.

Travelling is also an illusion while working on the ship. Those who proclaim themselves well-travelled after being on the ship for a long time should be ashamed of themselves. Most of these people just get off the ports and go shopping..all they do is hop from one bar to another, one shopping arcade to another, take some photographs, haggle with the local store owners and then return with their trophies and postcards. This bunch of people are unusually narrow minded and boring. They would be the ones who would pooh pooh about a place, sharing with everyone their limited experiences and then claim the country to be as they see it. If there's anything else I'd like to do, is to shove these people overboard.

Allora- I must be accumulating a lot of bad karma by now since I do nothing but diss my colleagues the whole day. If tomorrow's sea is rough, I'd know that I've evoked their wrath.

I bid everyone adieu, goodnight and when I'm done with this contract, I'll come around and visit you guys again. Meanwhile, have fun wherever you are and be good.

xxxxx

Ying

Lost

2008-07-12T11:39:00.001-07:00

Someone should pick me up and strangle the wits out of me, because I just got to London a few days ago, but I'm perpetually stuck to my Macbook, emptying out the tissue-box, blowing my running nose every now and then, let my mind wander back to the good times. Deja vu? This is a perfect picture of a woman who just broken up with her boyfriend, in a foreign country. And while there are just theaters, bookshops, markets and museums waiting to be explored, I only crave for company of familiar faces, my mother and perhaps a steaming mug of hot chocolate. I have anticipated the break-up and have brought it up a number of times, but he denied everything and made sure I had a good time in Italy then, slammed the door on my face on my face after that.Ouch. After all the family dinners and childhood friends meet and greet. Which is why honesty sucks. But we knew it was coming.

Perhaps the change is for the better but why the hell do I still feel so lost?

Nuvole

2008-06-20T08:39:00.000-07:00

You're a Zingara, he laughs

As he waggles an accusing finger at me

You have a beautiful life, a wonderous mind,

One that can think up of plentitude of possibilities

One that still believes in miracles and magic.

Sei intelligente, he continues

As he brings the beer to his mouth

The chatters of the multilingual tongue doesn't faze you

You listen to its swelling and decreasing of tones

Your mind hears the ideas

And you express yourself.

And as every other nights, I sit

perched high on the Crew Bar's stool,

swirling my tiny self around

and occasionally taking a sip of the bittersweet Jaegermeister.

But tonight is different-there is a Friend,

A like-minded who takes my spirit into different levels of consciousness

Challenging my plethora of personalities to unite

To form the spiritual Me,

the essence from deep within that I've always wanted to express.

dark haired and skinned, strong jawed, rough hands

a pair of expressive eyes that sparkle

like the bio-lumiscence of the ocean,

wispy grey strays fringed his crown,

He smiles.

I never knew that I could find myself in him.

I chat in both sweet Italian and mundane English,

feeding my personality and ideas into the language

In return he murmurs understanding and acknowledgment.

I tell him that I am no adventurer

merely a collector of experiences

one who wishes to bottle up the every dream, every encounter and every emotion

moments of love, joy and serendipity.

I share that I am looking for something

finding myself while changing environments

Hoping that as soon as I'm completely whole within

I will stop.

He continues to smile and offer a similar exchange of conversation,

telling me of his dogs, his motorbiking adventures to Greece, his family

his country of beauty, his hatred towards the Berlusconi,

his Buddhist sister who's also a backpacker and

a voracious reader,

his ex-wife who he still has a good relationship with,

the seas, the stars and the horizon,

the exquisite colours of dreams.

There was lack of fear in our sharing,

As we continue to burrow deep into our lives

searching for secrets that we could bring to surface,

There were no walls, nothing in between

twas was the greatest Crew Bar conversation

to find a true connection with a fellow colleague

of a much higher rank,

that I barely know.

Crew Parties-revisited

2008-06-01T20:48:00.000-07:00

Usually Crew Parties get me pretty pumped up. I'd look forward to sharing tequila shots with Nikki or gulp down cheap (but good) white wine with Luca, Sylvia, Nick, Simon, Antonio, Valdemar and Ciro. I'd wear a simple black top with my usual denim shorts and dance the night away. Before I met Giorgio, my dance partners would either be one of the Italian cooks or the Honduras carpenter who would never fail to mesmerize me with his smooth moves. He got especially excited when one of his favourite Juanes or Gypsy Kings hit songs play. With thumping beats and potent alcohol coarsing through our blood, we'd sway and grind to the pulsating music as the ship continues its journey to the next port. Of course, it was all in good fun and nothing crazy would happen except for this time where Adriano, the 2nd cook, tried to make out with me after a dance. I had to push him away and look for a place to hide because he was damn convinced that I was interested in him.

But now, the usual crew that I hung out with are gone and so the former atmosphere have faded into colourful memories of a bygone. Now, the dance floor's virtually empty. Every party goer just hangs around, check out butts/girls/boys/English dancers/officers/breasts and be pieces of furniture. No one pranced, jigged or got got down with it.

So, opting out tonight, I put on my headphones, turned up the volume and danced to my own songs in the comfort of my own cabin. I rocked to The Killers, swayed to Juanes, hummed to Room Eleven, grooved to The Black Eyed Peas, discoed to Mika and frolicked to Regina Spektor.

Delicious!

New Year's eve Crew Party

The last Crew Party I had before I disembarked for the first time.

Little moments that make me happy

2008-05-30T21:00:00.000-07:00

Giorgio and I monkeying around in my cabin (M/N Costa A*^%^)

(Crew Lecturers from all the Costa ships were sent back to Genova for a 3-days training)

(The little porthole in my cabin, that provides me a glimpse to the world outside. From fiery orange sunsets to ash-grey storms....from Singaporeans walking to kids in the Philippines...)

After a month of separation.......

Spectacular works of mother nature.....the porthole works better than National Geographic channel

I'm grateful today

2008-05-30T19:26:00.000-07:00

He put a dot on the whiteboard and circled it. "You're all here," he said in his book that I'm currently reading, The Key. In his book, he wrote about sharing one of his teachings to his staff that runs his Miracles Coaching program.

"Where do you want to go from here?"

Some mentioned up, some said off the whiteboard itself. He then continued to put another dot on the whiteboard, way above the first dot, and asked his staff again, how do they go from where they are to where they want to be. Many suggested take a straight line, do one thing at a time, etc. While he agreed that all of the answers were good, he said the best way to get from one dot to another, is to be grateful for that moment they were in.

"When you are grateful for this moment, then whatever is next for you will bubble out of this moment." The key to success, apparently is gratitude. It's about wanting more without needing more. The message simply tells you to be happy now and out will come the miracles you seek.

Meet Joe Vitale, the author of many best-selling books like The Key, Zero Limits, Life's Missing Instruction Manual and also one of the personalities who had been interviewed for the hit movie that now has a cult following all over the world (including yours truly).

Those who had been familiar with The Secret will also know of The Law of Attraction, something that I've been unconsciously practicing over the past few years without knowing what exactly it is. However, I didn't learn of this gratitude part until I read The Key. It made me think back of my current situation and how many blessings that I should be thankful for.

It made me run down the memory lane and make my eyes grow misty with nostalgia and a strong gratitude. It was safe to say that wherever I am now, was where I wanted to be back then.

In many ways, while I may still complain occasionally about trivial day to day things, I can safely say that I am living a semi-charmed kind of life. My job barely takes up one or two hours a day. As a Crew Lecturer on a renowned Italian cruise ship, my schedule depends largely on my students, who are the crew members that make up the human resource on the ship. Hailing from multiple nationalities, and mainly from China, Philippines, Italy and South America (on specifically this ship), my job is to slot in an hour or two between their work hours so that they can improve their English, and for some, learn English from the very beginning. My wages are high in comparison to my Malaysian mates and I get to trip for one country to another without spending a cent. I get paid to undergo teacher's training in Italy and am put up in the finest hotel in wherever country they're sending me. Sure, the job is not without its challenges and the ship life is not for everyone (I've seen many had come, have their dreams crushed, packed and never to be heard again)....but hey, 10 countries in a year, without emptying your bank account, champagne for 2 Euros, who's complaining?

Then, came the question of where did I get such a sweet gig. Now, not too long ago (about close two years now), I started harbour this dream to travel. I was bitten by the wanderbug lust after I returned from Australia and the urge to backpack was strong. It didn't matter where and it didn't include the amount of countries, all I wanted to do was wander. But it didn't sound possible then when I have an empty bank account laughing back at me. So I donned on the suit and bought myself a briefcase, explored the world of PR, but then withdrew from the social circles 3 months later as I thought about the superficiality of it all. However, I had a little more in my bank account than when I started so I did the only crazy thing I can think of.

After bombarding Thorn Tree Forums and backpackers from all over the world with my questions, I found a way to volunteer in Myanmar for free. I was to help out in an English school set up by this visionary Swedish bloke and its organizing team included an Argentinean yogi monk, two Californian travelers, an gutsy Australian girl, a shy New Zealander and an interesting American girl. Mainly, the two Californian dudes, read my email, told me to come over and welcomed me with open arms. They put me up in their very simple apartment where I slept on the moth -eaten mattress and under the mosquito net, for free. We had no fans and sometimes no clean running water. We stayed next to the train station and due to the constant noise, I slept through a bomb explosion once. I learned that true traveling means living simply and learning to live with the locals. I had only 300 USD but I made it stretch for two months. And as Kika and Hibickina wrote in Off The Map, pay a lot and you get an expensive life, take what's free and you have freedom. I was penniless but I was happy. People offered me food, accommodation, money and support.

Then, money ran out and I had to go back to work. This time, I got a job as a writer in a youth magazine. It was fun when you were the only writer in the team, but it was bad for growth and improvement. I didn't have an editor to bark at me, crumple my drafts and ask me for rewrites. It was a breezy job but I didn't enjoy it as much as I wanted to. I still kept in touch with the Argentinean yogi monk. He said to me, "Now that you've seen the light, you wanted to go back to the black hole?"

He had a point. My need for constant change, be around different cultures and learn about what the rest of the world is doing was great so I decided to be a member of www.couchsurfing.com, a virtual network for travelers to meet other like-mindeds, who believe in a world of hospitality and help doesn't come with strings attached. Because I didn't get to roam the world, why not bring the world to my doorstep instead. The Law of Attraction did state that you have to align yourself to your dreams in order for it to manifest physically. In other words, take inspired action and you'll get results. So after hosting an American child actor, an Italian motorcyclist who biked from Italy to Asia and a couple of others, I met Steve, the wandering American English Teacher. We got along just fine and he insisted that I can do whatever that he's doing. He didn't take my laments about my nationality and my sad-looking bank account seriously. He believed in me and gave me lots and lots of information about where and how I should go about it. He thought I spoke better English than some Americans and couldn't see why I cannot be teaching English. He even lent me some money (a huge sum-to friend that he knew like what-2 months?) and convinced me to quit my job and go. But what truly made the deal for me, was the meeting of another crazy Malaysian who had embarked on the same journey and was trying to do it one more time again. This time, for good. Ed, a fellow Malaysian Couchsurfer(now my best friend), that was introduced to me by KC, in a party, enthralled me with his traversing Europe with only 30 pounds adventure. He ignited the spark of possibilities in my heart. If he can do it, surely I can too.

However, once on the road, life is no bed of roses. I thought, after winning the daddy and friends battle, everything will fall neatly into place but boy was I wrong! I truly wandered. Because I didn't know where to go and where to start from, I drifted from a place to another, with dreams changing day by day. It was too difficult. My passport, my skin, my gender-everything was a hindrance. An American or European girl like me, could easily find an English teaching job or have people showering them with hospitality while no one's interested in a solo Malaysian backpackeress. I couldn't hop on planes with one-way tickets, I was questioned by authorities by my reasons for travelling, bla, bla bla.

When Steve got a job as a Crew Lecturer on the ship, he thought it's a perfect opportunity for me to jump into the bandwagon. I applied but was rejected. Again, because I'm not an American or a Canadian, and other usual plethora of reasons (usually nothing to do with my experience or qualifications).

So, I CSed all around South East Asia, hoping to find a base where I can get a job as an English Teacher and start on something. Also, while travelling, I was trying to find my ultimate purpose but I found none. Then, I find my heart strings pulling me to Europe namely Holland, where two good friends of mine, that I met while travelling (and over CS) resides. After a lot of rumination and doubts, I bought myself a one way ticket to Amsterdam, only to be rejected by airline authorities on the night of boarding.

