Riane's Adventures

Bali Blues

riane — Wed, 27 May 2015 13:00:36 GMT

I stare out at the vast expanse of blue, lulled into a comfortable rhythm. Up and down, the boat slowly bobs as I turn to my diving instructor who hands me a snack.

It was to be our last dive here in Bali and my best friend and I were resting on a traditional Indonesian boat that looked straight out an IKEA catalogue, if IKEA were to dabble in fuss-free-but-aesthetically-pleasing-boats next. We had spent the previous day diving in the world-famous Liberty wreck off the coast of Tulamben, and now here we were at Padang Bai, a gorgeous, but pale comparison to the shipwreck. Padang Bai was a sheltered coast in the East that was more popular with tourists grabbing a boat to Lombok than it was for diving, especially during this low season. Because of that, we had this stretch to ourselves with virtually no other boats or divers nearby.

“Isn't this amazing?” I turn to my best friend. “No. I feel like puking”, she says, her face green as she glares desolately out into the blue. “Stare out into the horizon it really helps,” I start fussing over her, running through all I could do to solve her sea-sickness.

The instructor laughs, the easy Balinese attitude apparent as he hands her a snack, “Don't worry, eat something, you'll feel better!' He talks to her about the sea then, about the diverse fish we've seen, and I settle down on the plank, my back to the lazy bustle of the jetty at the coast. I gaze out towards the sea again, listening to him as he continues on about the best times to go diving here, confident in Bali’s charm that would bring us back again, and again.

I gaze at him; skin a deep brown, arms muscled from hauling scuba tanks and eyes lit up warmly. He gestures out towards the coast, and I see waves falling over other in a rush to touch the soft sand. I see other boatmen on docked boats sluggishly smoking cigarettes and exchanging relaxed smiles. I see sunglasses-clad seekers swept up in boats, lured by the promise of sunsets and new friends.

And all at once I get it.

I get the scores of foreigners who have settled here, with their accented Bahasa and deeper tans than ever possible in their own countries, proudly advocating Bali as paradise on earth. I get the magic that infected them, the magic this island offers with a sun that warms you to the bones, the magic in the offerings to the gods that adorn each street, the magic in its people. On this tiny boat, I finally understand Bali’s charm.

Sharing Stories - A Glimpse into Another's Life - Angkor Beer

riane — Fri, 19 Apr 2013 01:45:59 GMT

I step into the mini-mart, a short walk away from the hostel, past loud bars that boast cheap beer and laughing girls. This is out of character for me, but 3 days of close company with diverse travel companions had made me crave some time alone. I take the time to contemplate my choice of chocolate, when I hear a rush of chatter, doors being pushed open and furniture being brought in. I'm unsure if i should help the couple and their child as they set up their dinner table in the middle of the shop. So, I look out past the commotion instead, as I realise it has started to rain, suddenly and heavily. I stare out in panic, as I have no way of getting back to my hostel.

"Come, have some dinner with us, yes?" a man's voice cuts into my thoughts. I sheepishly accept as I sit down at the plastic table brought in just minutes before, not knowing what else to do. He introduces me to his wife, a pretty young girl not much older than me. She smiles excitedly at me, to make up for her lack of English. And then, to his son, who ignores me, more interested in his food. "Come have some beef, just grilled!", the man tells me handing me a bowl. We eat, and he starts to tell me about himself. He owns the shop, he's a businessman, I'm not too sure what exactly he does. He tells me about his wife, she loves 'to disco', so he brings her 'to disco'. But he's getting old, so they don't go so often anymore. He tells me about his son, a smart young boy, just like his father, as he ignores us yet again. He hands me a frozen beer, "the best kind" he proclaims, Cambodia's finest- the Angkor beer.

Conversation turns to Cambodia, and he tells me of his love for his homeland, of the Khmer Rouge, and of his hopes for her future. He asks me about Singapore, admiration and pride apparent, as he tells me he's been there before. He tells me a bit more about his business and his future plans, and we both sense the impending lull in the conversation, having shared as much as you politely can with a complete stranger. Thankfully, the rain has also stopped, and I start to take my leave. Profusely thanking them and offering to pay, he waves it off and says I can do the same when he's in Singapore. I walk back to the hostel, full of good food, and touched by their kindness.

The next day, I go back to the shop, but he isn't there. I see his wife, who smiles again, this is as far as our conversation can go. So, I smile back, hoping it is enough thanks, for more than just the food.

My Scholarship entry - Seeing the world through other eyes

riane — Mon, 23 Apr 2012 13:03:00 GMT

Nine weeks spent in a refugee camp in Hungary. Nine weeks worth of memories and lessons learnt. Coming from the so-called conservative nation of Singapore, where life has always been set for me, I’ve never really contemplated the concept of liberty. If life was easy, life was good.

Then I meet the refugees, except, they’re people, as real as anyone can be. They’re not caricatures, poor portraits of has-beens. They’re people, with stories to tell, people like me. And they teach me, even if we all don’t speak the same language.

We talk about religion. The Afghan bachelor tells me, “You kaput, you go,...” before trailing off and stomping on the ground. It takes me awhile to understand this, before I realise, "Oh. He means hell." I expect to feel indignance, maybe fury, but I don’t. We both acknowledge truth isn’t always universal, and move on. The Afghan mother shows me her purse of jewellery, amongst them a pendent of Mother Mary and a cross. I’m bewildered. “You, Catholic?” “No. Muslim,” she answers, and strokes the cross, “This, beautiful.”

We talk about life. My Hungarian boss loves life, and enthrals us with her tales of cross-country hitchhiking. She tells us her favourite quote from her mother, “Positive people attract positive things.” The Georgian sailor tells us unassuming tales of living from jail to jail, his life of “problem, problem, problem”. But he tells us, he’s never worked a day in his life, and is waiting to sail the world. He advises us in a curious, lilting accent, “Do not be afraid of life.”

We talk about love. The Somali tells us “Love is you feel the person near, even before you see her.” We tell him, “We do not know what love is.” The Georgian sailor adds, “You, baby.”

We learn about family. The Afghan couple who gives us extra tins of food, and makes us chai everyday. The Kosova girls who dance with us. The Afghan child who turns to me while we’re hunting for ladybugs, and tells me, “You, sister.”

We learn, to not judge.