Later that same evening, while the gallery was quiet Jose and Robert sat me down and revealed all manner of gossip about the previous managers and the shipping line. Sexual harassment, unfair dismissals and conflict...
‘You will hear rumours all around the ship,’ said Robert swigging his whisky. ‘They hate Ken here because he is a pervert,’ he whispered.
Robert glanced at Jose and smirked, ‘you know what he said when he employed Marrissa?’
I shook my head.
‘I have a nice bit of totty for you. She is a buxom Brazillian with big breasts. So now you get an idea of what you are working with. She does not speak English, she is not a photographer so why else employ her? Her tits got her the job.’
An expression of bewilderment graced my face. What had been said about me? I did not ask. I did not want to know. I was not the breast display sort, I was a photographer who worked hard and had worked in a male environments. Sometimes the guys got so used to being around me they forgot I was a woman.
‘Of all the managers Norman is his favourite. He is an arse-licker who comes up with every excuse not to work.’
Jose’s face flushed red, ‘I hate him. I would kill him! He was so unfair. He never turned up for work and left us to it. He would steal our crew cards so we couldn’t leave the ship. We only found out that morning. There was nothing we could do about it either. I tried to complain but it was the old boy’s club and nothing got done!’
Jose shook his head and his expression revealed a bitter taste in his mouth. ‘You see what you are up against? They lie. I have been here six months and I was extended. I have two months left and never again. That is it! Never!!!’ he said with passion.
I folded my arms.
Robert leant forwards and linked his hands. ‘You will work your arse off for nothing Felicity. That is the truth. So my advice to you is have fun - get laid, get pissed but get the work done. Wallow in your escapism - it will get you through. This is like a luxury working prison - accept it and do what you need to do.’
Jose stroked his chin and glanced at Robert. ‘Robert here is the best manager. One of the others, who you might meet was having sex with two of the team. He slowly turned them against each other. He has a wife and a long term girlfriend on board. What’s more he got away with it. He has no morals and I hate him. I hate the way the ship’s keep their sordid secrets and all those wives on land think their little sailor husbands are alone and lonely. I want to film them going to their brothels in port and play it on the net. I want the world to know the truth! Soddom on the sea is what this place is.’
Jose was Columbian, he must have been Catholic - he was already pointing out what I had noticed - floating Sodom and Gomorrah. All the deadly sins were present and accepted. What’s more the scandal was kept onboard, away from the world outside.
Robert unfolded a piece of paper and handed it to me. ‘These are you priviledges, you are allowed to visit the shops and that is about it. You can be invited to eat with an officer in the restaurant but that is only on a rare occasion. You see here - Manager and Assistant Manager are the only ones with deck privileges and access to the passenger gym. You see your name here - you are of no rank and remain at the bottom of the hierarchy. Felicity there have been some comments about you acting above your station already. So to make my life simple please follow the rules otherwise we will have to discipline you and decrease your port time.’
My heart was beating in my chest. What were they doing? Did they have an agenda? And how come it took both of them to sit me down? I only had two months before being transferred to the sister ship for the world cruise. Were they trying to stop me going? Or were they setting me up to resign? I had no clue.How could you take anything seriously when the owner of the company had blatantly lied to the whole team? The lack of privilege and the gossip had already begun.
Jose patted me on the shoulder, ‘you are here Felicity - you must accept it. We are the good guys. We were both lied to as well - we were all in the same boat.’
There was no escape, I simply had to stay below the surface unless I was working. What else could I do? I intended to photograph behind the scenes, the more shit I was given - the better the writing and the greater the incentive to reveal the truth about the living conditions.
‘You can return to the gallery now Felicity. I hope we have helped and made ourselves clear,’ said Robert.
Later that evening Robert emerged from his office fuming. The conflict between Ken and him was growing by day. Rather than say anything he paced the gallery with his fists clenched and his shoulders rigid. While Robert paced Jose explained that Ken had sent Robert some e-mails. Something in those e-mails had seriously pissed him off. Jose sent me to the bar to get some drinks. While I was there I chatted to the bar staff. One of the bar waitresses mentioned she knew ‘Ken the a pervert.’
It was true no-one respected him and it seemed he lied to everyone including himself. Why hadn’t I listened to my intuition? Why had a been caught up in the ‘dream?’
At nine o’clock the gallery became quiet, there were no guests around so I took my opportunity to write in my note book. How could I explain what I saw? The gallery spanned the length of a giant lounge. Thousands of pictures adorned the walls awaiting the guest’s approval, yet hardly anyone had passed by. To my left five hundred red velvet seats formed a circle around a dance floor. No one single passenger. Silence.
While I wrote my mind digested what Jose and Robert had said. It was analysing and searching for their agenda. The problem within being trapped in a confined space was your ability to objectively assess a situation was tainted. It was almost impossible to think clearly; I was trying to work out a vast expanse from the confines of a cage. What’s more I could not judge the situation based on other people’s experiences. Other people’s opinions were dangerous - they tainted your mind with their personal effluvia. Other people's experiences were simply that: their experiences. They were not mine and I had to keep separate: I had to generate my own opinions. Were they telling me horror stories to make me stay? If so that was pretty odd. None of it made sense. One thing was for certain I would only work that contract on ships. It would allow me enough time to write this diary and would remind me never to come back.
I glanced up from my notebook; Marrissa was motionless and simply staring into space - just doing nothing. She had managed to maintain that position for most of the evening. Was she sleeping standing up? What was she thinking about? Jose came out of the darkroom and glanced down the empty gallery. ‘No custom then?’
I shook my head. After all that work we had endured the previous night and it seemed the guests weren’t interested in buying the pictures. Maybe Robert was right. We were going to work our arses off for nothing.
‘What are you writing Felicity?’ asked Jose in his unique accent.
‘A diary to remind me of ship life when I finish the contract. I intend for this to be my last contract,’ I replied. There was no point lying.
‘If you feel weak and decide to go back on a ship call me. I will shoot you,’ he said matter of factly.
‘Nice, very nice,’ said Marrissa, without shifting her gaze.
The rest of the hours in the gallery were spent in the same manner: an empty gallery, limited vocabulary and no money being made. Maybe Robert hadn’t exaggerated.
Sunday, 31 January 2010
Friday, 29 January 2010
Beneath the Surface - 18
November 12th Grand Cayman. In Port Manning.
I woke up early again this morning. I laid in the darkness listening to Marrissa breathing, she slept deeply. Silently I got changed in the dark and walked out into the bright corridor. While my eyes were adjusting to the light I accidentally collided with the chest of a rather attractive officer. He smelt lovely and I remained for a short time with my head buried in his chest. Woops! It was apparent that neither of us knew what to do so after what seemed like forever he broke the silence. ‘Good morning,’ he said.
‘Hi,’ I replied. ‘I’m new.’
Without looking him the eye I stepped back into the darkness of my cabin and closed the door. How cool was I? Needless to say that was probably one of the best starts to a day that I have ever had.
Training - Sparkle essentials.
Sparkle essentials training effectively taught you how to arse lick guests without making a mess. The prime example on the video was when a stewardess was asked where the lavatory was. Rather than point the direction, the stewardess escorted the passenger into the bathroom. ‘And ma’am would you like me to wipe your arse?’
Obviously she did not actually say that in the film but it was intimated.
It seemed I was developing an issue with servitude. I knew servitude was intrinsic to customer service and in many Asian countries it was believed that servitude was close to Godliness but there had to be boundaries. I worked with customer service in many other capacities and I believed in providing the best service - but there were limits. From that moment on everything that left my lips had to be considered; I was not allowed to be genuine. I had to sacrifice my ‘self’ in a false environment to appease the wealthy and their egos. Yes I had realised there was a certain level of politeness expected before I set foot on board but I had forgotten the level at which I had to ‘appear’. What’s more I had been lead to believe I was to be an independent photographer, not an arse-licking servant. Rather than churning out factory imagery I wanted my photographs to matter. I intended to create beautiful pictures that were something special. That was what I did - so why had that changed? Where was my incentive to create images of inspiration when I felt complete suppressed? What I had been lead to believe was contrary to how I was being treated. I had attempted to contact Ken but I assumed he was purposely not answering. Nothing would change unless he contacted Robert and advised him that I had been recruited for a specific role. Until then I was stuck! I had to make a decision: false or real? I had been mislead - decision made. I intended to remain true to myself - it was amazing what you could say as long as you said it with a smile.