"Sorry madam, while you don't need a visa to go to The Netherlands, you need a return-ticket to your home country."

Rejected, lost and utterly frustrated, I bummed in Bangkok for about 2 months until the travel agent told me that he can help me purchase a separate return ticket but will cancel it after I arrive in The Netherlands, and all I have to pay is the cancellation fee. It was risky but I had no choice. I couldn't face the fact that I had to go home so soon.Only 6 months had past and I wasn't ready to give in. That night, I was allowed to board but I was hassled by customs in Bangkok because they didn't understand why I was flying to Amsterdam from Bangkok instead of KL. While it seemed perfectly natural for an American, British, Australian, etc to do it, it was strange for them as a solo female backpacker. In their heads, I probably may be a potential illegal immigrant or something. However, I survived that night and what followed after was a perfect Dutch summer where the sun shone and I was drunk on beer and joy. I only had approximately 300 Euros but was taken care by my Dutch friends. Teun let me stay in his apartment for two months, cooked for me, introduced me to The Dutch Life while Stef gave me a mobile phone and a sim card, picked me up from the airport (his own initiative!!!!) and took me out whenever he can. And again, did I grow up with these people? Hell no! I travelled with Teun in Myanmar while I hosted Stef in Kuala Lumpur, yet just after months of traveling together, the two of them were like brothers to me.

However, I couldn't roam forever. 300 Euros became 100 Euros....I had to do something. Just when that happened, I got an email from the cruise ship company asking me whether I was still interested in the Crew Lecturer position in one of their ships. And as I was already in Amsterdam, I had no problems getting down to Genova (Italy) for the interview.

Now, if I've never been to Myanmar, I wouldn't have met Teun who let me stay in his apartment in Amsterdam. If I wasn't a member of CS, I wouldn't have met Steve and I wouldn't have been convinced to teach English or get the job on the cruise ship. And if I didn't go to Amsterdam, I would had to pay more to get to Italy.

So if you asked me, I did wish for this, but I also worked and put myself in the position to receive it.

And I'm definitely grateful for being at this dot at this point of time.

Current Frustration

2008-05-29T00:26:00.000-07:00

Dear Choon Ling,

If you require a diversion from your tedious rumination over some accounting jargon, allow me to amuse you. Let me lament, weep, and rant while you sit and nod in your seat of tranquility and then share with me your wisdom and sharp perspectives after.

Yeah? (rubs hands with glee)

Anyway , I was sitting at the Crew Bar last night, and I met this Australian hostess. And she was like, "Ying, I can't believe it! The new English Teacher is coming over and she's my best friend! You'll looooove her. She's so easy-going that you have no problems, getting along with her." And I was, "Yeah, I know. But I'll only have the pleasure of being with her for a week and then, I'm leaving." And her eyes opened, wide, and she gasped, "You mean she's replacing you?" And I was like, "Yeah man". Her mouth opened, closed and then opened again..."But wait....you teach..English? Oh, I'm sorry...I thought you teach Chinese or something!!!!!!"

At the point of time, I was thinking to myself. Basta! I've enough of this racial judgments that comes with this position. Obviously I don't look like I can teach English even though I believe I speak better than most of my native speaker counterparts. Nonetheless, that's not the issue. The issue is, I don't see how I can establish a career that requires you to have the right skin colour and nationality to progress. At first, I was close to investing 1000 pounds in a professional teaching certificate but now, I think, why should I? It's pointless. No matter how I speak or teach, it doesn't matter until I have the right passport or accent. Which is bull but that's how it is.

Time for a career switch-again.

I'm sorry, Steve. I know you've always told me that I can do it, and it was you who helped me get this gig, but this is all really hard to ignore.

Day 8-Ho Chi Minh City (18 April 2008)

2008-05-28T23:45:00.000-07:00

"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!

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?

Day 6

2008-05-21T19:06:00.000-07:00

This moment is beautiful; surreally serene and tranquil. In my cosy cabin, my head's resting on a wonderfully soft and plush white pillow. It's 4.45pm and the sun's shinning right through the porthole, making tiny puzzles of light across the drawer and wall. I hear the waves making soft lapping noises against the bulkhead of the ship, the engines whirring below and my favourite housekeeper busying along the corridor with the vacuum cleaner. I sneeze and my neighbour in the room next door shouts, "Salut!" At the electrician's workshop nearby, I hear the Italian-Laos Chief Electrician makes a joke(probably a dirty one) and the rest guffaws in laughter.

Perhaps this moment will be what I'll miss most when I leave the ship.

Day 3

2008-05-21T19:05:00.000-07:00

3 Bus tickets: 3.00 BND

Pizza Hut lunch: 32.50 BND

Afternoon tea at a local's house on stilts: PRICELESS

"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.

Day 2

2008-05-21T18:50:00.000-07:00

I smsed TCL today as I was quite lonely. Giorgio's been spending a lot of time with his dad, and half the time I see him, he's with his dad, thus leaving us no time to catch up or for me to voice out my insecurities.

Everyone has been friendly so far and some to the point of joyous when they saw me return. Some patted my back, some shook my hands, some kissed and hugged me and some pinched my cheeks affectionately. From the very warm welcome that I'd received, I should be feeling really good to be back but I'm not. Far from it. I craved for Giorgio's attention but am not receiving any. It doesn't help that his work and his dad is taking up all his time. Don't get me wrong, I love his dad being onboard. His dad has been nothing but supportive and nice. He told me that he framed up a picture of us that Giorgio sent home. It's in the kitchen. "Ciao ragazzi!" he'd say, to the picture of ours. I'm not even jealous of the attention his dad is receiving. I'm only bugged that he's not trying hard enough. And that he doesn't seem affected by not seeing me that often either. I just feel like an utmost rejection, a tag-along, an unwanted.

So, pathetically, when things get me down, I usually blame myself, attempt to wallow in self-pity to make myself feel better and occasionally making up excuses, trying to justify the entire situation. My mood is like a thread in the wind, moving in accordance to how I was treated. And for two hours, I had to choke back tears and watch Prison Break Season 3 to distract myself. When I was finally tired of it all, I looked myself hard in the mirror and wonder where all my courage, faith and patience has gone to. I don't look like myself; I look like an insecure wreck.

After a while, I also realized that part of this entire thing stem from not having any close friends onboard. Nikki's gone, Nic's gone, Sylvia's gone. Val's busy all the time and Gianni's been a little distant. Filippo is back in Norway and I'm just stuck onboard with acquaintances that I get along with but not necessarily people I'd call friends. There's no one I can talk to, nothing I can do and basically, I'm bored. Impatient. Unloved. Lonely.

My work computer's locked and so I'm still unable to do much work until the Radio Officer gives me the new password.

I just hope there's a way out of it all. And perhaps, the only solution to it all is a change of perspective.

Day 1

2008-05-21T18:15:00.000-07:00

His dad is 71 years old and he's only 24. His dad only speaks Italian and Genovese while my Italian vocab is only limited to 0.05% of what's out there. I only speak one Genovese phrase and that's merely for amusement for locals and not for the purpose of communication. And so when you put the two of us together, without Giorgio acting as a translator, we virtually carry out a conversation through hand gestures and enunciating every syllable. You should have seen us-what a wonderful display of intricate hand patterns and flexing of facial muscles.

But he's father is an excellent comedian despite his age and his inability to express himself in English. By using simple Italian vocabulary, he could invoke peals of laughter from me. Now I know where Giorgio got his sense of humour from.

However being an ardent fan of linguistics, this is not enough-for me. I yearn to be able to be as funny and as interesting in Italian as how I am when I speak English. I want to be able to accompany his father around the ship and take him to places in South East Asia without having Giorgio around (his work take up a lot of his time). But because of my language handicap, I can do none of those. And I feel helpless, insecure and irritated because of that.

Last night, at 12 am, Giorgio, his dad and I, went to Murano Bar on Deck 6, to chill and unwind over Champagne. Elisa, the Italian-English animator, came and joined our table, and then a few minutes later, Kiko, the Spanish flamenco dancer, joined us as well. His dad was saying that he couldn't really find any Italian passengers onboard. The British passengers would invite him for a beer, which he'd gladly accept if only he speaks English. I can see that he's also really frustrated with the situation. As he continued to pour his woes to Elisa and Kiko, I can see that he's really charmed by the both of them. In the end, it made me feel like a very inadequate girlfriend. I've allowed language to alienate me in the entire situation.

It's really bugging the hell out of me now. I feel extremely vulnerable. I want Giorgio to tell me that everything's gonna work out right, but I think it is, but I cannot not take this personally.

I just wish that there's something I can do about all of this.

Cold feet

2008-05-09T06:35:00.000-07:00

It's funny when someone is so caught up in looking forward to see her boyfriend that she forgot that she actually don't quite like life on the ship. In fact, she hates it. It's claustrophobic, devoid of all magical possibilities and it has no room for innocent fun. As she sat in the large buffet hall of L'Hotel, Hong Kong, poking at her sashimi, her mind wandered back to those lonely nights where only DVDs kept her occupied, coped up with acquaintances that have large, fake smiles, being pushed to a corner by bitchy administrative directors, turning up in uninspiring Crew Parties, and lack of job productivity and stimulation. But for the past 2 weeks, the only thing she wanted to do is to go back just so that she can meet him once again. Now her wish is granted and she's going back to the ship tomorrow, but is the price worth paying?

Updates from L'Hotel, Hong Kong

2008-05-09T05:07:00.000-07:00

I left KL today for Hong Kong, so that I can embark on the ship tomorrow. The Crew Lecturer who replaced me after I left, William, got into a motorbike accident in Danang. Apparently, he was trying to cross the road and a bike from nowhere flew into his direction, knocked him down and dragged him across the hot tarmac for 10m before he successfully managed to slow down and come to a halt. Poor William, who has just taken over, for less than a month, was in a pretty bad shape and had to be treated in Danang hospital for a week and then was later flown back to Brazil.

Meanwhile, Laura, one of the Language Training Consultants, emailed me about a week ago, asking me whether I'd like to replace William for a month. Don't get me wrong, I'm not jumping around with glee, with poor William still recovering from the nightmare of an accident, but the timing's pretty perfect. With Giorgio still onbord, and his dad embarking the same time as I am, for a 14 day cruise, things seem to be falling into place. I remembered whining about wanting more money so that I don't have to go shoestring when I arrive in UK, and then, somehow things just fell things fell into place. I also got my 2 year UK Working Holidaymaker visa approved and that means, I can get my company to send me right to Pete's doorstep in Manchester, after I'm done with the job. I can settle for a bit, try to get an interview for an NI number, and then, fly over to Genova to meet Giorgio. Hmmm! Looks like,

Law of Attraction is pretty real after all!

PS-I'm still catching up on the updates, so be patient ya?

One from the outbox

2008-05-04T00:39:00.000-07:00

Dear Matt,

I must apologize for taking so long to pen you a mail. How are you doing? You seem really busy with work. I'm sure you're also in the midst of packing and getting sorted on your move to Brazil for a couple of months. Is your girlfriend going with you? How does she feel about it? Why the sudden urge to go to Brazil ? I don't think you elaborated on the nature of your trip.

As for me, it's been close to two weeks since I came home. The first thing that was jarringly obvious is the humidity and pollution. My nose started running the minute I arrive at the luggage collection lounge. I had 45 kg worth of stuff, things which I accumulated over the past 6 months while I was on the ship. Other than a handful of clothings, I didn't own anything else but a lot of books. I've given away half of my books, yet there's probably 20(or more!) of them which I couldn't bear part with. A good girlfriend of mine, Jowynne (you've probably met her the last time!) came and picked me up from the airport. Her company was much needed because during my time on the road, I wasn't able to connect to many girls. There are one or two that I met in Vietnam but that was all. On the ship, many girls had rather conventional mentality, thus erecting a wall that kept me separate. We caught up on stuff and then she took me home.

When I stepped into my room, a kaleidoscope of memories hit me hard. It was overwhelming as I saw pieces of my old self in my wardrobe-things I use to wear-on the pictures that grace the sides of my mirror, my cartoon illustrated bedsheet, a picture of my ex-boyfriend on a picture frame, stuff toys, handbags, shoes and piles of books. I had to take some time to reflect on who I was before and who I am now. And that theme of reflection haunted me for the next two weeks...and until now, I wasn't quite sure who I've become. There's a struggle for identity and for unity between the two. Previously, I was merely an aspiring traveller and now, I'm a full-fledged vagabond...or have I? Why do I suddenly crave for stability and a consistent base? Am I not a full-time traveler now? I also realized how isolated I've been from my good friends. My loneliness stemmed from the fact that I live so far away and everyone have their own lives to go on with...and whenever I come back, my path doesn't seem to cross theirs. There were momentary moments of sadness and anguish-knowing how much I've given up for traveling.

