The Traveller

 THE TRAVELLER  (A short essay)

Chapter One: Choices

Chapter Two: Life Onboard

Chapter Three: Eyes to the World Through Books

 

Chapter One: Choices

Some became lighthouse keepers in the Faroe Islands, an archipelago in the North Atlantic Ocean roughly halfway between Iceland, Norway, and Scotland. Others settled on the Shetland Islands, also in the North Atlantic, and not far from the same part of the world. Some chose to live on Faro de Cabo de Hornos—Cape Horn—at the southern tip of South America, a place notorious for its treacherous waters.

Still others became walking postmen, delivering mail weekly across the rugged mountains of Réunion Island in the Indian Ocean, east of Madagascar and southwest of Mauritius. These postmen often walked 700 to 800 kilometres (roughly 430 to 500 miles) to reach remote villages hidden deep in the hills.

As for me, that kind of life felt too lonely—too far removed from civilisation. I was raised in the Golden Land of Burma during the socialist era, when life’s choices were limited for someone like me: not particularly academic, but adventurous in spirit. Perhaps I’d watched too many Hollywood movies. Whatever the case, the idea of becoming a paper pusher working 9:00 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. held no appeal.

Travelling abroad required money, which we didn’t have. I was the youngest of three in a household headed by my widowed mother, an office worker. Money was tight, and every opportunity had to be earned.

After much soul-searching—and with the support of my mother, relatives, and friends—I managed to start turning my dreams into reality. I thank God for the academic education I was able to attain. Though I had to join the rat race, I never gave up on my desire to see the world, even without wealth. I offered instead my humble contribution through hard work and perseverance. After all, I was young, eager, and strong, with a vision and a little wit to match.

In our socialist country, meaningful employment was hard to come by unless you worked for a government institution. But the pay was low, and landing a position with good prospects was like winning the lottery—rare and highly sought after.

Eventually, though, fortune smiled on me. I was selected for a post as a mariner. It was a turning point that opened up my world. I was barely 18 or 19 when I joined my first ship—and from that moment, the world became my oyster.

Chapter Two: Life Onboard

Life onboard was good. Ships were still considered young ladies, and I had a cabin of my own—clean, comfortable, and modern for its time. I enjoyed three square meals a day and, as a junior officer, my responsibilities were satisfying. I stood watch for eight hours daily, with an additional one or two hours of technical maintenance and paperwork under the direction of the Captain—“the Old Man,” as we called him.

You got to know your crewmates very well. Living in close quarters, 24/7, for three months at a time, formed a unique bond. I felt privileged to be part of this life, and we all took pride in our work.

Back home, we were envied. We walked tall, even if our salaries didn’t match those of international seafarers. Within our country, though, we were among the better paid—even more than many doctors or engineers working in government roles.

And then there was the lifestyle. Our accommodations were practically five-star. Stewards cleaned our cabins daily and served meals in the saloon wearing crisp, starched white tunics. The brass fittings sparkled, the chinaware was embossed with the company logo, and our quarters were air-conditioned or heated depending on the weather.

What more could a young man ask for?

The officers and engineers were highly qualified professionals, and thanks to their expertise, most of our voyages went smoothly.

 

Haircare

Haircuts onboard were usually the domain of a part-time barber—typically a fellow crew member from the deck, engine, or saloon departments. We were always grateful for their efforts. The usual “payment”? A can or bottle of beer. A fair bargain.

 

Complaints?

Not many. The food didn’t always suit everyone’s taste, but food is a personal thing. Sundays brought special menus, which we all looked forward to.

But like all good things in life, there was a cost. We missed our families and friends—and of course, our girlfriends or wives. Special occasions like Thadingyut and Christmas were often just dates on a calendar while we were far out at sea.

Chapter Three: Eyes to the World Through Books

Back then, there were no televisions, no movies, and certainly no laptops to help pass the time. Entertainment came in the form of board games and the occasional guitar. But what truly saved us—what transported us—were books.

Thanks to the generous donations of the Blue Angels Mission to Seamen, we had access to ex-library books and English novels. These became our companions, our teachers, and our windows to the world. They were like Aladdin’s lamps, each one offering a new world to explore.

This support was especially strong in UK ports, but we found book donations in many other places too. Onboard, all English books were kept in the ship’s saloon or wardroom, freely available to anyone who wished to read.

In the Crew Mess, we also had a small library of Burmese novels and books, regularly updated by contributions from fellow crew members and refreshed every time we returned to our home port.

These English and Burmese books helped us pass our free time and gave us solace in our solitude. Life at sea taught me how to fill the empty hours meaningfully.

Some officers brought their own novels. I remember the late U Soe Mya Hline, then a Second Officer, who introduced me to authors like Hammond Innes, Frederick Forsyth, and Tom Clancy—perfect for a spy novel buff like me.

Through these books, I was transported to distant lands, different times, and even enjoyed foreign cuisines I’d never imagined. They opened my eyes, expanded my mind, and broadened my outlook on life and the world.

I sailed for a total of ten years and had the good fortune to visit places few can only dream of — places like Port Elizabeth and Cape Town in South Africa; Las Palmas in the Canary Islands; and Lourenço Marques, now renamed Maputo, the capital city of Mozambique in East Africa.

I cannot recall how many books I read during those sailing days, but the memories of them still live vividly in the annals of my mind — and I continue to enjoy their influence to this day.

Thank you.