‘Madam would you like someone to deal with your overly abundant facial follicles?’ Smile.
The response would be dazed, ‘oh how very considerate.’ Turning to her husband she would frown. ‘What she say?’
The husband would have an inkling but to avoid trouble would shrug.
I would not conform and follow the brain washing. I intended to talk to the passengers as equals. I was not lesser, so bollocks to being false. I would not curtail to that which I did not believe in. I would not be rude but if Ken didn’t like it then they could send me home!
During the training the tutor provided us with some rather interesting statistics.
The passengers who travelled on Sparkle were usually millionaires. In a recent survey it stated that the majority earned at least one hundred thousand dollars per year, a high proportion earned two hundred thousand and other half greater than two hundred thousand. Was it any wonder they holidayed on that ship? The company appealed to a certain ilk. In an environment that was essentially ‘keeping up appearances,’ the vacation became the perfect networking opportunity with those of a similar standing.
I found it interesting how the wealthy chose to pay a minimum of one thousand dollars per day to be there. Admittedly it was considered the best ship in the world and that in itself was the appeal. Still I had always assumed the wealthy did not squander money and felt that particular ship was excessive. There were so many better places to be at a much cheaper price. Still it was their choice and no doubt a certain ‘sort’ chose to cruise onboard.
With regard to the survey, many of the passengers were at the top of their field. From the previous night’s impression I have to say I really liked the majority of them. Most had integrity, dignity and class. Although one old bugger threw his camera at me when it didn’t work. ‘You’re a photographer fix this,’ he said as he threw it towards my head. Originally I had my back to him and noticed the object flying towards me through my peripheral vision. My reflex action kicked in and I jumped out of the way. The camera smashed on the floor. He glared at me at if it was my fault and then stormed off.
‘I’m so sorry, he’s not a very nice man and is used to getting his way,’ said his wife apologetically. I was confused, if he wasn’t a nice man then why had she chosen to marry him? Was it worth sacrificing happiness to live with and have sexual relations with a wealthy idiot? Her state of edginess revealed she had spent her married life serving him and justifying his actions. We all made choices and that unfortunately was hers.
My first port was spent ‘in prison’, I was not allowed to leave the ship so I utilised my two free hours and photographed around the ship. My intention was to create a series of lifestyle images for my various photographic-libraries. What’s more I hoped to make some good photo-documentary shots. If it wasn’t possible to make money as a photographer on board then I had to find other ways: i.e photograph ports and sell those images on library. My new goal was to travel around the world for free and sell my imagery on stock library. It was the perfect distraction from my reality and the perfect motivation. The itinerary was amazing so anything was possible.
That evening, after talking to a few of stewardesses it became apparent that over-work was common place on that cruise line, actually on all cruise lines. From what I had learnt, the hours of work were unrealistic, and in my opinion were inhumane. When your manager let slip that he had worked so many hours that he passed out in the shower; it is apparent there was something fundamentally wrong with the system. When he came round he found himself wrapped in a towel and lying on a bed in the medical centre. It turned out his cabin steward had found him collapsed on the floor of the shower cubicle.
I woke up early again this morning. I laid in the darkness listening to Marrissa breathing, she slept deeply. Silently I got changed in the dark and walked out into the bright corridor. While my eyes were adjusting to the light I accidentally collided with the chest of a rather attractive officer. He smelt lovely and I remained for a short time with my head buried in his chest. Woops! It was apparent that neither of us knew what to do so after what seemed like forever he broke the silence. ‘Good morning,’ he said.
‘Hi,’ I replied. ‘I’m new.’
Without looking him the eye I stepped back into the darkness of my cabin and closed the door. How cool was I? Needless to say that was probably one of the best starts to a day that I have ever had.
Training - Sparkle essentials.
Sparkle essentials training effectively taught you how to arse lick guests without making a mess. The prime example on the video was when a stewardess was asked where the lavatory was. Rather than point the direction, the stewardess escorted the passenger into the bathroom. ‘And ma’am would you like me to wipe your arse?’
Obviously she did not actually say that in the film but it was intimated.
It seemed I was developing an issue with servitude. I knew servitude was intrinsic to customer service and in many Asian countries it was believed that servitude was close to Godliness but there had to be boundaries. I worked with customer service in many other capacities and I believed in providing the best service - but there were limits. From that moment on everything that left my lips had to be considered; I was not allowed to be genuine. I had to sacrifice my ‘self’ in a false environment to appease the wealthy and their egos. Yes I had realised there was a certain level of politeness expected before I set foot on board but I had forgotten the level at which I had to ‘appear’. What’s more I had been lead to believe I was to be an independent photographer, not an arse-licking servant. Rather than churning out factory imagery I wanted my photographs to matter. I intended to create beautiful pictures that were something special. That was what I did - so why had that changed? Where was my incentive to create images of inspiration when I felt complete suppressed? What I had been lead to believe was contrary to how I was being treated. I had attempted to contact Ken but I assumed he was purposely not answering. Nothing would change unless he contacted Robert and advised him that I had been recruited for a specific role. Until then I was stuck! I had to make a decision: false or real? I had been mislead - decision made. I intended to remain true to myself - it was amazing what you could say as long as you said it with a smile.
‘Madam would you like someone to deal with your overly abundant facial follicles?’ Smile.
The response would be dazed, ‘oh how very considerate.’ Turning to her husband she would frown. ‘What she say?’
The husband would have an inkling but to avoid trouble would shrug.
I would not conform and follow the brain washing. I intended to talk to the passengers as equals. I was not lesser, so bollocks to being false. I would not curtail to that which I did not believe in. I would not be rude but if Ken didn’t like it then they could send me home!
During the training the tutor provided us with some rather interesting statistics.
The passengers who travelled on Sparkle were usually millionaires. In a recent survey it stated that the majority earned at least one hundred thousand dollars per year, a high proportion earned two hundred thousand and other half greater than two hundred thousand. Was it any wonder they holidayed on that ship? The company appealed to a certain ilk. In an environment that was essentially ‘keeping up appearances,’ the vacation became the perfect networking opportunity with those of a similar standing.
I found it interesting how the wealthy chose to pay a minimum of one thousand dollars per day to be there. Admittedly it was considered the best ship in the world and that in itself was the appeal. Still I had always assumed the wealthy did not squander money and felt that particular ship was excessive. There were so many better places to be at a much cheaper price. Still it was their choice and no doubt a certain ‘sort’ chose to cruise onboard.
With regard to the survey, many of the passengers were at the top of their field. From the previous night’s impression I have to say I really liked the majority of them. Most had integrity, dignity and class. Although one old bugger threw his camera at me when it didn’t work. ‘You’re a photographer fix this,’ he said as he threw it towards my head. Originally I had my back to him and noticed the object flying towards me through my peripheral vision. My reflex action kicked in and I jumped out of the way. The camera smashed on the floor. He glared at me at if it was my fault and then stormed off.
‘I’m so sorry, he’s not a very nice man and is used to getting his way,’ said his wife apologetically. I was confused, if he wasn’t a nice man then why had she chosen to marry him? Was it worth sacrificing happiness to live with and have sexual relations with a wealthy idiot? Her state of edginess revealed she had spent her married life serving him and justifying his actions. We all made choices and that unfortunately was hers.
My first port was spent ‘in prison’, I was not allowed to leave the ship so I utilised my two free hours and photographed around the ship. My intention was to create a series of lifestyle images for my various photographic-libraries. What’s more I hoped to make some good photo-documentary shots. If it wasn’t possible to make money as a photographer on board then I had to find other ways: i.e photograph ports and sell those images on library. My new goal was to travel around the world for free and sell my imagery on stock library. It was the perfect distraction from my reality and the perfect motivation. The itinerary was amazing so anything was possible.
That evening, after talking to a few of stewardesses it became apparent that over-work was common place on that cruise line, actually on all cruise lines. From what I had learnt, the hours of work were unrealistic, and in my opinion were inhumane. When your manager let slip that he had worked so many hours that he passed out in the shower; it is apparent there was something fundamentally wrong with the system. When he came round he found himself wrapped in a towel and lying on a bed in the medical centre. It turned out his cabin steward had found him collapsed on the floor of the shower cubicle.
Monday, 25 January 2010
Beneath the surface 17
Formal night and the Captains COCK -tail.