Then, the next few days crawled by. As I met up with friends and started relaying to them my tales of adventure, I then understood how much I've been through and how enviable my life must have sounded-even though I don't feel it should be so. But I rambled and rambled, with my friends as a captive audience. My desperation and loneliness on the ship has made me want to keep talking because only through talking, I could release all the pent-up frustrations. Only through speaking and reliving those times that I could see the bigger picture and understood my experiences more. I found out that I did like working on the ship but have despised the loneliness there. Living on the ship has been nothing but luxurious if I could have coped up with the claustrophobia.

And then, missing Giorgio was painful. I was terribly insecure, with all those stories that happen on the ship, that ship romances never last. Even though I know Giorgio isn't like that, but when someone isn't by your side, you create the worst possible scenarios in your head. Other than that, I also missed his presence, his ability to make me laugh, his incredibly handsome features and his affections. When I was with him, nothing else matters. I didn't cared if the relationship was going to go somewhere, I didn't cared if we may never see each other again. We were together for two months and it was intense. We had a lot of language barrier but it was more fun than challenging. However, when I'm back here, I keep thinking about the relationship, idealizing it, and wondering how to make it feasible for the both of us. I almost went crazy missing him. We smsed each other daily but it wasn't enough. I took a 5 hour bus to Singapore the week after just to be with him for 4 hours. It was merely 4 hours, and it wasn't enough but it was worth it.

I left him with the notion that I won't see him for a month but co-incidentally, the person who replaced me on the ship got into an accident. It was really unfortunate and I feel really bad about it because he's really a nice guy. But my boss emailed me and wondered if I can replace William for a month. The timing was perfect as a few days ago, I was just whining to my fellow colleague that I only need one more month onboard and it'll be perfect. Extra money and I'll be with Giorgio till he disembarks. And then the accident happened....which is really crazy, considering the circumstances. My boss hasn't confirmed with me about the job but meantime, I've to stay put for the next few days until my UK visa is approved and have my passport handed back to me.

And now, I'm in a waiting period which I seriously detest. You're hanging on a limbo and you can't do a thing. I'm now busy with a data-entry job which I'm working from home. It helps me focus but every now and then, my mind drifts off to the ship, to another adventure and to Giorgio.

Traveling is intense, every new day is a day of possibility and things happen. But somehow these 'possibilities' become dim and they flicker away when you're at home. At home, days feels like weeks and weeks feel like years.

Once my passport is returned to me, I'll be able to reconfirm with my boss whether I can embark on the ship again for another month. If not, then I'll go straight to UK and then go to Italy when Giorgio returns. And then back again to UK after that....my immediate plans are to get a CELTA certification, to learn Italian, to visit Giorgio and to visit Teun & Stef in Amsterdam. You know, funnily, I find people like you, Ed, Stef, Teun, Nithin and some other travelers I've met on the road closer than my friends at home. Despite the distance, there's always this closeness in connection. I'm really sorry that I haven't been writing but there's not much muse recently.

I am still open and positive but now equanimity and mindfulness elude me. I've succumbed to a lesser consciousness: feelings of wanting, craving and desiring consume me easily. I'm more impatient, more critical and more judgemental. I think it's the ship's effect. I am also a little more cynical about things. I don't like this new self and I find myself unhappy most of the time. Giorgio is a quick soothing balm to inner conflict and good relationships help calm me down but without them, there's the urge to lash out. I can become depressed easily these days as well. I don't rebound like rubber ball anymore. Matt, if you have any tips, do share because I think I need help!!

So that's all about me-what about you??!?!?!?! It's really too long since we last talked and I really want to know everything's that has been going on.

Take good care of yourself and lots of metta from the little Ying of Malaysia.

And even though I don't write much, it doesn't mean I don't think of you.

I hope to see you soon too.

Much love

Ying

Visa blues

2008-05-03T23:53:00.000-07:00

I haven't been able to sleep or eat much these days.

Accepting invites for dinners or to catch a movie is simply my way of distracting myself and keeping my sanity intact. I watch Prisonbreak series from Season 1-3, back to back, just so that my brains and senses get numb from sensory overload, just so that I get too tired to think about anything else because three days away from now, my life hangs on this bloody visa that I am applying for. You might think that a judgment day calls if I'm actually attempting the green card but this lowly regarded visa, by other nationalities, abused and used so often by backpackers from 'developed countries' has been eluding Malaysians ever since it's been introduced: the Working Holidaymaker Visa, guaranteed to scare the shit out of aspiring Malaysian travellers.

I have been tenaciously following forums pertaining the application of this visa, and seems like, chances of getting it are 50% 50%. If you're lucky, your application gets through without a hitch and you'll get your visa within 2 working days after you submit your application. If not, they'd call you up for an interview, assume themselves God, interrogate and reduce you to tears if you let them, and then decide whether they want to approve or reject your application, based on your performance and on their whim. Some of the Entry Clearance Officers (GOD) has been reported to be easy-going and some, pretty hostile and look at you like you're the lowest scum on the earth, trying to get a break in UK. Oh, give me a break!

It's really not fair, considering that the world's travelling community is largely made up of backpackers, anarchists, hippies and the like-and frankly speaking, those people you see, hanging out on the streets, filthy like vermin, remarkably stoned and delirious, penniless and squatting away at some rotting corner of Prague or Bangkok, are really not the Malaysians. The dreadlocks, the new age believes, the one-way tickets, not the Malaysians. The ones who do visa runs from Thailand, the ones who believe that they don't need much to live in the paradise of Ko Phangan, are not Malaysians. Malaysian travellers, are affluent, elite and even though cliquish, are typically concerned with careers and money. And so, such opportunity arises for a visa, these people produce at least RM30-60K in their accounts, just so that they can 'backpack' UK. This is ridiculous, making us go through these interviews and trying to mock our ability to survive, when these stressed out Malaysians, wanting a break from their suits and society's status quo, are rejected and kicked back to their stone cold office environment, just because they don't speak English that well, or that they don't have an instinctive Lonely Planet mind that help them plan the perfect backpacking itinerary. But how many 'savvy' backpackers you've seen, speaks great English? Ever talked to the French, Italians and South Americans? And who needs planning anyway? The idea is to just go and live it up, and whether you survive or you don't, makes you a better and tougher person.

How do they expect to make us travellers when only the ones who can spout money from out of nowhere are eligible for this visa? It's no wonder why we, Malaysians, are so out of practice and disconnected from the exciting world of wanderlust-where doors of possibilities are waiting to be opened.

Here are the forums if you're interested in the 2 year working holiday maker visa, and wish me luck on Wednesday.

P.S-Marc buddy of mine from Toronto said:

"Yingie,

both times my life depended on a visa, (once for France, once for Italy), I had problems – but in the end, through patience and perseverance, I finally got it. There is a way, you just have to suck up and do what they say. And if they say “we’re sorry, we simply can’t issue a visa.”… don’t despair and don’t give up. You’ll think of something."

Reborn

2008-05-01T10:11:00.000-07:00

Inspiration for writing comes knocking whenever I'm at my busiest. Whenever I'm not pondering, reflecting, analyzing or thinking, it comes, like a torrential downpour, threatening to rain down ideas that I'll never get to jot down because I goddamn busy doing other things! Like when I'm on a meditation retreat, or when I'm up to my neck, doing data entry work. Like now.

But I know better and this time, I've decided to take heed of this muse. Because it never comes twice. Not especially when I'm faced with a blank screen, waiting for something profound to come up.

Anyway, I'm trying to start writing again. A year has passed and my blog is in a rather forlorn state, neglected by its indisciplined owner who claimed to be a writer, despite the fact that saying that she's a writer, and doing the actual writing itself, are two separate things completely. One's a concept and the other's reality.

I've got many stories to write about but I need time to sieve through my memory bank. Much has happened from the time I left this blog (to rot!) till present. Some good, some bad, some so-so. When I'm caught up in some sort of obstacle, time somehow crawls by, but now I'm able to look back in retrospect and see the journey that I was on, unfolding itself onto a map of life. It was an interesting year and I'd dearly love to write about it but not now. This post's merely a teaser (it's my way of telling Muse to stop bugging me but hey, at least I'm acknowledging its presence).

It took one sultry night, when I was sitting with a bunch of girls that I barely knew (some better than the others), that made me want to make use of this virtual portal as an outlet of expression again. There's so much to share, on this blank online journal of mine. From time to time, people wanted to know how I did it, like travel without having to worry about money (trust me-it's not easy being poor but I've got people to thank for helping me out of the financial rut) and how I got myself such a cool gig, working on an Italian cruise ship but not having to resort to scrubbing pots or running around on stilettos, trying to please old, fat but wealthy passengers.

Sit tight; stories coming right up.

A catalyst

2007-06-30T02:41:00.000-07:00

Someday, I will look back at this email and remember this very moment, that my life is about to change. Thank you, Squidman.

Hey Ying, It's a little unusual to criticise a poem that you wrote just for me -- it feels like I'm getting a birthday present and then telling the giver that it's not what I wanted. I'll keep this note very abstract and general then, and, again, wherever it veers into direct criticism, it is only because I want to make the point crystal clear. Not at all because I think it is a bad poem. It isn't. But we can learn things by picking it apart, piece by piece.

My best friend on on old Costa ship was a dancer, and she had an attitude I liked. When you're a serious dancer, she said, you can never be satisfied. You look at a tape of one of your own performances and, no matter how good it was, your only reaction is: I should have done that better, I should have done this instead.

It's only in this spirit that I'm answering your question about the poem. I liked it and I'm happy with it. But if you wanted to nit-pick, then where would you start? Here are a few points that you might look at again: I personally have no interest in show-offy language, anywhere, unless it's really superbly done. Very often these kinds of pretentious words have only one purpose: To disguise the fact that the writer is either saying something awfully sappy that he couldn't otherwise get away with, or he doesn't have any idea what he wants to say. You may be sure that any experienced reader is on guard against this tactic. Your poem skirted the edge of that abyss but pulled itself back just in time.

A friend of mine wrote his CV and cover letters like this, with language that he would never use in real life -- and it showed, because he was actually using these fancy words incorrectly. I had to tell him over and over again that it was so easy to picture him sitting at his desk, agonizing about whether he ought to use simple words or complicated words ... without it ever once occurring to him to just try to use the best words. Language is meant to be communication anyway, and so (of course) is art. If the focus ever strays away from communication, then it is probably straying towards masturbation. I would normally say something like this to a writer: Get the nuts and bolts right before you start painting the house. In your poem, the 'house' is centered around a metaphor. But it's a house that's only half-built. We've got a staircase and a lone figure drawn in silhouette, but why not develop it further? Is this staircase a straight path to the top, or are there other tempting 'distractions' along the way -- distractions which we can give names to? Is it possible to lose your balance? While climbing, are you using muscles that you've never used before? How is the feeling? And is there an audience watching you climb the stairs? What is their role in all this -- support, or distraction, or something else? We use metaphors like staircases because they help us give insight into situations. So what other insight can the staircase metaphor give? I think you could integrate the a more lifelike staircase into the body of text very easily without sacrificing the flow of the poem, or without making it overly long. Imagine a stanza like this: With each dizzy step my muscles cry out for relief / While just a few yards away my friends lounge / Sipping beers, agonizingly at ease / And an empty spot on the couch set aside for me. The word 'couch' here is a nice wink to the reader who knows you, and 'agonizingly at ease' is a pun that also adds some illumination to the civil war going on inside your head. What, in fact, will our narratress do when a moment like this comes? Do we have any right to assume that she'll walk the straight & narrow path? To me, it seems like cheating to start playing the triumphant violins so soon in the story. It may just be my personal taste, but I tend to growl at happy endings, gift-wrapped morals and simple lessons. They tend to taste a little bit like a lollipop. Yes, sugar is good once in a while, but you can't make a meal of it. Of course, you wanted to write a thank-you to me and it must have seemed the right thing to do to end on a high note. So it depends how we look at the poem. If it's meant for the inside of a Hallmark card, then it does the job well. But as a stand-alone poem, it doesn't quite ring true. In fact, you admit this yourself very clearly. You just wrote to me something like, "I don't even know why you have faith in me anymore. Whenever I review my life, I feel like a fake." If this is the truth, then why doesn't it show up in the poem? Your poem's ending would lead me to believe almost the opposite -- that you are, at long last, at peace with yourself, that you have killed your inner demons and are finally and irreversibly on the path towards the light. I shouldn't need to say that I'd rather read a clumsy email containing the truth than a polished poem containing a lie. So how did this happen? How can we account for the difference? Where did this poem actually come from?