After setting up the portrait studio in the atrium, by the Captain’s entrance (meaning the entrance where the Captain stood) there was one thing left to do: drum up business. The passengers lined up to meet the Captain while I had to persuade them to have a picture taken by Robert. I glanced through the doors and noticed the Captain was an unfortunate looking man. He was tall and slim with a dazed gaze. No wonder no-one ever bought that picture. What’s more it turned out he hated being photographed for what was once called ‘The Captain’s handshake photograph’ because he felt he was prostituting himself. I might well understand that if he had sex with the grannies but that was not the case. What’s more everyone on board was prostituting themselves, at least he has a massive cabin and hadn’t developed a night trauma over being suffocated by a huge arse. You can’t have it all but of course I had been given the role of photographing the Captain. It turned out no-one else wanted to do it. Thank you.
After ten shots I checked my images, the Captain’s facial expression was contorted, if a fat woman had farted up his nose he might looked slightly better. As it was something far worse must have taken place because it was that bad. Admittedly expressing such disgust over a long period of time was a real talent. It was obvious he wanted to be anywhere but there. Ah… I got it… I had seen method in his madness - if he looked horrific in every picture, the pictures would not sell and he would not have to have his picture taken. Sneaky bugger!
It was amazing how the guests reacted to meeting the Captain. It was as if they had met a film star.
‘They are impressed by his stripes,’ Robert had told me before the shoot.
Stripes or not, the response was amazing. Some guests were elated , ‘Oh CAPTAIN!’ many gushed as though on the verge of orgasm. Some took real pleasure in talking to him, while others patted him on the shoulder. The Captain’s handshake had been put to rest because guest’s were not allowed to shake his hand any more. No physical contact was allowed - the rule was introduced to prevent the spread of GI (Gastro Intestinal) virus. Captains were a potential breeding ground - it took one person with the virus to shake his hand and then everyone he touched would be infected. In such a confined space everyone on board would have the dreaded GI within a few days.
You know how I mentioned cloning before? Well it seemed that every five male guests would say ‘if you’re here then who is driving the ship?’ They would then laugh hysterically as if they were the only person who had ever said that.
Answer. ‘Oh that is why I am here…’ the Captain laughed the same false laugh every time. The guests laughed falsely with him and nobody was any the wiser as to what the Captain actually meant. Maybe that was why the Captain said it and maybe that was why he laughed like a villain.
Thinking back through all the years I worked on ships, my favourite handshake ever was on a Greek ship. The Captain was a fat, slimmy, angry, Greek man who burst out of his white uniform. The ship itself was supposed to be a three star but the truth was if it rated at one I would have been surprised. When they let down the life boat for crew drill it sunk. Admittedly that was ten years ago so it might have improved or the ship may not have any lifeboats left. Anyway one Captain’s handshake was particularly rocky and one of the passengers was extremely excited about meeting the Captain. Unfortunately she felt a little queasy but waited patiently in line. Then when it came to her go, excitement mixed with motion erupted in a series of projectile vomits which decorated all the pictures in the corridor and then eventually graced the Captain’s back!
I had to hide behind the camera to conceal my amusement and accidentally took a number of photographs while she projected onto him.
Woops! I wandered off there, back to the Sparkle handshake and Robert stood next to me just to check that I was photographing correctly.
‘So is there any particular way you want me to frame this image?’ I asked.
‘Look at the Captain’s cock. I want the outer edge in line with that,’ he said.
Busted! The Captain caught me staring at his crutch.
Silence.
Admittedly I was simply trying to work out whether I should align with the top or the bottom of it. There were quite a few inches in between. If the Captain was well endowed that would alter the framing, although, what if he wore uplift pants? The edge of the frame might be his neck. The complexities of penile alignment were beyond me.
Once the Captain was photographed he gave a little speech. It was the same speech every cruise. While he said why the ship was the best in the world Marrissa and I ran down to the portrait studios located outside the restaurant. While we waited we practised how we were going to ‘capture’ the guests for a portrait as they lined up to be seated in the restaurant.
Admittedly I enjoyed photographing portraits, there was something wonderful about capturing the ‘essence of the real person.’ Although if people had plastic surgery what was I going to capture? Anyway I couldn’t think about it. Instead I stood awkwardly holding my camera awaiting my first client. Once you had photographed one guest, and the others had seen you in action, they took you seriously. They just needed to clarify that you were a professional photographer and would then line up for their turn.
On that particular cruise line the guests were incredibly wealthy. Most were millionaires and some billionaires. On average they paid one thousand dollars per day per person. One particular female guest had taken over two hundred cruises, most cruises were between a week and two weeks. Undoubtedly she stayed in a penthouse which cost more than one thousand per day. So imagine how much money she had spent over fifteen years on cruising. That gives and insight into the kind of wealth those guests had.
One of my first clients was an elegant Chinese lady who had emigrated to the U.S in her twenties. She was now in her nineties and carried a gemstone rose purse.
‘Erm, please make the purse the focal point of the photograph. I love this purse,’ she said gently.
While I arranged her a sapphire ring the size of a fifty pence coin, encrusted in diamonds, caught my attention. That ring alone was worth more than a six bedroom house in England. And there it was sparkling on a ninety year old’s finger. Admittedly she was an elegant women with true poise but still… Who needs a ring like that? Actually she was lovely, her behaviour was dignified, humble and polite. I have to say I took an instant like to her, she was so gentle and unassuming. What’s more while I photographed we chatted.
‘So what are you up to tomorrow?’ I asked.
‘Oh… I booked a helicopter flight-seeing tour,’ she said sweetly.
It seemed the most natural thing in the world to her.
‘That sounds fun,’ I responded.
‘Oh… erm when I reached ninety I decided to do everything I ever wanted to do. That includes helicopters,’ she said softly.
When I completed her photo-session she patted me on the arm. ‘Thank you for taking your time on me,’ she said with a little bow.
I covered my heart with my hand. She was lovely.
As she made her way to the dinning room one of the waiters extended his arm and escorted her into the restaurant. It seemed she was receiving particular attention and being treated like royalty. Who was she? What was her history?
During that portrait session numerous clients were posed and then photographed. Some were demanding, others were wonderful and some were hilarious. One of the guests told me he was from Horsham. I said that my mother was from there too.
‘I probably dated her,’ he said with a wink. ‘Hang on how old are you? I could be your dad!’
While I photographed I was complimented, ‘you’re not like the other photographers,’ a few had said.
It was then I told quite a few my photographic secret and they appeared pleased. People who chose to cruise in luxury preferred to be photographed by someone with accolades. Quite often on ships crew moved departments and were taught to press a button on the camera. They were not qualified photographers, they just took pictures. Admittedly my ego was fighting for attention, but the truth was I felt crap. I realise now I was clambering for a respect that had been annihilated the moment I had stepped on board. I felt like I had been mislead and my ego was searching for ways to take back power. I am human and I admit it.
What’s more Ken had told me to tell as many guests as possible, it was his way of getting them to buy more. It was my way to make myself feel better. Even if he was an arse he was a business man. Wealthy guests wanted to be photographed by the best, that was the only way to gain respect. I was working in a photographic factory and the only thing I could cling to was a bit of paper saying I was a good photographer. How pathetic was that?
So far that evening I had photographed the Captain’s handshake, Marrissa had photographed couples and groups in the lounge. In the meantime Robert and Jose photographed their first set of portraits. Once the handshake was over Marrissa and I joined Robert and Jose for the second set of portraits. Then it was time for what every photographer dreaded: Ressy. We had to go and photograph everyone sitting at their dinning tables in the restaurant. Admittedly that was the worst job in photography, imagine walking up to tables while people were eating and asking them to stop eating while you photograph them. What’s more you were expected to milk the opportunity and photograph both the couple and individual images. There is a very specific technique involved where you do not give the guests the choice. It isn’t easy, the approach is invasive and honestly… I hated it. All it took was for one person to say no and the whole table was over. If the neighbouring table heard a rejection they tended to follow suit and then rejection spread like a prostitute’s legs. If that happened at the beginning of a cruise you’d had it. Personally I found that kind of photography a chore. Yet, and who knows why, the guests always purchased those images.
After putting on my best act and photographing nearly all fifty of my section’s tables, I emerged from the restaurant. I was exhausted. We had twenty minutes to eat some food before the whole thing was repeated with the second sitting. Another five hundred people to photograph. Talk about sweat photographic blood!
At the end of the night I could barely walk. My formal outfit required high-heeled shoes - for the last hour I perfected limping on both feet. It was hardly elegant but necessary. I had forgotten what formal was really like - amazingly I had survived. What’s more I had met some really wonderful guests.
At around one o’clock in the morning Marrissa and I had to deliver all the photographs that the guests had ordered. The corridors were vast, elaborately decorated and smelt of old people farts. I understood that they ate very rich meals but that stench violated the nostrils - it was inhumane! By two in the morning we were finished. I glanced at Marrissa and she shook her head.
‘Not very nice!’ she said sadly.
After setting up the portrait studio in the atrium, by the Captain’s entrance (meaning the entrance where the Captain stood) there was one thing left to do: drum up business. The passengers lined up to meet the Captain while I had to persuade them to have a picture taken by Robert. I glanced through the doors and noticed the Captain was an unfortunate looking man. He was tall and slim with a dazed gaze. No wonder no-one ever bought that picture. What’s more it turned out he hated being photographed for what was once called ‘The Captain’s handshake photograph’ because he felt he was prostituting himself. I might well understand that if he had sex with the grannies but that was not the case. What’s more everyone on board was prostituting themselves, at least he has a massive cabin and hadn’t developed a night trauma over being suffocated by a huge arse. You can’t have it all but of course I had been given the role of photographing the Captain. It turned out no-one else wanted to do it. Thank you.
After ten shots I checked my images, the Captain’s facial expression was contorted, if a fat woman had farted up his nose he might looked slightly better. As it was something far worse must have taken place because it was that bad. Admittedly expressing such disgust over a long period of time was a real talent. It was obvious he wanted to be anywhere but there. Ah… I got it… I had seen method in his madness - if he looked horrific in every picture, the pictures would not sell and he would not have to have his picture taken. Sneaky bugger!
It was amazing how the guests reacted to meeting the Captain. It was as if they had met a film star.
‘They are impressed by his stripes,’ Robert had told me before the shoot.
Stripes or not, the response was amazing. Some guests were elated , ‘Oh CAPTAIN!’ many gushed as though on the verge of orgasm. Some took real pleasure in talking to him, while others patted him on the shoulder. The Captain’s handshake had been put to rest because guest’s were not allowed to shake his hand any more. No physical contact was allowed - the rule was introduced to prevent the spread of GI (Gastro Intestinal) virus. Captains were a potential breeding ground - it took one person with the virus to shake his hand and then everyone he touched would be infected. In such a confined space everyone on board would have the dreaded GI within a few days.
You know how I mentioned cloning before? Well it seemed that every five male guests would say ‘if you’re here then who is driving the ship?’ They would then laugh hysterically as if they were the only person who had ever said that.
Answer. ‘Oh that is why I am here…’ the Captain laughed the same false laugh every time. The guests laughed falsely with him and nobody was any the wiser as to what the Captain actually meant. Maybe that was why the Captain said it and maybe that was why he laughed like a villain.
Thinking back through all the years I worked on ships, my favourite handshake ever was on a Greek ship. The Captain was a fat, slimmy, angry, Greek man who burst out of his white uniform. The ship itself was supposed to be a three star but the truth was if it rated at one I would have been surprised. When they let down the life boat for crew drill it sunk. Admittedly that was ten years ago so it might have improved or the ship may not have any lifeboats left. Anyway one Captain’s handshake was particularly rocky and one of the passengers was extremely excited about meeting the Captain. Unfortunately she felt a little queasy but waited patiently in line. Then when it came to her go, excitement mixed with motion erupted in a series of projectile vomits which decorated all the pictures in the corridor and then eventually graced the Captain’s back!
I had to hide behind the camera to conceal my amusement and accidentally took a number of photographs while she projected onto him.
Woops! I wandered off there, back to the Sparkle handshake and Robert stood next to me just to check that I was photographing correctly.
‘So is there any particular way you want me to frame this image?’ I asked.
‘Look at the Captain’s cock. I want the outer edge in line with that,’ he said.
Busted! The Captain caught me staring at his crutch.
Silence.
Admittedly I was simply trying to work out whether I should align with the top or the bottom of it. There were quite a few inches in between. If the Captain was well endowed that would alter the framing, although, what if he wore uplift pants? The edge of the frame might be his neck. The complexities of penile alignment were beyond me.
Once the Captain was photographed he gave a little speech. It was the same speech every cruise. While he said why the ship was the best in the world Marrissa and I ran down to the portrait studios located outside the restaurant. While we waited we practised how we were going to ‘capture’ the guests for a portrait as they lined up to be seated in the restaurant.
Admittedly I enjoyed photographing portraits, there was something wonderful about capturing the ‘essence of the real person.’ Although if people had plastic surgery what was I going to capture? Anyway I couldn’t think about it. Instead I stood awkwardly holding my camera awaiting my first client. Once you had photographed one guest, and the others had seen you in action, they took you seriously. They just needed to clarify that you were a professional photographer and would then line up for their turn.
On that particular cruise line the guests were incredibly wealthy. Most were millionaires and some billionaires. On average they paid one thousand dollars per day per person. One particular female guest had taken over two hundred cruises, most cruises were between a week and two weeks. Undoubtedly she stayed in a penthouse which cost more than one thousand per day. So imagine how much money she had spent over fifteen years on cruising. That gives and insight into the kind of wealth those guests had.
One of my first clients was an elegant Chinese lady who had emigrated to the U.S in her twenties. She was now in her nineties and carried a gemstone rose purse.
‘Erm, please make the purse the focal point of the photograph. I love this purse,’ she said gently.
While I arranged her a sapphire ring the size of a fifty pence coin, encrusted in diamonds, caught my attention. That ring alone was worth more than a six bedroom house in England. And there it was sparkling on a ninety year old’s finger. Admittedly she was an elegant women with true poise but still… Who needs a ring like that? Actually she was lovely, her behaviour was dignified, humble and polite. I have to say I took an instant like to her, she was so gentle and unassuming. What’s more while I photographed we chatted.
‘So what are you up to tomorrow?’ I asked.
‘Oh… I booked a helicopter flight-seeing tour,’ she said sweetly.
It seemed the most natural thing in the world to her.
‘That sounds fun,’ I responded.
‘Oh… erm when I reached ninety I decided to do everything I ever wanted to do. That includes helicopters,’ she said softly.
When I completed her photo-session she patted me on the arm. ‘Thank you for taking your time on me,’ she said with a little bow.
I covered my heart with my hand. She was lovely.
As she made her way to the dinning room one of the waiters extended his arm and escorted her into the restaurant. It seemed she was receiving particular attention and being treated like royalty. Who was she? What was her history?
During that portrait session numerous clients were posed and then photographed. Some were demanding, others were wonderful and some were hilarious. One of the guests told me he was from Horsham. I said that my mother was from there too.
‘I probably dated her,’ he said with a wink. ‘Hang on how old are you? I could be your dad!’
While I photographed I was complimented, ‘you’re not like the other photographers,’ a few had said.
It was then I told quite a few my photographic secret and they appeared pleased. People who chose to cruise in luxury preferred to be photographed by someone with accolades. Quite often on ships crew moved departments and were taught to press a button on the camera. They were not qualified photographers, they just took pictures. Admittedly my ego was fighting for attention, but the truth was I felt crap. I realise now I was clambering for a respect that had been annihilated the moment I had stepped on board. I felt like I had been mislead and my ego was searching for ways to take back power. I am human and I admit it.
What’s more Ken had told me to tell as many guests as possible, it was his way of getting them to buy more. It was my way to make myself feel better. Even if he was an arse he was a business man. Wealthy guests wanted to be photographed by the best, that was the only way to gain respect. I was working in a photographic factory and the only thing I could cling to was a bit of paper saying I was a good photographer. How pathetic was that?
So far that evening I had photographed the Captain’s handshake, Marrissa had photographed couples and groups in the lounge. In the meantime Robert and Jose photographed their first set of portraits. Once the handshake was over Marrissa and I joined Robert and Jose for the second set of portraits. Then it was time for what every photographer dreaded: Ressy. We had to go and photograph everyone sitting at their dinning tables in the restaurant. Admittedly that was the worst job in photography, imagine walking up to tables while people were eating and asking them to stop eating while you photograph them. What’s more you were expected to milk the opportunity and photograph both the couple and individual images. There is a very specific technique involved where you do not give the guests the choice. It isn’t easy, the approach is invasive and honestly… I hated it. All it took was for one person to say no and the whole table was over. If the neighbouring table heard a rejection they tended to follow suit and then rejection spread like a prostitute’s legs. If that happened at the beginning of a cruise you’d had it. Personally I found that kind of photography a chore. Yet, and who knows why, the guests always purchased those images.