I think it came from the same place my friend's CV came from. He spent his time trying to decide what his audience wanted to hear, rather than spending his time trying to get at the truth. The latter is what an artist does; the former is what a hack does. Hollywood, lamentably, is filled with formula screenwriters and directors who see what's trendy and safe, and try to mimic that. The technical word for this is 'fluff'; in cases where the fluff isn't even carried out competently, the word is 'cheese'. For an example of the difference between cheese and art, I can think of nothing better than to take a long look at the lyrics of Eminem's brilliant "Lose Yourself", which is much too smart to fall into the Disney trap. It takes a subject that most people imagine to be glorious -- being a superstar -- and describes it as 95% misery. That, to me, does ring true, and that is why it is art. The extremely elaborate construction of the rhyme scheme is why it is great art ... but that's for another conversation. Going back to form and specifics, and what can be done with a poem about a staircase, look how the black author Langston Hughes puts some texture in his poem, "Mother to Son", which is very similar in concept to yours:

* Well, son, I'll tell you: Life for me ain't been no crystal stair. It's had tacks in it, And splinters, And boards torn up, And places with no carpet on the floor -- Bare. But all the time I'se been a-climbin' on, And reachin' landin's, And turnin' corners, And sometimes goin' in the dark Where there ain't been no light. So boy, don't you turn back. Don't you set down on the steps 'Cause you finds it's kinda hard. Don't you fall now -- For I'se still goin', honey, I'se still climbin', And life for me ain't been no crystal stair. *

I copy this one for you now because your poem reminded me of it. Other things - I didn't notice any grammar mistakes in your note, not that it would really matter if I had. As long as there is no violence done to the meaning of the words, who cares? There are a couple of typos in your poem (you write 'feet' where you should write 'foot'; I corrected this already when I re-sent it to you the other day) but I make this kind of mistake all the time anyway. It's nice to get the details right, but it's better by far to address the elephant in the room.

The elephant that I can see most clearly is that I believe you bring to each conversation a lot of intellectual baggage and preconceptions which actively prevent you from listening to other points of view. I believe that you are wrong about a great many things, but that is no sin; we are all wrong from time to time, especially when we are young and just starting out. The sin is in reaching conclusions without hearing all the evidence, without even allowing yourself to acknowledge that you haven't heard all the evidence. It struck me a long time ago that wherever logic is in conflict with wishful thinking, wishful thinking will tend to win the battle in your mind. And moreover, once the wishful thinking does win, it will quickly solidify into an unshakeable certainty, and all notions to the contrary will become literally unthinkable. This is a shame. When I hear someone make a claim that I believe is incorrect, the first thing I do is to ask what led them to that conclusion. If they've made some insight that I never thought of, I'll see if this new insight is strong enough to change my opinion. If they cite information that I don't know to be true, then I'll ask where they got the information, and check it out for myself the first chance I get. If they turn out to be correct, I am always quick to thank them. It's not every day, after all, that I am lucky enough to have my mind changed about something. If on the other hand their argument doesn't seem to hold water, I'll challenge it with my own argument, citing my own evidence. (I already have evidence to cite, of course, because otherwise, by definition, I wouldn't have had the right to suspect something mistaken about the other person's claim.) Again, if they are able to answer my argument, then I am in their debt because they have removed one mistake that had embedded itself in my view of the world. Only if my argument trumps theirs does it live to see another day. The previous two paragraphs are nothing original. They are the exact definition of science. They are the one and only way that knowledge can grow. They are the sole reason why airplanes built with respect to the principles of science tend to work, while airplanes built on principles of faith or wishful thinking always fail. One path leads to progress; the other path goes only to delusion and self-indulgence. One of the things I love most about you is that you are fresh and spontaneous and exciting and enthusiastic. (Okay, so that's four things.) I wouldn't want you to lose all that. I wouldn't want you to become so careful about every word you say that you become too pensive like I am, or that you get too bogged down in what is proper and correct that you forget to let loose and be crazy and have fun. It's a balance, and the balance is much too difficult for me to keep. I often wish I were much more easygoing and carefree than I am. I wouldn't want you to think that I am disappointed when I see you make a mistake, or that I wish you were more like me.

Certainly not! But on the other hand I do see a lot of trouble on the horizon if you keep going the way that you are going. A writer who is scared of criticism is no writer at all. A woman who wants to be independent in the world cannot afford to fool herself about what the world is. Someone who voices her views often had better be able to defend them when other people hold them up to the light. She cannot run away forever, because she is only running herself into a corner. She creates a situation for herself where the people she most needs to run away from are the very people she is closest to, because they are the ones who know best that she is indeed an intellectual fake. As this situation develops, her stress levels will go through the roof because, as an independent woman who has forsaken the protection of home, she has no one else to lean on, and nowhere else to go.

Except back to the staircase, which is where we are now anyway. Climb if you're ready, but know what you are climbing. The first step is will. This is where you're standing, but just barely. Hopefully by the end of this note, you'll be able to decide whether you deserve to be on that step. The next is humility. Understand that you know nothing, and that you have to learn everything again if you are going to get anywhere. This then becomes the third step: Learning. I'm talking about serious nonfiction books. You haven't read them, and you need to. Learn your crafts also. Practice your teaching by sitting in on other people's classes, xeroxing more and more materials, asking questions about how to deal with these situations. Practice reading and then, much later, practice real writing. Make some money in the meantime at these jobs so you can support yourself, but whenever you have free time, you ought to be taking apart the houses that other writers have built, and seeing how the nuts and bolts fit into place. Somewhere in the future, you have a fourth step to look forward to, which is hard work. No getting around it. By now you know what good writing is, but knowing is not the same as doing. This is, I think, the step that has thus far defeated me. I have gone out very much on my own path, started everything fresh, revised every single one of my old views, and since then I have learned very much indeed. But I still haven't produced anything at all that I would be proud to publish. That ought to bring about a moment's pause for you, if you are still dreaming of a swift climb to the mountaintop. I have several years' more experience out in the world than you do, and in terms of high-quality books, I've certainly read at least 250 more than you have. And still I have produced nothing. It's not because I've been following the wrong path; it's because I let myself become intimidated by the 'hard work' step, to the point where I dragged out the 'learning' step longer than was necessary. Your personality might put you in danger of making the opposite mistake, and trying to skip a step. Try it though, and you will certainly fall to the ground. But you have at least one advantage over me. You have a guy who will most definitely continue to kick you in the butt to keep you moving forward. I never had that, and I desperately need it. That is precisely why I suggested we write each other stories 6 months ago. The plan fizzled out, and I wish it hadn't, because I really need something like this.

You asked why I still had faith in you. Maybe it's because you need me to have faith in you. Or maybe because I need some company on this staircase, and for reasons of my own, I like your company more than anyone else's. Maybe because I know that what you've got inside of your messed-up head is so interesting that I am willing to spend however long it takes to help you bring it out. So: Care to climb this staircase with me? Have you got the will at least?

Are you shit-scared? If so, then that fact had better be in your next poem. =)

The two articles!

2007-06-27T05:37:00.000-07:00

Links to the articles that I mentioned earlier. Read Iyer's article your own risk because he's known for verbosity!

WHY WE TRAVEL : http://www.goliards.net/Why%20We%20Travel.htm

Damn! There ain't a proper link to William Sutcliffe's : Everyone loves to love backpackers, so here's the copy and paste version.

EVERYONE LOVES TO HATE BACKPACKERS (by William Sutcliffe)

EVERYONE loves to hate backpackers. Even people like me, who have spent months of their lives backpacking, hate backpackers. Why should this be? Let's start with the uniform.

However wealthy a backpacker is (and let's face it, this is hardly a rickshaw fare. Then we come to guide books. The Lonely Planet and Rough Guide series are treated with reverence by most backpackers, not just as a source of information but as a talisman representing the holiday they intend to have. No one has helped them choose what to do. No one has organised their trip for them. They are independent.

Few backpackers see the irony in these constant professions of independence, while they tour around huge countries following the same minutely selective routes picked out by the author of one (or perhaps two) guide books used by every single traveller in their area.

This is the real purpose served by the Lonely Planet series: not to allow you to find your way to unique and undiscovered places, but rather the opposite - to give you security in the knowledge that, wherever you go, you can take a book out of your backpack and look up where all the other travellers are hanging out.

This, to me, is the most disturbing aspect of backpacking. The desperation with which most "independent travellers" cling to one another, aided by their guide books, sums up the spirit of contemporary travel. Distant strongholds of the western leisure industry are being set up in spectacular locations, catering specifically to the tastes of western backpackers: in particular drug-taking, white-water rafting, bungee jumping and trekking. Most backpackers, it seems, are less interested in new experiences than in familiar experiences in exotic places.

The authors of these guide books create a travellers' circuit of approved hotels which conform to rigid demands. Incense in the lobby, scruffy sofas in a courtyard and banana pancakes on the breakfast menu are compulsory. In a bizarre form of apartheid, most travellers stay in these hotels, which cater exclusively for westerners, and often specifically exclude locals (other than servants).

While business travellers in the East stay in up-market hotels used by people of all races, backpackers insist on staying in this style of pseudo-down-at-heel hostel used only by whites under a certain age on a certain kind of trip. A London banker staying at the Holiday Inn in Delhi is more likely to mix with Indians than a backpacker at the Yogi Lodge in Varanasi.

Such is the power of the guide book writers that if the Lonely Planet's top recommendation in a particular town is say, the Rainbow Lodge, backpackers will be greeted at the railway station by hordes of rickshaw men who already know where they want to go. These drivers will often then take them to unpleasant, badly located hostels which have been renamed the Rainbow Lodge and offer a commission to enterprising rickshaw men.

Long arguments ensue, and it is not uncommon to be driven to several Rainbow Lodges before you are eventually taken to the perpetually full, non-commission-offering original. You can tell it is the right one by the scruffy sofa in the courtyard, the incense in the lobby and the banana pancakes on the menu. Moreover, all the guests will be white westerners.

Ask backpackers why they are happy in hotels with such glaring racial exclusivity, and they will all give the same answer: "It's cool here. You don't get hassled." Which leads me to "hassle". Backpackers are obsessed with the idea that, wherever they go, they get unfairly hassled. This "hassle" usually takes the form of local shopkeepers trying to make them buy things. Given that all contact with locals, other than the purely commercial, has as good as been wiped out by the traveller lifestyle, this seems a bizarre complaint - as if even outside the confines of their exclusive hotels they expect the locals to steer clear - as if any intrusion on their western privacy is an offence.

For those travellers who simply can't bear the attentions of big-city salesmen, there are always the backpackers' retreats: places like Manali, Ajmer, Goa and Kovalam, where entire towns are devoted to servicing the whims of these fearless adventurers. These resorts are proliferating throughout the Third World, and will turn up every few pages in most guide books as places for "a little R&R from the rigours of travel". In some of these resorts, such as Goa, backpackers might have to suffer the intrusion of package tourists on two-week beach holidays. Of course, backpackers can't be expected to mix with these "holiday-makers", and will do everything they can to steer clear of anyone who might have to spend the rest of the year working for a living.

Travel has become a compulsory hoop for middle-class youths to jump through. Many British universities now explicitly prefer students who have had a year off for their "extra maturity", and Gap Year travel plans feature on most university applications. Completed trips subsequently appear on many graduates' CVs.

Travel is thought to demonstrate initiative, independence, strength of character and numerous other attributes desirable to universities and employers. As a result, backpacking through Asia or Africa has transformed itself from an act of rebellion into an act of conformity. Society as a whole seems adamant that Travel Is Good For You - that you somehow are not a real person unless you have suffered from diarrhoea on a Turkish bus or been mugged in a Bangkok backstreet. Travel is popularly perceived as an inevitable stage of personal growth for the middle classes. Although many of us have backpacked, and have enjoyed it, few can look back on the experience without a twinge of shame. I myself was a culprit of every one of the classic backpacker sins (yes, including the clothes) as a middle-class 19-year-old on a Year Off in India. Although I am pleased that I did the trip, I feel deeply sorry for the people who had to put up with me, not to mention nauseous embarrassment. If I could go back and give a tip to all the rickshaw drivers I haggled with, I would.