After putting on my best act and photographing nearly all fifty of my section’s tables, I emerged from the restaurant. I was exhausted. We had twenty minutes to eat some food before the whole thing was repeated with the second sitting. Another five hundred people to photograph. Talk about sweat photographic blood!
At the end of the night I could barely walk. My formal outfit required high-heeled shoes - for the last hour I perfected limping on both feet. It was hardly elegant but necessary. I had forgotten what formal was really like - amazingly I had survived. What’s more I had met some really wonderful guests.
At around one o’clock in the morning Marrissa and I had to deliver all the photographs that the guests had ordered. The corridors were vast, elaborately decorated and smelt of old people farts. I understood that they ate very rich meals but that stench violated the nostrils - it was inhumane! By two in the morning we were finished. I glanced at Marrissa and she shook her head.
‘Not very nice!’ she said sadly.
Sunday, 24 January 2010
Beneath the surface 16
Training, training, training!
As with all new contracts on board ship there was a certain amount of training to endure. Our first session was the fire training. Marrissa and I arrived at the officer’s bar where the fire officer greeted us with a nod. He stood silently by the video with his hands on his hips and sighed while Marrissa and I sat down. After some fiddling with switches he pressed play on the video.
‘Shit!’ he said.
Of course it didn’t work. There was no image and muffled dialogue. The fire officer quickly became frustrated and rushed us through all the fire eventualites. ‘If there is fire try put out! There are four types of fire extinguisher. Blue - power, red - water, cream foam and Black with funnel CO2. Choose right extinguisher for correct fire.”
After the whirlwind explanation we were taken on a tour of the lower decks where we were shown watertight doors and fire screen doors. The watertight doors divided the sections of the ship to stop water passing between sections. The idea originated from the sinking of Titanic. The fire-screen doors closed off sections of the ship to stop fires spreading. It was always necessary to know and on every ship I ever joined it was always part of the training.
For the fire finale Marrissa and I were taken up to the bridge where the control room was located. The bridge was positioned next to the Captain’s cabin. As we walked past we peered in. His cabin was a vast space of dark wood and huge windows. No wonder he became a captain, he got to live in a free penthouse and had no idea how difficult it was to swing a cat in the crew cabins. Where he lived he could swing a cat all day long without injury! Of course there was a downfall - he lived next to the bridge, three steps from his cabin and he was at work.
The bridge was positioned at the front of the ship overlooking the bow; it was an expansive room with huge windows. Technical instruments decorated every available surface and there were plenty of brass phallis resembling instruments arranged through the room. Marrissa and I stood by the door. Silence. The officers paused from their duties, in your imagination I guess you would imagine that officers were extremely attractive - wrong! This ship was driven by fat Swedish officers who had noticed Marrissa in the same way a vulture notices a carcuss. Giving them a seductive look she caressed the brass secturn, ‘very nice…’ she said fluttering her eye lashes.
I don’t know whether it was an act but she appeared to be an innocent girl who was completely unaware of how the men were looking at her. Dinner! Maybe it was how she survived on board, but potentially wanking a secturn suggested something other than innocence. What’s more Robert had kindly reminded me that both Marrissa and I were now in the ranks of new meat. There had been talk in the officer’s bar once we had left the previous evening. He expected me to be pleased but there was no compliment in being viewed as a piece of dead animal with the potential to be porked!
While Marrissa wanked every phallic looking device she could lay her hands on, I was shown all manner of techy instrument. The device that revealed the location of the ship’s location once it sank was of particular interest. After five minutes of ship submersion the devise was released and worked like the black box they have on planes.
At the end of the tour we were given a brief tour of the lifeboats. It turned out the crew were allocated life rafts while the passengers and officers were provided with life boats. Our training officer suggested that we had more chance of survival in a life raft. I was not born stupid! I did not agree, they said that to make you feel better. If a life boat had twice as many rations per person why were you more likely to survive? I know I am female but having breasts does not affect my intellect.
‘During evacuation the guest is priority. You will do everything in your power to make sure the guest is safe. Only then you will consider your own safety,” said the Chief officer.
‘Yeysss,” said Marrissa.
I remained silent. So lets get this straight - my life is considered less important than a rich ninety year old decrepit who isn’t going to survive anyway. Honestly… I do not owe any of the guests my life and if it comes down to it I will NOT sacrifice myself for a stranger. The brain washing had started. Admittedly I would do my best to help but faced with the choice of my life or someone else’s I know what I would choose. Please do not tell me that anyone would choose another’s life unless it was their child. We all know the truth, I just happen to write it.
Anyway I could feel my hands clenching - Bollocks to brain washing! What’s more I could never get over the fact that essentially someone paid for a holiday and in that value the shipping line included a crew member’s life to be sacrificed. Free sacrifice with every holiday. Yey! Maybe that could be a new sales technique upon arrival a cocktail followed by a sacrifice.
Oh goodness, it seemed there was also a hierachy of survival. The Officers had more right to survive because of some gold tinsel decorating their arm. I didn’t know whether such an assumption frustrated others, maybe I was cynical or self preservation was my genetic. In terms of society we seem to have missed the value of the miracle of life. What people exchanged for money was insane and I am always disturbed by how life was valued in terms of metal chunks. Money was constructed for exchange - at one point shells were exchanged. Would you sacrifice a life for a million shells? No I didn’t think so…
Rant over.
As with all new contracts on board ship there was a certain amount of training to endure. Our first session was the fire training. Marrissa and I arrived at the officer’s bar where the fire officer greeted us with a nod. He stood silently by the video with his hands on his hips and sighed while Marrissa and I sat down. After some fiddling with switches he pressed play on the video.
‘Shit!’ he said.
Of course it didn’t work. There was no image and muffled dialogue. The fire officer quickly became frustrated and rushed us through all the fire eventualites. ‘If there is fire try put out! There are four types of fire extinguisher. Blue - power, red - water, cream foam and Black with funnel CO2. Choose right extinguisher for correct fire.”
After the whirlwind explanation we were taken on a tour of the lower decks where we were shown watertight doors and fire screen doors. The watertight doors divided the sections of the ship to stop water passing between sections. The idea originated from the sinking of Titanic. The fire-screen doors closed off sections of the ship to stop fires spreading. It was always necessary to know and on every ship I ever joined it was always part of the training.
For the fire finale Marrissa and I were taken up to the bridge where the control room was located. The bridge was positioned next to the Captain’s cabin. As we walked past we peered in. His cabin was a vast space of dark wood and huge windows. No wonder he became a captain, he got to live in a free penthouse and had no idea how difficult it was to swing a cat in the crew cabins. Where he lived he could swing a cat all day long without injury! Of course there was a downfall - he lived next to the bridge, three steps from his cabin and he was at work.
The bridge was positioned at the front of the ship overlooking the bow; it was an expansive room with huge windows. Technical instruments decorated every available surface and there were plenty of brass phallis resembling instruments arranged through the room. Marrissa and I stood by the door. Silence. The officers paused from their duties, in your imagination I guess you would imagine that officers were extremely attractive - wrong! This ship was driven by fat Swedish officers who had noticed Marrissa in the same way a vulture notices a carcuss. Giving them a seductive look she caressed the brass secturn, ‘very nice…’ she said fluttering her eye lashes.
I don’t know whether it was an act but she appeared to be an innocent girl who was completely unaware of how the men were looking at her. Dinner! Maybe it was how she survived on board, but potentially wanking a secturn suggested something other than innocence. What’s more Robert had kindly reminded me that both Marrissa and I were now in the ranks of new meat. There had been talk in the officer’s bar once we had left the previous evening. He expected me to be pleased but there was no compliment in being viewed as a piece of dead animal with the potential to be porked!
While Marrissa wanked every phallic looking device she could lay her hands on, I was shown all manner of techy instrument. The device that revealed the location of the ship’s location once it sank was of particular interest. After five minutes of ship submersion the devise was released and worked like the black box they have on planes.