Piccola receives an email from Squidman

2007-06-27T04:53:00.001-07:00

Something very interesting happened over an exchange of emails between me and Squidman. The lesson learnt aftermath is invaluable and I'd love to share it with everyone.

Last night, I sent out two articles (which I will provide at the end of this entry) written by Pico Iyer and William Sutcliffe. Iyer wrote about what happens to us when we travel while Sutcliffe wrote about Why Everyone Hates Backpackers. While I thought the two articles to be extremely interesting and informative, Squidman wrote back:

Ying, I hope to Christ you don't write crap like this for the travel magazines! This is an encyclopedia of all the unforgivable mistakes a writer can possibly make in a single article -- and you've given me two of them. Mercy! If I wrote like this in my college workshops, I would have been laughed out of the room. Hope all is well, and that while you're in Thailand you take advantage of the bookstores, which actually do have gems in them.

A shake of the head and a shrug, Squidman

I was shocked because I thought the articles were well-written. But Squidman's years of experience as a certified English Teacher (a very good one too!) made him see otherwise, I believe. But instead of inquiring Squidman's point of view and perhaps attempt to find out what made the articles so flawed, I wrote back:

Hmm. I didn't know world reknowned authors could write so badly. Sorry. Piccola.

So, who would have thought, that the very short reply I sent, would garner such a very long email in return:

Hi Ying,

Hmm. I didn't know world reknowned authors could write so badly. Sorry.

I have just spent a few dreamy moments imagining how lovely it would be to live under this impression. For starters, book-buying would be so easy, as everyone knows that John Grisham and Danielle Steel must be the best authors to read, since they are the most popular -- or that Toni Morrison and Gao Xingjian are necessarily good writers, because they have both won Nobel Prizes. U2 and Britney Spears, we would automatically know, cannot produce a bad song because they are world-reknowned. When Steven Spielberg directed Jurassic Park 2 and Amistad, all of his critics must have been fools because, after all, Spielberg, certainly, is a Great Director. I have read (and enjoyed) Sutcliffe's book "Are You Experienced?", and I recommend the book for you also, not least because it takes an appropriately sarcastic position towards exactly the view that you seem to be suggesting.

That is, in fact, the entire point of the book. It succeeds because it aims at an easy target, and hits a bull's eye. His new article, like Iyer's, aims higher and misses completely. It has to be said that, as a writer yourself, it would be unwise for you to brush away criticism you don't like without first making sure you understand it well enough to make an informed disagreement. If you honestly cannot see what is so objectionable about these articles, then you might benefit by asking exactly how I decided they were worthless. But I would be genuinely surprised if you could not see it yourself. Short of that, you might also ask other people what their definition of bad writing is. I would certainly be very curious to know how you would define it. If you cannot come up with a definition yourself, then that in itself should be a warning sign and cause for concern.

Regardless, if I am reading your short reply correctly, then it is meant to tell me: 1) Gee Steve, you've really got a bug up your butt; 2) You're wrong because everyone else is right; and 3) I shall pretend to take the high ground by saying 'sorry', but what I am actually telling you is that blind applause is more welcome than honest opinion. This is probably what your message is meant to say, but I don't read it like this. Instead, what I see is that you are very careful to avoid the danger of learning something new; there is no hint that you care to see where I am coming from.

You may have heard the saying, "Tell someone something they already know and they will thank you; tell them something they don't know and they will hate you for it." If this is is really how you want to approach things, then you will find safety and comfort by living your life within the confines of this e-mail message's first paragraph. But any fool can do this, and I would have thought you wanted to aim higher.
Wasn't there something you once wrote about self-improvement vs. the comfort of following the herd?

Ah yes, here it is:

*I stumbled slightly
Screaming internally for the violation of my will.
I wanted to rush down,
And hide under the blanket of indiscriminate reality.
But I realised,Now, what did I realise? *

Yes, this is the question. It's understandable, and very human, to lash out momentarily, to stumble, and to want to rush back down and hide. But in the end, where will this really get you? And what, at the end of the day, will you allow yourself to realise? Sooner or later -- and I hope sooner -- you will realise that there is nothing to be afraid of, and that if you are indeed as right as you say you are, then you certainly have nothing to fear from critics. The only danger is that you will modify your point of view, and that is no danger at all, but rather a blessing. There is nothing shameful about changing your mind about something. Changing your mind is the only way you can be sure that you even have a mind. I

think it wouldn't be such a bad idea to copy and paste your entire poem again. It certainly fits here. The best thing about it is how it starts: A lot of flowery language which is quickly (and properly) dismissed as 'distrations'. As the poem moves ahead and finds its footing, it becomes clearer that these airy distractions function as an excuse to avoid making concrete progress; how conventional traveling gets in the way of actual movement. Your poem doesn't have a title, but I think I've got the perfect suggestion, based on these emails we're having right now. Let's call it "Why We Travel", but taking care to use the title ironically, cynically. Now, you see, it begins to make more sense. Can you see what I am seeing when I read this now? Looking at it through this lens, certain words really start to jump out, don't they? * Why We Travel

Sultry air and pouring rain,
Curious smiles and potential tears,
A thousand faces; unforgettable expressions,
A plethora of memories; Kaleidoscope of moments.
Motorbike, pedestrians and speed
Deafening noise and the roar of the restless,
I live-be and then cease to be.
The days wear on I continually choose to be blind-
Amusing myself with distractions.

Dreams conceptualised but never actualised
Perfect tunes composed but unsung,
Lines of reality drawn but devoid of colour,
Haphazard paths cross and uncross
And the roads unknown, unexplored, unseen-I dare not take them.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
The towering beacon radiates brightly into the night,
Amongst the darkest vacuum, the light beckons
The bold and the faithful to climb it.
The stairs spiral upwards into the heavens,
A promise of eternity to those who dare.
I don't.
Like a coward, I could only stare,
Hoping that someone could come down the stairs,
To hold my hands, to take me up and brave with me the unknown.

The day never came, the person doesn't exist.
And I'm still staring, sitting, wishing and waiting.

Then one stormy night,
As I lay beneath the tower as usual,
Seeking refuge under the intimidating tower of promise,
A lone figure appeared,
Silently he points upward.
He forcefully takes my right foot
And plants it on the first step.
My left foot,He pulls it across and places it on the second step.
I stumbled slightly
Screaming internally for the violation of my will.
I wanted to rush down,
And hide under the blanket of indiscriminate reality.

But I realised,Now, what did I realise?
I realise this poem won't have an ending-simply because I'm now climbing
One step after another..
And when I get there
I'll let you know where. *

The ending is still a bit wishful and optimistic for my taste -- a bit Disney -- but at least the sentiment is right. It might be worth re-reading this poem again from time to time, so you can remind yourself that the path to the top is, after all, a staircase rather than an escalator. And that there are people who can help you climb it. If these people kick you in the pants from time to time, it is because they see you getting lazy, not because they enjoy kicking you. When I start to see you kicking yourself -- and kicking yourself upwards, not downwards into various forms of fatalism -- then I will believe you are actually climbing the stairs, rather than just standing on the first step and yawning.

I hope things are otherwise going well for you, and that I'll soon be hearing more goings-on from your corner of the world. I have plenty more to say about life onboard here, which never ceases to amaze me, but I'll save it for a different day.

Your comrade in poop, Squidman

I wrote Squidman the poem when I was in Vietnam. I remember feeling depressed for a while and then feel much better after a few weeks. I started on the poem when I was feeling a little lost, but I finished the poem when I felt tonnes better. The poem accurately expresses my constrasting feelings then.

After that, I wrote Squidman this reply:

Ah well, in that sense perhaps, my comrade in poop doesn't enjoy kicking me but rather is trying to kick me up the stairs. Heh. Well, you read too much in my email because I didn't mean in that way. But re-reading my reply also made me realise that I behaved unconsciously as you predicted. Even though unintentional, I did try to dismiss your criticism instead of examining it. And then as I ruminate about the situation deeper, I realise, I've lived my entire life like that! Yes-your cool poop comrade is actully not tres cool after all. I shun criticisms and am afraid of progress. I never really take any roads less taken, unless I'm absolutely sure that it leads somewhere. The irony is, I didn't realise that this cages my life. It forms invisible boundaries that I've automatically set in my mind. Thus, without knowing, I limit myself. After all these while of looking for others and the world to blame, I fail to recognise the fact that it is me who's complicating things. That's why I won't play the piano because I'm not absofuckingly fantastic at it. That's why I do art because I'm good at it. That's why I'm afraid of Europe then because I know that I will struggle. And also I don't know what to expect. While my life is like a process of elimination (since I'm into everything and anything), I realise I eliminate the things I can do or want to do, too fast, just because it doesn't work out for me initially. It feels good to breeze through things; when I struggle and stumble, I abandon the road. I'm not a fan of math because I'm not good at it. Not just that, perhaps over the years, I also manage to condition and convince my mind that I'm not good at it. Yet at 6th, 7th and 8th grade, I excelled in it. Not because I grew smarter but because I had a merciless teacher who'd drill us with Math exercises. Hmm...come to think of it...

That's why I have great reverence for people who aspire to be something and become it, even though at first, people tell them that they're not good at it. One of my dorm mates in Hanoi, Pierrick is one of such person. He'd train and practise juggling and magic tricks regularly. He taught himself play the harmonica, do reiki and a hundred other things. It wasn't because he was good at anything in the first place, but he did it because he loves it and then became good at it.

Ah. Once again, you've illuminated me. A flaw in my seemingly smooth life. Thank you so much. Really. I truly appreciate it. It's tough to have a paradigm shift suddenly, to learn to love criticisms and learn from it, but alas, I will try. I have to be very conscious of my mind and the way I look at things. Thank you for the reminder. That's probably why I lack faith in my own dreams, my own desires. It seems like unless people agree to what I think, I will never pursue it. I always let people tell me what I want. Shame. It seems like I have no mind on my own. No wonder, I'm so f#$kin personable-because I nod, smile and agree to everything.

It's a surprise to see why you still have so much faith in me. When I review myself sometimes, I feel like a fake. I don't know.

But of course, feeling like a fake is no excuse for acting like one. Hahaha. Anyway, that's why I travel. Because I meet people like you, who from time to time, kick my ass and tell me that I can do better. And because through travelling, it's easier to see the journey you're taking. It's easy to spot what went wrong from the choices you make. There are, I suppose no right or wrong choices, only how you respond to it. Pardon the cheese, neh?

Anyway, I did see some grammatical errors on the passages...but not enough to see how badly flawed they are. Please advise. Hehe.

Okay, gotta go now. And oh, other than the fancy flowery shit and abrupt Disney ending, how's the poem?

Choooos!
Yingie pingie-poopy

Thanks for the kick, Squidman! And thanks for remembering that I needed the kick every now and then!!!

POST HANOI 3: The Great Mates: Stephane

2007-06-27T02:31:00.000-07:00

Stephane Grenier

Stephane is my favourite moto driver. The night before we went to Bach Ninh for the 'Jellyfish Festival', he said, "Cheap-cheap moto. Tomorrow, I drive, you sit behind." The arrangement continued when we went on a 3 days motobiking adventure to Mai Chau.

On our way to Bach Ninh for the "Jellyfish Festival"

He's also the one who lifted me from the toilet and put me safely back to bed, when I got too drunk again. He became my partner in crime for food. Every morning, unknowingly, we'd wait for each other in the reception and when we see each other, either one of us will say, "Breakfast?" (Even after he moved to another hotel with his mum).

We'd sneak out for a pizza simply because people would laugh at us for doing it in Vietnam. He agrees to go for a pasta buffet with me simply because I craved for it. He'd finish up my food all the time because he knows I got a small stomach. We'd tease each other relentlessly. He'd push me into the pool,trip me, make me touch ice-cream to my nose, and then sticks out his tongue at me. When I avenged for my humiliation (I tugged the rubberband that held hislong, blond hair) he said nothing. When I gave him back the band, he said, keep it-it has some strands of my hair on it. It's true. The black band is still on mywrist till this day, and of course, with some strands of his hair tangled on it.

Sharing sticky rice with coconut by the lake

We played bubble bubble at Bach Ninh

I must admit that I did have a crush on Stephane. Who wouldn't-he's too beautiful to behold! His features, a combination of his French and German genes, is exquisite. A heart-shaped face, a strong jaw, and perfect well-shaped lips. He usually keeps a slight hint of beard, macho without being scruffy looking. And you have to see his eyes! You'd get lost in his huge Dom Perignon coloured irises and those very long eyelashes that gently flutter whenever he blinks. Long blond hair tied in black bands, he tried to grow them into dreadlocks but unsuccessful-his hair's too silky.

Another Secret Cafe-Cafe Pho Co

Apart from that, Stephane is a quiet man, an enigma. It could be the language barrier but we both got along great all the same. He shared with me his dreams to become a photojournalist while showing me some black and white images that he took in New York, his travelling adventures in Australia, his life in Paris when he was a driver for a VIP and some childhood tales. He's the only son and the baby of the family, but behaves like a man who takes care of his two elder sisters and his mother well. He's a man of strong will as he started to stop smoking in Vietnam (not an easy place to do so) and a man of moderation-when he's tipsy and stoned, he'd stop.

By the spring at Mai Chau-Stephane and Guillaume

So we traded lessons of life and in philosophy, we both watched the river flow just like how Siddharta in Herman Hesse's best-selling book did, and man, did we share an amazing friendship that grew through the little day-to-day events that we always take for granted.

The philosophical Stephane

"If you're in Paris, call on me. If you're in Germany, stay with me and I'd show you Blackforest-the smell of the forest-ahhhh, so good!"

POST HANOI 3: The Great Mates : Pierrick

2007-06-27T01:24:00.000-07:00

Pierrick St-Pierre Gagnon

I'd love toussling his hair and head massages. We watched the full moon together. He actually moved the bed into the garden so that he can do so. Occasionally, we'd read passages off The Prophet together. He found the bookby Khalil Gibran in Laos. He said, it beckoned to him.

They are some people who inspire, without doing anything. I was inspired by Pierrick, at first sight. When I first met Pierrick, he was sitting on his bed, unpacking his stuff. I was limping, due to pins and needles on my right foot. He looks up from his bed and hands me a walking stick. "Are you alright?" his calm voice resonates across the empty dorm room. I blush in embarassment, knowing how silly I look.

Pierrick has a way of looking at people and paying attention. His blue-green eyes radiate an air of serenity, his presence soothing. Within the noise and activity in our group dynamics, his silent presence still commands attention. However one time, he confessed that he used to be thug. That's why he left Quebec when he was 16. His eyes grew misty and his voice dropped an octave when he said it.

Pierrick juggling in Mai Chau Village

Other than his juggling and performing props, he has close to nothing: only a shirt, one or two boxers and one cargoes. He's always seen mending little tears on his shirt. He does his own laundry. He doesn't have much but he's always content. He's a walking proof that one doesn't need money to travel. He trekked 60 kms from Laos to the border of Vietnam, simply because there wasn't any vehicle in sight. It was difficult and rough, but it's simply another way to travel. Mike passed some shirts, Ed passed him a pair of shorts, and people pick him up on highways.

His maturity allows people to assume that he's older than he seems: he's merely 20. He's incredibly passionate, and it shows. He trains everyday with the Hanoi circus without fail. He's a natural teacher. He loves making people smile with his antics. He loves performing magic tricks and juggle, because for that brief moment, as the crowd watches him, they all become kids again. The happiness is genuine.

He plays the harmonica. He performs reiki. He did reiki on Kathrin and it worked. Everything is self-taught. He doesn't believe one is born talented. As long as he aspires to do something, he'd go out there and do it. He doesn't sit around and moan that some people is better in something than others.

Pierrick is one of those that changed my life in Hanoi. After seeing the world through his eyes, I'd never be the same again. Pardon the cheese, but lessons from a 20 year old who has purpose and passion, is hard to come by.

Piccola is back in Bangkok: Couchsurfing with Pip

2007-06-26T06:43:00.000-07:00

Dearest readers, especially to Carol and Leishia, who has been following my blog dedicatedly, please understand that I'd love to put all my thoughts and pictures online, if only if I have home connection. I don't, and hence, have to rely on very unreliable free wifi spots to put everything on.

I've been lagging for quite a bit. Maybe for now, I'd try to put less pictures and more words. For those who are eager to sees, click on my Photo Gallery link. It'll be easier. At least I don't have to crop and resize images. But just for one last time, here are some photos accompanying my stay in Bangkok.

I'm currently in Bangkok, couchsurfing with a very nice girl named Pip. She gives free hospitality and couch surfing a whole new definition. But before I arrive there, let me tell you the tale of my adventure in a chronological order. I know it's lame, but I reckon it's easier to understand.

When I first arrive in Bangkok(this time round), I spent a day with Mike before he flew off to Koh Samui. Yes, the same Mike from Austria that I met in Hanoi. My overland journey from Hanoi took me two days to arrive in Bangkok while Mike flew and arrived a day earlier. And because we couldn't bury the memories of Hanoi, we felt that we absolutely have to meet up. We did-at 6am. Hahaha! Anyway, we had a good time eating and shopping, before Mike had to leave for Koh Samui.

After that, I moved from the stale playground of Khao San Road to the ultra modern and swanky Central Business District of Bangkok: Sathorn. Pip lives in a one-roomed apartment and she offered me her couch. Actually, it was more than just a couch. She gave me loads of toiletries sample, dresses, and fed me well. Her bookshelves are bulging with good books and excellent magazines. She let me use her iBook. At the moment, I live in a live of opulence. Yes-young and urban Bangkok yuppies are stinking rich. Having said that, Pip's extremely modest and cool. As a strategic planner in a reknowned advertising company, she's incredibly intelligent and well-informed. But is she like one of those executives who live and breathe advertising just for the glamour of it? No-far from that actually. Pip's very involved with some local NGO's and despite the fact that she has spent half of her life abroad, she's still very much Thai at heart.

Pip's apartment

Pip's a food and culture aficionado. She knows of the best places to wine and dine: the little secret gems of Bangkok, tucked away in corners that we never seen. One day, she'd ask, "Ying, do you want to have a taste of heaven? This raw crab served at Thanon Luang Suan, is soooooo magical! And oh, if you want buckets full of sashimi, I also know the best place to go." Best of all, it's not terribly expensive.

In a very cool cafe called Shades of Retro, Thong Lor

And as we suckle and chew the bits and pieces of seafood, she'd say suddenly, "Do you know wintermelon in Thai is called Fuck? And oh, when I was in London's boarding school, I make sure I have a tub of seafood sauce with me. Screw cheese and farang food-all I need is spicy and sour seafood sauce!"

Mike had the opportunity to couchsurf with Pip too. I asked Pip if Mike could stay over when he gets back from Koh Samui and Pip responded with a: "If your friend doesn't mind the floor, I'm alright with it." Well, even I don't mind the floor, so I doubt Mike will. Besides, Pip gave him a very comfortable pillow and had him sleep on a thick duvet. He even got a stuff dog for company-how's that for trying to make you feel at home?

Mike and his puffy pillow

Anyway, I think I've got enough of ice-creams and watching DVDs. Heather (also I met her in Hanoi!) lent me 200 pounds so that I can get by in Europe. I got my tickets reconfirmed. This time, there should be no mistake.

Amsterdam, 4 July 2007, 1.30 am.
Flying on Egypt Air.

Wish me luck. And yes, I'd probably just have only 200-300 pounds with me for the journey.

POST HANOI 2 : The soul mates

2007-06-26T06:24:00.000-07:00

US on a biking adventure to Mai Chau village (Week 3 in Hanoi)

POST-HANOI THOUGHTS 2: SOUL MATES, GREAT MATES AND LOVERS

Like every other tourist, I had a love-hate relationship with Hanoi. But what I disliked about Hanoi, I made it up by liking the people that I met there. Sadly, it wasn't the locals that I've come to love. It was my dorm mates and the people whom I bonded with in Hanoi Spirit House.

HANOI SPIRIT HOUSE

"Ying, I can't believe you're finally leaving this Friday. You've been here for close to a month and you never show signs of detaching yourself from this place, " Mike said, shaking his head in disbelief. " I really think you won't be able to leave. We'd make you miss your bus anyway." I gave the 34 year old Austrian architect a playful jab in his ribs, clinked our cold beer glasses together and then grinned. I felt secretly touched by his words. I knew my presence had made a difference just like how theirs had.

I knew Hanoi had been good to me, and at that time, I knew I would leave with a heavy heart.
I did. As the mini-van slowly drove away from Hang Be street, the image of my friends waving faded into the setting sun. Kathrin kissed me on my cheeks and held me for the longest time. Pete, Van and Niccola took turns to hug me before. Pierrick kissed my cheeks and muttered some words about how happy he was to see me go but didn't mean it. Mike hugged me hard and reminded me that we'd be meeting up again in Bangkok. Some of these people were with me for the entire time, while some just got to know me over the last two weeks, but I didn't want to say goodbye to either. I wasn't good at saying goodbyes. When Rob, Sam, Ezequiel and Heather left 2 weeks ago, I almost cried. Then, Stephane. Then, Guillaume. Then, Ed.

The ones who were left... It was my last goodbye to them
L-R: Niccola, Van, Ying, Pete, Pierrick, Kathrin and Mike

WHO, WHAT, WHERE
It all started with Ed, who persuaded me to stay in the dorms with him at Hanoi Spirit House. At that time, there were 2 dorm rooms. Each room had 3 beds: a double-decker and a single. It was rudimentary but for USD 3, we couldn't complain. Through the legendary dorm room 203, the one I stayed in for at least 2 weeks, I met the greatest people ever: Hakan from Sweden and Sam from England.

ROOM 203

The greatest dorm mates ever: Hakan and Sam

The first few parties we had on the top bunk

After that, we were moved to a bigger and newer dorm. It has 12 bunk beds; each bed as an individual wall fan. 6 on one side, 6 on the other: girls and guys were seperated into two sides. There were two bathrooms but no windows. At that time, we were very excited to be sharing one huge room together. Some came and went, while some lingered on. Some of these people made it to the deepest chambers of my memories while some didn't. Those who did are: Stephane from France, Kirk from US, Heather from England, Kathrin from Germany, Michael from Austria, Pierrick from Quebec, and Freddie from England. Through Ed and Guillaume, we also got to know Van from Canada and Niccolas from France.

The new big dorm

The crazy ass boozing parties we had in the big dorm

However, during my final week in Hanoi, Freddie had a huge row with the staff in Hanoi Spirit House. The staff was undeniably rude and when he couldn't us to do what he wanted, he turned violent. He smacked Freddie, punched her lightly and eventually pushed her down the stairs. What a scandal! The entire denizen of Hang Be street gathered around to watch us screaming and threatening him. There were a lot of screams and shouts. Everyone just gaped. No one took us seriously however. The police came, questioned the staff in Vietnamese and then left. We checked out immediately, shook the staff off when he demanded us to pay (what the hell-you smacked us and asked us to check out and now you want us to pay?) and moved over next door. Turned out that the dorm next door was better. We had a 4 room dorm that fits all of us perfectly. Pete and Kathrin shared a room instead. In the end, it all worked out. We paid USD 2.5 per bed, enjoyed one of the most amazing views from the top and even the room even had free wi-fi!

The soul mates

ZAED AZNAM: Always smiling and cheerful

Do you still remember Ed? I wrote about him in one of my very first few entries. He was to be my travelling partner, but in the end, we parted ways because we both wanted to see other things. Nonetheless, parting ways doesn’t mean putting an end to our friendship. Instead, it further inspires us to stay in touch so that we consistently know what each other is doing. And so when I arrive in Hanoi, Ed gave me the biggest hug ever! It felt so good to see a familiar face! Someone who understands you in depth, without having to communicate through words. While Hanoi may be one of the best times in my life, it’s also one of the hardest. Again, I was faced with crossroads and am forced to choose one fork. I remember the both of us taking long walks by the river and to the one and only second-hand English bookshop in Hanoi. He relentlessly try to drill into my head some sense-what travelling is all about. I remember him telling me that I shouldn’t allow money to govern my plans. Again and again, he instilled confidence in me and made me believe in myself. There are times when I floundered in the dark, but Ed’s always there to shine the torch. Even though there are days when we hung out with different people, it was just soothing, knowing that he’s around. I remember one day, when he was so very down, and he doesn’t know where to go-home? China? Thailand? He didn’t have much money and he had to work at the Malaysian restaurant every night just so that he can buy a ticket to move on. Eventually, we both decided that he should push on to China and he did. Now he’s having a dandy time in China, despite having only RM50! Thanks to Ed, I changed my perception on cheap travel. You can truly travel-travel in ways to lose and find yourself, through hardships and the lessons you learn on the way-and your only true wealth then, is time and an open mind. Nothing else matters. You still can be happy on the road, without money or many assets. Money can be earned, but perspectives can’t be bought.