At the end of the tour we were given a brief tour of the lifeboats. It turned out the crew were allocated life rafts while the passengers and officers were provided with life boats. Our training officer suggested that we had more chance of survival in a life raft. I was not born stupid! I did not agree, they said that to make you feel better. If a life boat had twice as many rations per person why were you more likely to survive? I know I am female but having breasts does not affect my intellect.
‘During evacuation the guest is priority. You will do everything in your power to make sure the guest is safe. Only then you will consider your own safety,” said the Chief officer.
‘Yeysss,” said Marrissa.
I remained silent. So lets get this straight - my life is considered less important than a rich ninety year old decrepit who isn’t going to survive anyway. Honestly… I do not owe any of the guests my life and if it comes down to it I will NOT sacrifice myself for a stranger. The brain washing had started. Admittedly I would do my best to help but faced with the choice of my life or someone else’s I know what I would choose. Please do not tell me that anyone would choose another’s life unless it was their child. We all know the truth, I just happen to write it.
Anyway I could feel my hands clenching - Bollocks to brain washing! What’s more I could never get over the fact that essentially someone paid for a holiday and in that value the shipping line included a crew member’s life to be sacrificed. Free sacrifice with every holiday. Yey! Maybe that could be a new sales technique upon arrival a cocktail followed by a sacrifice.
Oh goodness, it seemed there was also a hierachy of survival. The Officers had more right to survive because of some gold tinsel decorating their arm. I didn’t know whether such an assumption frustrated others, maybe I was cynical or self preservation was my genetic. In terms of society we seem to have missed the value of the miracle of life. What people exchanged for money was insane and I am always disturbed by how life was valued in terms of metal chunks. Money was constructed for exchange - at one point shells were exchanged. Would you sacrifice a life for a million shells? No I didn’t think so…
Rant over.
Friday, 22 January 2010
Beneath the surface 15
After passing out at eleven thirty I woke up at six thirty. I had that sense of ‘where the Hell am I’ and sat up quickly. I soon remembered where I was when my forehead rebounded of the bunk above. Shit!
The thing with sharing a cabin is that you have to be quiet while the other person sleeps. What’s more you are in a confined space with other people’s habits. Numerous times I have been woken up by a fart from a above. Does that sound religious? I can assure it you it was far from a religious experience.
So when you share you have to be considerate and I just could not sleep, nor could I lay in a darkroom for an hour. It was most definitely time to explore! Silently I got changed into clothing I could not identify but I guessed it was sports wear and I went for a run around the deck. Some of the guests were up and about with the power-walking urge. A few ran and some did random stretches.
After ten laps I found a secluded area to practice tai chi chi kung, an energy based martial art. It enabled chi to flow around your body. When you practiced regularly it made you feel inspired and is said to help your health. I guess it can be likened to a moving meditation. Well for survival purposes - other than write the diary I had to practice chi-kung. I hoped it would keep me sane and focused. There was always hope!
After a few exercises I gazed out to the calm sea and I actually felt okay about being there. The sun was shinning and everything seemed new and fresh. I was relaxed and calm and ready to face the day. It was going to be okay - maybe tiredness had tainted my view of life before but now everything was possible.
The crew mess was bright orange and full of white tables. A long metal aisle contained numerous metal containers full of a vast array of food that you would not feed your dog unless you intended to torture it. Most of the contents I could not identify and for me if you can’t identify it don’t eat it. So with the intention of remaining healthy I opted for fruit and your standard boiled egg. Since the mess was shared with the Phillipino crew I was interested to see what the Phillipinos ate. Many a time I have studied their food choices and been amazed. That day was no different - oh how lovely… fish heads containing eyeballs and rice. What a lovely start to the day. That was not all there was either - there was a great deal I could not identify but one particular tray caught my attention. No it couldn’t be could it? They couldn’t possibly feed the crew monkey brain could they? That was precisely what it looked like.
I took a seat in the corner and watched the different crew come in and sit in groups. There were chefs in one area, waiters and waitresses in another and room stewardesses in another. Everyone looked tired and ate what they could in limited time. It fascinated me how many people were there to serve and each had to be fed. The logistics were astounding when you thought about it. I guessed if I thought about it too much I would probably do my own head in. So I thought about not thinking. A clever technique which can also do your head in!
When I arrived at work Jose and Robert studied me. “You look nice and fresh,” said Jose in a suspicious tone.
“Kind of calm and healthy,” said Robert looking me up and down.
“Thanks I went for a run on deck and did some Tai chi,” I responded.
Silence.
They glanced at each other and shook their heads in a way that meant trouble. Why had I said that I had been up on deck?
‘You’re not allowed on deck, it is passengers and officers only,’ said Robert smugly. ‘You are not an officer so you have no ‘right’ to be up on deck,’ he said sternly.
I was in shock. Why had I told them? Idiot!
‘Did anyone see you?’ asked Jose looking about awkwardly.
I shook my head, I was still trying to work out what I had done wrong.
‘So let me get this straight… I work on a ship and do not have any deck privileges? Am expected to stay below deck the whole time? What is this some kind of prison?”
Silence.
“Do I even have access to the passenger gym? I need to get this clear because I was under the impression that I could go outside. Ken had said… ’
‘Ken lied to get you here. Only officers have access to the passenger gym and as you know you are a low rank, so you have no priviledges,” said Robert. “They can’t allow the lower minions up there. Imagine how the passengers would feel running beside a potato peeler or a pot washer.’
The pair glanced at each other.
I felt my face flush red. Everything I had been told to get me there was a lie. I was on the other side of the world in a luxury prison. Since I was a mere photographer and not an Assistant Manager it seemed I was to be treated like a sheep.
‘Okay… So while we’re on the subject, I was informed that I would earn around $4000 dollars per month, be given deck privileges and various access in exchange for travel pictures… So tell me how far from the truth that is,’ I asked.
The pair shifted.
‘Another set of lies,’ said Robert shaking his head. ‘All of us have been fed the same bullshit. We were all told we would make lots of money travelling the world. The truth is you have no privileges and if you are lucky you will earn half of that per month. That is if you are lucky,’ said Robert emphatically.
I placed my hand on my stomach - a knot had formed. Sheer rage was pumping through my body but because I was in an environment of control I could not respond. Every word I had been fed was complete and utter bullshit. Where was the motivation? At that point my mind shifted, I would fulfil my intention and write the complete truth about life on board. I would put it on the blog so the world could have access to the truth as I saw it. In that moment I fantasised about the masses learning how well educated people were treated like servants to the rich. I intended to reveal everything - how the wealthy treated each other and their attitude towards the staff. Ken would get his karma as would the cruise line. It was not right and it had to be exposed! That was now my mission.
The thing with sharing a cabin is that you have to be quiet while the other person sleeps. What’s more you are in a confined space with other people’s habits. Numerous times I have been woken up by a fart from a above. Does that sound religious? I can assure it you it was far from a religious experience.
So when you share you have to be considerate and I just could not sleep, nor could I lay in a darkroom for an hour. It was most definitely time to explore! Silently I got changed into clothing I could not identify but I guessed it was sports wear and I went for a run around the deck. Some of the guests were up and about with the power-walking urge. A few ran and some did random stretches.
After ten laps I found a secluded area to practice tai chi chi kung, an energy based martial art. It enabled chi to flow around your body. When you practiced regularly it made you feel inspired and is said to help your health. I guess it can be likened to a moving meditation. Well for survival purposes - other than write the diary I had to practice chi-kung. I hoped it would keep me sane and focused. There was always hope!
After a few exercises I gazed out to the calm sea and I actually felt okay about being there. The sun was shinning and everything seemed new and fresh. I was relaxed and calm and ready to face the day. It was going to be okay - maybe tiredness had tainted my view of life before but now everything was possible.
The crew mess was bright orange and full of white tables. A long metal aisle contained numerous metal containers full of a vast array of food that you would not feed your dog unless you intended to torture it. Most of the contents I could not identify and for me if you can’t identify it don’t eat it. So with the intention of remaining healthy I opted for fruit and your standard boiled egg. Since the mess was shared with the Phillipino crew I was interested to see what the Phillipinos ate. Many a time I have studied their food choices and been amazed. That day was no different - oh how lovely… fish heads containing eyeballs and rice. What a lovely start to the day. That was not all there was either - there was a great deal I could not identify but one particular tray caught my attention. No it couldn’t be could it? They couldn’t possibly feed the crew monkey brain could they? That was precisely what it looked like.