We Love Our Vodka!! (Ying, Ed and Guillaume)

I was plain sober while Ed's bordering on the tipsy meter, near Hoan Kiem Lake.

KATHRIN KLEIN

Kathrin Klein, is definitely not klein (small in German). Yet, she’s very attracted to small people, namely: me. Every morning, when we meet up for breakfast or for a cuppa, she’d tug at me and clasp me tightly to her bosom, murmuring, “Ach Ying-so klein!” Sometimes, she’d plant kisses on my cheeks, sometimes a pinch or two on my cheeks.

A very attractive German lass, she’s one who feeds on life. She’s always on the high regardless how good or bad the situation may turn out. She laughs at the world and at herself, living the good life just the way she wants it to be.

“Remember, if you want to have sex, go ahead. As long as you enjoy yourself and know of the consequences, then go for it. But if your gut feel says no, then don’t do it. But don’t NOT do it, just because you think that the man will find you disposable at whim. Think of it the other way round. Besides, who needs men anyway?”

It’s difficult to resist Kathrin’s charms. She’s so bubbly and lovable, that both men and women love her. Her spirit is beautiful and it shows.

We first met in Hanoi Spirit House’s bar. We were half-way through Ring Of Fire, a drinking card game when Sam, saw Kathrin at the computer. Sam invited her over to the bar counter-the more the merrier, he said. I remember feeling a tinsy winsy bit of jealousy, simply because I didn’t want to have another person in the group. We were good as it is already-Rob, Sam and Prince. Besides, she’s really pretty. Surely, she’d be the centre of attention, I thought.

But she turned out to be really fun. And then when I puked all over the bar (I pulled out the King and was forced to slam down a Tequila + Red Bull + Vodka + Beer) she helped me to the room. Rob came after, looking worried. “Take care of her,” Kathrin said.

The next few days, we became fast friends and then best of friends.

Together, we twirled, swished our skirts, sang, hugged, kissed, laughed, sneered, shouted, ate, drank, swore, whispered, sang again, skipped, jumped and squealed.

I saw her riding on her highs but also remember having to reach out. I remember sitting with her, sponging her hot forehead when she was down with a 40 degree fever. Michael and I hunted for banana porridge for her. I held her hand when she rambles softly in German, in her sleep. I watched her tears fall, when she found out that her lover may be cheating on her.

Ach, Kathrin! I will miss you so much. India will love you as much as we do. See you in Frankfurt next year!

Kathrin and Ying-the best of pals in Hanoi

Kathrin having fun in the rain while we were on our way to Mai Chau village

Piccola was in Hanoi: Post-Hanoi thoughts 1

2007-06-12T22:40:00.000-07:00

THE BALCONY FROM 'THE SECRET CAFE'

POST-HANOI THOUGHTS 1: Introduction
A while ago, after an aimless wander around the cities of Indo-China, trekking on without a purpose to breathtaking landscapes where the Mekong River meanders, I succumbed to physical and mental exhaustion. What took the heaviest toll on me was, spiritually, I wasn't fulfilled-something that I didn't expect. Travelling was meant to inspire and illuminate. It was supposed to reveal to you the meaning of life. Growing tired of talking to people, enduring indifference to people and places,and having your senses numbed with fatigue as you sit in a rickety old bus that rumbles down the dirt road ain't part of the plan. For quite some time, I really didn't know what to do with myself. While I was munching down croissants in an overtly touristic pattisserie in Vang Vieng, one that plays Friends reruns everyday on its 27-inch screen, I thought about Ed. I received an email from him recently and he told me that he has managed to find a job in a Malaysian restaurant in Hanoi. He was being paid USD10 a day, but that's more than enough for him to survive, he wrote. Dorm beds only cost USD 3 and as he lived off cheap Pho Bo (the infamous Vietnamese beef noodles) and Maggi Instant Noodles, he could actually save up a little before moving on. It then suddenly dawned me that I was tired of warming up to strangers. What I really want to see is a familiar face, and have conversations without having to start with all the backpacker interrogation bullshit. Also, I thought about the chances of securing myself an English Teaching job over there might be a tad easier with the contacts that Mr. Callerame passed to me.

So, without another minute of hesitation, I bought myself a 24-hour bus ticket from Vang Vieng to Hanoi.

The journey was unpleasant and terrifying, made worse by a whining Australian who was also in the same bus as I was. Sure, I wasn't enjoying myself either, but complaining about it doesn't help either.

Anyway, after a day, I found myself in the Old Quarters of Hanoi, the 36 streets where tourists hang out. Secret cafes, hidden behind luggage sho facades were waiting to be discovered. Shops spilled souveneir wares and colourful kitsch. Every corner is punctuated with either a coffee shop or a noodle stall. The narrow streets held haphazard buildings together. You'd see a French window open, and underneath that hanging Bounganvilla branches is an old Vietnamese man in a white singlet, cooing animatedly into a birdcage. The architecture is a mixture of French and Vietnamese. The walls are always vibrantly painted with hues of pastel yellow, blue or pink. Nothing speaks of mundane. Fresh bagguettes are sold on the streets. Old ladies sit on very small wooden stools outside the shops, fanning themselves while motorcycles honk and beep as they glide by. Backpackers and friendly locals bond over cheap watered down beers at Bia Hoi Corner, the notorious hangout place for foreigners. Shaded boulevards, accessible public parks and the shimmering Hoan Kiem Lake-every nook and cranny of Hanoi screams a postcard cliche.

It used to be a French colony and maybe that's why this city still speaks the language of love-or for me at least.

YING AND ED IN HANOI-IN FRONT OF A PROPOGANDA POSTER

For me, life took a very interesting turn in Hanoi. Hanoi changed me in ways that I couldn't fathom.

30 days later, I'm not the same person again. I felt completely recharged when I left Hanoi. My heart burst wide open and my head filled to brim with ideas. I was no longer tied down by ideas of money and the lack of it. I was no longer tied down with conventions and traditions. I was inspired, and most of all, I was free.

* * *

Piccola's back in Bangkok: Written a while ago in Vang Vieng, Laos and Hanoi, Vietnam

2007-06-12T02:18:00.000-07:00

During my hiatus, my travels took me from Vientiane into Vang Vieng, Laos, and then onwards to Hanoi, Vietnam. While working on some post-Hanoi entries, let this little excerpt from my journal amuse you:

"I lie dejectedly at the little shoe box room of mine in Vang Vieng, Laos, while scratching my arms at a rhythmic pace ; it must be the flea-infested blanket or the stained bedsheets. But gratitude I must feel, to have at least a roof over my head as the sovereign sun shines haughtily over the limestone hills and the Nam Song river; it's after all it's merely USD 4 for a room with a double bed and an en-suite bathroom with hot shower. It is not that I'm running out of cash but I still can't put a finger to my crummy mood. The curtains flutter into my face and I hear snatches of conversation, each word spoken with a British accent. I hear laughter, and another voice-a French perhaps? I wish I am an active participant of the conversation but at the same time, I wish I'm not-I've ran out of clever things to say. I no longer excel at small talk, at those little initiatives that solo backpackers have to attempt so that we won't end up sitting in a bar alone, watching Arsenal play Chelsea while the rest of the travellers have an audience to chatter away animatedly to. I try to put faces to the ones currently talking: one's probably a big-boned surfer dude in a Ripcurl cap, a stripped tank top and a light blue board shorts while the other's probably a scruffy dread locked hippie who chooses to adorn oneself with tribal ornaments and light, linen attire. I try to conjure an image of myself in the group; I imagine my backpack, my army green flip-flops and my woven anklet around my right heel. That's me- a solo-female Malaysian backpacker, roughing out in one of the poorest countries in the world. It seemed like an image of my dreams a few months ago yet this time, I recoil at it. I think about my friends spending their time now in a freezing office, hunching their backs in front of computer screens or slapping a 20 Ringgit bill on a Starbucks counter for an undeserving Green Tea frappucino - that is my world, and I miss that. I survey my surroundings now and feel like a fake. My self-induced poverty is laughable, my dreams all of a sudden crumble into worthless pieces. Suddenly everything is so futile and so silly.

Despite all my unbridled enthusiasm about being an intrepid explorer, I'm now exhausted. Almost three months have passed and I'm still on the road, feeling as worthless as a bum, and as aimless as a wanderer. What is it that I hope to find? Will witnessing poverty in Bung Kan, Thailand or Poipet, Cambodia fill me up with insights of life? Will living out of the suitcase truly fulfill me? "

Here's also a prelude to one of my Hanoi entries. I wrote this email to Matt, in moments of distress. I was already in Hanoi then;it was probably Week 2 in Hanoi when it was written.

Dearest Matt,

I'm so happy that you're now settled. Moving into a new apartment must be exciting. Taking time to decide what should go on your walls and or your shelves are one of the activities that I wish doing, NOW. I know I looked really happy in the pictures that I sent you and I was, but those sort of fun and laughter doesn't last very long. My dorm mates were really cool, and I've met the nicest people along the way, but after three days of drinking, talking shit and being sociable-I'm now exhausted.

I can't go on like that everyday. There is no intellectual, spiritual or emotional fulfilment. I was struggling for quite a while, to come to terms with my wanderings and not knowing which path to take. Even Guillome, the French guy, shares similar feelings. We both felt so unproductive; waking up everyday and wait for the day to end.

For the longest period of time, I felt very lost. Again, I am at crossroads. I was deluded to think that I could make something happen in Hanoi. I went for one interview and sent in some resumes here and there, but eventually I realised that my lack of motivation wasn't because of the jobs available but rather, I couldn't accept the fact that Hanoi would be the place that I'd like to settle for a couple of months. I don't know what Ed told you, but Ed doesn't like this place either. Hanoi can be charming with its culture and architecture but the people are aggressive and rude, and the blare of honks just never stop. There is so much noise and activity and pollution. And you understanding me well, knows that the last kind of place that I'd like to settle in!!!!!!! I can't even bring myself to say thank you in Vietnamese. In so many ways, I feel like a estranged from the culture. I can never feel like a local here-maybe becauseI I dislike them. Remember how it was in Penang, where everyone's smiling and friendly? Well, it doesn't happen here.

So Ed and I sat down one day, across the lake, with cheap baguettes in our hands, tried to sort things out together. Even though we're both different in so many ways, he understood my needs and my dreams. And most importantly, he knew the perimeters within me, that was set up by the culture that we were brought up in. First of all, we discussed what route I should take because I told him, even though I'd get a job in Hanoi, I don't really fancy seeing myself here. Yet I'm running out of money and I need to do something! But at the same time, I'm so unproductive. I've been so unproductive really...it was quite aimless, traversing South East Asia without really having the intention to travel. I want to settle somewhere, but where? Ed said that the reason why I still feel so lost is because my heart was set in Europe all along. My whole SEA travels is pure bullshit, a distraction. I've wanted to go to Italy all these while, but because I let the risks deter me. I wanted to go to Europe, safe and secured, knowing that I have wads of fat cash in my pocket. Now I know that if I really want to go for my dreams, I really have to work for it. No one's just going to hand to me the things I want-be it job, money or accomodation. There's really no short cut or safe way to go about getting what we want. If I really want to be in Italy that badly, then I just have to roll the dice and take the plunge. And by just being there, it will just open another gate of possibilities. I guess there isn't any way easy way out of this entire thing.

Also, I lack of faith in myself and my dreams, Ed said. In his wisest voice, he said that the reason why I don't have a focus is that I've always tried to please everyone. He said I should stop thinking and stop asking people for their opinions. I just have to have faith in myself or rather in the things that I want to achieve. Who cares if it's silly or unrealistic or close to impossible? Who's to say what's impossible and what's not. And I just have to swallow my pride if others are going to laugh or belittle me, because at the end of the day, these are the people that I don't need.