I took a seat in the corner and watched the different crew come in and sit in groups. There were chefs in one area, waiters and waitresses in another and room stewardesses in another. Everyone looked tired and ate what they could in limited time. It fascinated me how many people were there to serve and each had to be fed. The logistics were astounding when you thought about it. I guessed if I thought about it too much I would probably do my own head in. So I thought about not thinking. A clever technique which can also do your head in!
When I arrived at work Jose and Robert studied me. “You look nice and fresh,” said Jose in a suspicious tone.
“Kind of calm and healthy,” said Robert looking me up and down.
“Thanks I went for a run on deck and did some Tai chi,” I responded.
Silence.
They glanced at each other and shook their heads in a way that meant trouble. Why had I said that I had been up on deck?
‘You’re not allowed on deck, it is passengers and officers only,’ said Robert smugly. ‘You are not an officer so you have no ‘right’ to be up on deck,’ he said sternly.
I was in shock. Why had I told them? Idiot!
‘Did anyone see you?’ asked Jose looking about awkwardly.
I shook my head, I was still trying to work out what I had done wrong.
‘So let me get this straight… I work on a ship and do not have any deck privileges? Am expected to stay below deck the whole time? What is this some kind of prison?”
Silence.
“Do I even have access to the passenger gym? I need to get this clear because I was under the impression that I could go outside. Ken had said… ’
‘Ken lied to get you here. Only officers have access to the passenger gym and as you know you are a low rank, so you have no priviledges,” said Robert. “They can’t allow the lower minions up there. Imagine how the passengers would feel running beside a potato peeler or a pot washer.’
The pair glanced at each other.
I felt my face flush red. Everything I had been told to get me there was a lie. I was on the other side of the world in a luxury prison. Since I was a mere photographer and not an Assistant Manager it seemed I was to be treated like a sheep.
‘Okay… So while we’re on the subject, I was informed that I would earn around $4000 dollars per month, be given deck privileges and various access in exchange for travel pictures… So tell me how far from the truth that is,’ I asked.
The pair shifted.
‘Another set of lies,’ said Robert shaking his head. ‘All of us have been fed the same bullshit. We were all told we would make lots of money travelling the world. The truth is you have no privileges and if you are lucky you will earn half of that per month. That is if you are lucky,’ said Robert emphatically.
I placed my hand on my stomach - a knot had formed. Sheer rage was pumping through my body but because I was in an environment of control I could not respond. Every word I had been fed was complete and utter bullshit. Where was the motivation? At that point my mind shifted, I would fulfil my intention and write the complete truth about life on board. I would put it on the blog so the world could have access to the truth as I saw it. In that moment I fantasised about the masses learning how well educated people were treated like servants to the rich. I intended to reveal everything - how the wealthy treated each other and their attitude towards the staff. Ken would get his karma as would the cruise line. It was not right and it had to be exposed! That was now my mission.
Thursday, 21 January 2010
Beneath the surface 14
That evening Robert invited Marrissa and I to the Officer’s bar. It was a gesture of welcome in terms a drink,
“Just so you both know… You are not allowed in here unless you are invited by an officer. Since I am manager I am officer status and have the right to invite you inside. Since I am of an officer’s rank I also get to eat in the officer’s mess, so does Jose because he is the Assistant Manager. You two will eat in the standard mess because you are not officers you fall into the bracket of crew or as I like to call you ‘minions.’ The food for the officers is much better and we get to interact with the higher levels of management,’ said Robert smugly. “So what would you like to drink?”
Wanker!
Actually not just wanker! Fat wanker!
Hierachy and ego on ship is rife. A strong patriarch rules and rather than high five each other they bash dicks (actually I made up the last part!) There are strict guidelines of what you can and can’t do according to your rank. If you break a rule you are disciplined, which can mean more IPM or less priviledges.
So there we are in the officer’s bar, a dark wooden room with green velvet seats and silence. A bit of looking around and more silence. To the right of me two Russian officers play darts on a rolling ship while they drink vodka - was that health and safety? I had that image of a dart landing in Marrissa’s bottom creep into my mind. I had to hold back the smirk. I think I have become obsessed by the bottom but the truth is I am sitting quite far away from the others because the bottom is now spread out… God what I bitch I am but it seems to be creeping along the seat.
I glanced over at Jose, who obviously wanted to leave and be with his girl friend. In fact he wanted to be anywhere but there. He looked like he had a smell under his nose and was like the little boy who had been forced to be there. Robert, in the mean time broke the silence and talked endlessly about how great he was. I would give you the details but I was consumed by the image of bottoms with darts decorating them. Then for some reason the image of a porcupine wandered through my mind. I must have been tired. When I did switch into the conversation Robert purposely revealed he was desperately searching for a woman to hide the sausage with. I guessed he would have to find his sausage to then re-hide it. Or maybe he had hidden his sausage with himself.
I glanced at Marrissa who sat with her arms folded swinging her leg and staring at her shoe. It was apparent she was in a strop with me about the top bunk. Did I care? No I was having another realisation: I had made the biggest mistake of my life. Brilliant!
All of the above combined made the perfect ingredients for an evening of fun.
“So Marrissa have you worked on ships before?” asked Robert.
“Yeysss,” she replied.
She understood! Or did she?
“What would you like to drink?” he asked.
“Yeysss,” she said.
I gestured drinking action.
Robert watched curiously but remained silent.
“Cocacola light,” she said.
“Marrissa… what did you do on the other ship?” he asked.
“Marrissa take photo,” she said.
It was a miracle… I am so proud!
Robert sighed and studied her.
“What do you think of your cabin?” he asked.
“Yeysss.”
Jose glanced at Marrissa and spoke to her in Spanish.
“She thinks it is very small and she has the top bunk, that makes her very sad,” said Jose with obvious disinterest.
Robert glanced at Jose and then at me. We knew what he was thinking.
“Just so you both know… You are not allowed in here unless you are invited by an officer. Since I am manager I am officer status and have the right to invite you inside. Since I am of an officer’s rank I also get to eat in the officer’s mess, so does Jose because he is the Assistant Manager. You two will eat in the standard mess because you are not officers you fall into the bracket of crew or as I like to call you ‘minions.’ The food for the officers is much better and we get to interact with the higher levels of management,’ said Robert smugly. “So what would you like to drink?”
Wanker!
Actually not just wanker! Fat wanker!
Hierachy and ego on ship is rife. A strong patriarch rules and rather than high five each other they bash dicks (actually I made up the last part!) There are strict guidelines of what you can and can’t do according to your rank. If you break a rule you are disciplined, which can mean more IPM or less priviledges.
So there we are in the officer’s bar, a dark wooden room with green velvet seats and silence. A bit of looking around and more silence. To the right of me two Russian officers play darts on a rolling ship while they drink vodka - was that health and safety? I had that image of a dart landing in Marrissa’s bottom creep into my mind. I had to hold back the smirk. I think I have become obsessed by the bottom but the truth is I am sitting quite far away from the others because the bottom is now spread out… God what I bitch I am but it seems to be creeping along the seat.
I glanced over at Jose, who obviously wanted to leave and be with his girl friend. In fact he wanted to be anywhere but there. He looked like he had a smell under his nose and was like the little boy who had been forced to be there. Robert, in the mean time broke the silence and talked endlessly about how great he was. I would give you the details but I was consumed by the image of bottoms with darts decorating them. Then for some reason the image of a porcupine wandered through my mind. I must have been tired. When I did switch into the conversation Robert purposely revealed he was desperately searching for a woman to hide the sausage with. I guessed he would have to find his sausage to then re-hide it. Or maybe he had hidden his sausage with himself.
I glanced at Marrissa who sat with her arms folded swinging her leg and staring at her shoe. It was apparent she was in a strop with me about the top bunk. Did I care? No I was having another realisation: I had made the biggest mistake of my life. Brilliant!
All of the above combined made the perfect ingredients for an evening of fun.
“So Marrissa have you worked on ships before?” asked Robert.
“Yeysss,” she replied.
She understood! Or did she?
“What would you like to drink?” he asked.
“Yeysss,” she said.
I gestured drinking action.
Robert watched curiously but remained silent.
“Cocacola light,” she said.
“Marrissa… what did you do on the other ship?” he asked.