So after the talk, I sat and listened to the voices that I've repressed. It says that I want to be in Italy. I want to live in Italy. I want to be speaking Italian. Then something changes in me. Slowly but surely, I started to believe that that's what I wanted to do. I wrote to Steve, the guy that initially set me out on this path, but got a reply that wasn't a positive yes yet not very encouraging either. But funnily, for someone who has always listened to the voices of the others, I started to listen to myself. And that email didn't bother me that much. I didn't require that sort of affirmation from him anymore. Also in that email, I was asking whether I could borrow some money just in case I truly run out of it. After all, he offered before. But his reply was not a resounding yes but rather yes, I'd be willing to help, but. It doesn't sound too promising but somehow, this time round, I didn't feel that worried either. If Ed can survive in Europe for less than 30 Euros in hand, then maybe I can too.

So I guess my mind is pretty made up now. I don't know what to expect or what will happen, but I do know that I will run out of money within the first week that I'd get to Europe. I've only bout 200 dollars left. That's all. I've to rely on my faith and my desperation to get myself a job. I know that I'll have a bloody tough time but I know I'd be able to rough it out. I sound crazy don't I?

Yes, if only I can turn back time and go back to those times when you were in Malaysia. You know what, the explore the school thing was also the highlight for me!!!! It was one of the moments where we connected at such a level that even saving frogs and exploring ruins could amuse us.

And oh, Matt-recently I wrote to the editor of Bangkok Trader and proposed some stories of my recent travels to him. He responded with such enthusiasm that I feel almost faint reading his email. He said "don't tease us with such leads, just give us the stories!" Anyway, I'd be hearing from him a few days time (he's probably still on his way back to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.) Anyway, if I could write up at least one or two of those stories, I'd be able to earn a couple more dollars. Isn't that just amazing! Things are falling into place, I think.

Matt, if only I don't have the one-way ticket to Europe, I'd have flew to US. Really. I'm bent on seeing you again, so yes, I can promise you that eventually I'd be there. I have been thinking bout doing graduate school in US. We'll see how things work out in Europe. If I do manage to settle down in Europe for a while, please visit me will you? And meanwhile, your name has always escape my lips when I regale my tales of travels to the people I meet along the way. It's always Matt this and that....hehehe!! Same goes for Ed too I think!

Matt, we've really missed you. We really want to see you again. I promise, we'd meet soon.

I really hope to hear from you soon. I want you to tell me what you think of my crazy Europe plan this time. Any advice or tips will be appreciated-but even if you ask me not to, I'd still go. :)

Much much love,
Piccola

Piccola's now in Vientiane, Laos: There is always a first for everything;

2007-05-06T22:17:00.000-07:00

There are some things that I'd never do in life, and probably never will if I didn't travel.

Here are a list of things that I picked up while travelling. Most of these experiences are pretty harmless; some are things that I'll never do again, while some are things that I'd do occasionally, when necessity requires:

1) Drinking
Never drank a single drop of alcohol till I travelled and volunteered in Myanmar last year. Not even those 4 years of my life, spent in Australia. I still don't make it a habit to drink whenever I'm home however, can't say the same while being on the road. It's easier to bond with travellers over a beer or two. However, I've never drank past my limit and never went beyond tipsy. I'm the best person to take out to parties because I'd probably remain sober the entire time. Shame I don't drive though.

2) Happy herb
I had my first taste of marijuana when I was in Sihanoukville. Since I don't smoke, I usually decline the joints that were passed around. However, at one time, Mr. Faccenda made a pizza stuffed with pot and I thought why not give it a try. Besides, I'd only be eating it, not smoking it. Mr.Faccenda and Mr. Stienstra sat me down to tell me the effects of joint and how it'd effect a first timer, and then extended the plate of pizza to me. I took a piece and tasted the pizza as indulgently as possible. However, they both forgot that I should have a smaller piece as I'm barely 5ft tall. Needless to say, the experience hit me hard in the stomach. I spaced out, I cried and I slept. It was so awful (even though I knew what to expect) that I'd never try it again-whether eating it or smoking it.

3) Cursing
I'm a little foul mouthed lately. I don't swear like a sailor but occasionally you'd hear me using the word 'fuck' to punctuate some sentences for emphasis. It's good for story-telling, I reckon. Also, it's especially not difficult to swear when you get rejected at the airport by some stupid authorities or thought your laptop broke. Sometimes, travelling puts you in situations where no amount of crying, pleading and fighting against authorities or circumstances will help; all there's to do is to swear and sometimes, surprisingly, it does make you feel a little better.

4) Talking to strangers
Ah, most of my friends don't agree with me at this point because back home, I do speak to strangers as well, but not as frequent. While travelling, it's easy to talk to strangers; to go out for coffee and perhaps never see them again. However, having said that, I've met several like-minded souls that, what was initially a chat over coffee stretched into either a bowling session, breakfast-lunch-dinner, or long periods of travelling together. So essentially, the stranger turns into a friend after that. Do note that if you intend to employ this habit or hobby while travelling, you have to have certain instincts. You have to be able to sense the vibes the person exude ; you have to be a good judge of character. Try to avoid chatting up with paedophiles, serial killers or junkies.

5) Wearing a piece of clothing for at least 2-3 days.

When you're on the road, you can't expect every place that you're at to be like Khao San Rd, where laundromats are aplenty. So when you get to a place the next laundromat is at least 3 km away, and it costs at least 2-3 USD for a kilogram of dirty underwear, shorts and shirts, I'd usually wear the same shirt and shorts for the next few days. When I get desperate, sometimes even my underwear for a few days. However, when some parts of the body start to itch, I'd know that it's time to do that long walk or buy some washing detergent and use the Oral B floss as clothes line.

Current thoughts: Random strangers from all around the world, random good times, random names, random places, random connections; they all make up the intricate web of life.

Piccola's still in Bangkok; eventually be in Hanoi, approximately 7 or 8 May 2007)

2007-05-02T04:40:00.000-07:00

After a number of pending applications and lack of follow up, what was before a good total of potential TESL (Teaching English as a Second Language) jobs dwindled into almost nothing. I'm still not very sure whether I'm as focussed as getting into China as before, because Ed just found a job in Hanoi, Vietnam. He told me that it's not very difficult to do so if I put my heart into finding it. Using Squidman's contacts and the adverts posted on The New Hanoian, I sent my resumes to each and every school, tenaciously. Each time I do that, I'd cross my fingers and pray for the best. If there are some schools in China and Japan (no follow ups after that though...:( ) who are willing to consider me as an ESL teacher, despite having no TEFL qualifications, then maybe it'd be the same in Hanoi too.

However today, I received a response from Equest, Hanoi, stating that they'd be more than happy to consider my application but only I speak American. Furthermore, the email instructed me to record my voice in an audio file so that they could process the application. I laughed and laughed at that. I've never came across such weird requests before. Some has asked me for a scanned copy of my degree, my passport, my awards, my picture, but never an audio file.

Oh well, I don't think I'd make a very good impression through the mic. I reckon I should just knock on their door next week, when I arrive in Hanoi.

Do wish me luck about the job. My bank account really needs padding now.

Piccola's heading off to Nong Khai, Thailand

2007-05-02T04:15:00.000-07:00

Current plans:

Very soon I'll be on a second-class train to Nong Khai. I'd be staying with a couchsurfer in Bueng Kan, a remote village 3 hours away from the sleepy and dusty town of Nong Khai. On Saturday, I'd cross in Vientianne, Laos. There, I'll be reunited with Vilayvanh (more affectionately known as Micky), an ex-university mate in Australia. Curtin has been good to us; I can't wait to see her again!

Piccola was at Perhentian Islands (Feb 28-early March 2007)

2007-05-02T01:49:00.000-07:00

The stop at Perhentian Islands was an interesting one. Mr.Coca, a couchsurfer from Kansas, who was travelling around the world then, agreed to be my partner-in-crime. While I may be known to travel with random strangers; no, Mr. Coca, at that time was no longer a stranger. I've known him for a while; Ed hosted both Mr.Stienstra (from Holland) and Mr.Coca at the same time. Before that, our first travelling stint was in Pangkor Islands with Stienstra, and it was great fun!

Another couchsurfer from San Diego but who's currently a student exchange in Japan, emailed me that he'll be arriving on the day we depart. Prior to that, we had exchanged friendly emails and msn chats. Mr. Perez requested whether he could be part of the backpacking crew and it took me a quite a while before I finally agreed. Coca said yes as well. I have always been wary of travelling with people. As elaborated in the other entries, I take great care in choosing my travel partners because it can be quite a pain in the ass when you're with someone who's not quite right. Sometimes, even best friends and couples fall out simply because they cannot travel together. Anyway, I thought I'd meet Mr. Perez up for a cuppa before agreeing to anything.

When I picked him up from Central Market, he turned out to be a really nice, young guy. Very intuitive, intelligent, sensitive and fun-loving. He got along well with Coca as well. Having bonded over a few glasses of teh ais, we took him in and made him partner-in-crime #3.

Below is something brief about the trip.

Highlights for Long Beach, Perhentian Kecil:

1) Dancing on the jagged edge of the rocks while listening to Perez's ipod. It was amazing how two people who just met can connect that instantly! We shared so much that, we still keep in touch till today! I'd really love to see that guy again, somewhere, someday!
2) Meeting Mr.Bristow, a hard-to-please Englishman, who's an incredible ESL teacher who has taught around the globe. He provided me with a wealth of insights about teaching ESL in Italy, Crotia, Lithuania, China and Thailand. Squidman introduced us virtually and Bristow agreed to meet me in Perhentians as he was already in Thailand when that introduction took place. He emailed in reply, saying that any friend of Squidman's a friend of his. I guess I owe that to Squidman. Bristow has high standards about everything in life and while he can be pretty harsh on certain things, I'm surprised he warmed up to my company. I didn't think that a naive 24 year old could contribute anything intelligent , especially when the 37 year old is a widely-travelled and intelligent man.
3)Meeting Mr.Stienstra and Ms. Vanduffel(from Belgium) again. Stienstra gave me a very warm welcome when he saw me on the beach.
4)Philosophical discussions on the balcony of our little hut. I share that hut with Coca and Perez.
5) Brushing my teeth under the stars.
6) Exploring Perhentian Kecil with Stienstra and Bristow. With only flip flops, we trekked along the shoreline, from the forest into the rocks and then on the sand, and back to the forest. We covered at least 30 km or more, and that took us half a day. We found abandoned guesthouses, gigantic spiders, a naked Frenchman, some secluded beachspots and interesting flora and fauna. I felt like I was a character out of Famous Five, sniffing out mysteries and trying to solve them. The only problem is, the mysteries were only imaginary, but the picturesque backdrop was very, very real.
7)Over-the-top Snicker shakes that were enjoyed during our card-playing sessions.
8)A day snorkelling with Bristow. It cost us RM50 but it was worth every cent. Being a relatively amateur snorkeller, I was dazzled by the treasures hidden in the azure depths. Also, we saw sharks, turtles, a dizzying variety of fish and coral beds-as promised.
9)The friendship formed amongst: Bristow, Stienstra,Vanduffel, Perez, Coca and myself. First it was 2, and then it was 6. In this case, the more the merrier!

Thoughts:
1) The backpackers on Perhentian Kecil was a little more aloof than those on Pangkor Islands. It was so much easier to meet people and make friends in the guesthouse in Pangkor, compared to Perhentian Kecil. Everyone seem to be have a default scowl on their face, and even when you greet them, they'd reluctantly push some face muscles up to alleviate their lips, in to what they'd resemble a smile.

2) Why were there so many abandoned guesthouses They all looked hauntingly eerie; silent and steady, looking out into the sea. We found books, clothes, keys and broken furniture all over. Why did the owners leave the guesthouses in such a way? Were they in a hurry and why? We talked to some locals about the Mira and Dilangsir cliff huts and they said they were haunted. Oh well.

Perez and myself at a travel agency in Kuala Besut, at 5.30am

Perez and me, indulging in our Snicker Shakes

Perez, Coca and myself, posing at the balcony, the one where we'd hold discussions at

Stienstra explores the abadoned guesthouse while Bristow looks on

The mad trio explores the other side of Perhentian Kecil

Dusk settles gently at Coral Bay

Romantic Beach at Perhentian Besar

The gang

Music, a close friend and the sea-what more can you ask for?

Freedom dancing

For more images, please visit Perhentian Islands Album 1

and Perhentian Islands Album by Perez