“Marrissa take photo,” she said.
It was a miracle… I am so proud!
Robert sighed and studied her.
“What do you think of your cabin?” he asked.
“Yeysss.”
Jose glanced at Marrissa and spoke to her in Spanish.
“She thinks it is very small and she has the top bunk, that makes her very sad,” said Jose with obvious disinterest.
Robert glanced at Jose and then at me. We knew what he was thinking.
Beneath the surface - passengers 13
Passengers.
Okay so how often do you see wheelchairs lined up in a corridor? Was I working on a floating rest home for the wealthy? The passengers were aged fifty to decrepit. Most of the men followed a strict code of visual conformity. During the day the uniform was beige Bermuda shorts, a white polo neck with expensive logo, long white socks and sun glasses that were larger than the man’s face. White hair, a dazed look and plenty of balding lead me to only one conclusion: cloning had taken place.
There was slightly more variety amongst the women. Some had white hair, died dark hair or bright orange hair, all of it arranged in a spectacular, gravity defying bouffants. How did they manage to get swimming hats on that? Hmmm which came first chicken or egg - buffont / swimming cap?
Again many of the ladies appeared dazed or as if they had been caught in a wind tunnel. Plastic surgery was rife on board and the general expression of pure g-force crossed with sheer terror would freak anyone out in the dark. During the day light hours I found passing by the swimming pool a bit of a concern too - some of those old dear’s implants were floating on the surface wrapped in old people skin. (Yes I know it is cruel but a breast should not reach the other side of the pool before the swimmer, nor should it float behind!)
When the female guest’s were dressed they too followed a strict rule: gold and white clothing accessorised with white diamante visors and giant sunglasses. It was like being present in an eighties golfing tournament. My favourite was the shinny leopard skin romper suits for the sexier and more daring of the women. They took great pleasure in strutting past the old men with a look of seduction. Wives would peer bitchily over the top of their sunglasses - to achieve this feat they required a step ladder.
That evening a decision had to be made, it was an important decision, one which caused numerous power struggles. Who got the bottom bunk? To make the process fair Marrissa and I sat in the cabin and stared at each other. After a while I waved a coin at her and pointed at my head and then my bottom. Maybe I shouldn’t have pointed at my bottom but how else do you say tails to someone whose English language is limited? I pointed at my head again and then at my bottom.
‘Si,’ she said when I was pointing at my bottom. I assumed she selected tails. Or maybe she wanted to see my bottom. Or maybe she wanted me to put my bottom in the sea? It could have been any but merrily she called the wrong side. It was tails. I showed her the result and she rolled her eyes and sighed. With a look of pain, I pointed at the bottom bunk and shrugged as if it was the only choice I could make. Marrissa’s face revealed complete and utter dejection. For the next few months Marrissa would have to climb up and down the ladder every time she wanted the loo, every time she wanted to lay on the bed and had further to fall if a storm hit. She also had less space, so if she got amorous it would be more difficult. I, on the other hand, had to live in fear of the bed collapsing and a huge arse crushing me to death. Which was worse? Arse crush or constant climbing? Either would result in night terror.
Retina Blue (Volume 1)
Okay so how often do you see wheelchairs lined up in a corridor? Was I working on a floating rest home for the wealthy? The passengers were aged fifty to decrepit. Most of the men followed a strict code of visual conformity. During the day the uniform was beige Bermuda shorts, a white polo neck with expensive logo, long white socks and sun glasses that were larger than the man’s face. White hair, a dazed look and plenty of balding lead me to only one conclusion: cloning had taken place.
There was slightly more variety amongst the women. Some had white hair, died dark hair or bright orange hair, all of it arranged in a spectacular, gravity defying bouffants. How did they manage to get swimming hats on that? Hmmm which came first chicken or egg - buffont / swimming cap?
Again many of the ladies appeared dazed or as if they had been caught in a wind tunnel. Plastic surgery was rife on board and the general expression of pure g-force crossed with sheer terror would freak anyone out in the dark. During the day light hours I found passing by the swimming pool a bit of a concern too - some of those old dear’s implants were floating on the surface wrapped in old people skin. (Yes I know it is cruel but a breast should not reach the other side of the pool before the swimmer, nor should it float behind!)
When the female guest’s were dressed they too followed a strict rule: gold and white clothing accessorised with white diamante visors and giant sunglasses. It was like being present in an eighties golfing tournament. My favourite was the shinny leopard skin romper suits for the sexier and more daring of the women. They took great pleasure in strutting past the old men with a look of seduction. Wives would peer bitchily over the top of their sunglasses - to achieve this feat they required a step ladder.
That evening a decision had to be made, it was an important decision, one which caused numerous power struggles. Who got the bottom bunk? To make the process fair Marrissa and I sat in the cabin and stared at each other. After a while I waved a coin at her and pointed at my head and then my bottom. Maybe I shouldn’t have pointed at my bottom but how else do you say tails to someone whose English language is limited? I pointed at my head again and then at my bottom.
‘Si,’ she said when I was pointing at my bottom. I assumed she selected tails. Or maybe she wanted to see my bottom. Or maybe she wanted me to put my bottom in the sea? It could have been any but merrily she called the wrong side. It was tails. I showed her the result and she rolled her eyes and sighed. With a look of pain, I pointed at the bottom bunk and shrugged as if it was the only choice I could make. Marrissa’s face revealed complete and utter dejection. For the next few months Marrissa would have to climb up and down the ladder every time she wanted the loo, every time she wanted to lay on the bed and had further to fall if a storm hit. She also had less space, so if she got amorous it would be more difficult. I, on the other hand, had to live in fear of the bed collapsing and a huge arse crushing me to death. Which was worse? Arse crush or constant climbing? Either would result in night terror.
Retina Blue (Volume 1)
Beneath the surface 12
The team.
On first impressions the photo manager appeared to be a decent bloke, on first impressions most men seem like decent blokes. He was rather portly, wore glasses and spoke with a strong Australian accent.
‘Hi I’m Robert. You must be Felicity and you must be Marrissa. So just to let you know… I expect you both to reach my high photographic standards.’
‘Yeyyyssss,’ said Marrissa.
Her interruption was quite untimely.
Oh no!
‘Marissa from Braaaaaaaaazil. Rio. Very Nice,’ she said.
Robert’s jaw locked while he eyed her curiously.
Silence.
Awkward silence.
Three invisible tumble weeds rolled past with a cold wind.
A grinning Brazilian grinned and… silence.
‘Right, I see. Erm…’ He coughed. ‘Erm… Felicity I have seen your work and I have also worked as a sports photographer. I had my own company too. I have a similar attitude to you. I do have my own way of doing things and expect you to adopt my methods. I am your manager and I am in charge. There is no room for manoeuvre. You will learn that I am the best and expect MY team to emulate me.’
I listened, I remained quiet. Was he a control freak or just a complete dick?
Ken and Linda had warned me about him: ‘you will find Robert a little odd, he has a huge ego so be careful. Just smile and get on with your job.’ Lynda advised.
It was apparent that Ken didn’t like him either. During one telephone call where Ken had been involved in a self admiring monologue and I was washing up, he mentioned that he was having a few issues with Robert. ‘You know Felicity I would like your honest opinion on him. He can be a bit of a bully but I know you won’t take it,’ he said.
The snake wanted my opinion on the man I was supposed to respect and take orders from. I had frowned, something wasn’t right. How could the director of a company put a new employee in such an awkward position? It made me a potential snitch and that made Ken an even greater shit.
‘So Ken employed you both. To be straight down the line I can’t stand the man. He’s an idiot and a liar - you’ll see. Unfortunately everything he told you to get you here was a lie. I suggest you try to enjoy yourself and forget about earning money. Look at it as an experience. You won’t make anything here but you will work your guts out for nothing. So be prepared because that is the truth.’
Marrissa just smiled and glanced about in a mental waft, ‘very ni…ce!’
Robert glanced at me purposely, I assume he was studying my reaction. I focused on creating my best poker face and revealed nothing other than sheer horror.
The last member of the team, the Assistant Manager, Jose was a good looking Columbian. He was tall, dark and amusing. Admittedly he had a look that suggested he was observing and at any moment could flip out. He had already been on the ship six months and sanity usually evacuated at four. He had been on the ship too long and something was out of balance. What was he holding back?
When Jose left Robert turned to me, ‘Jose was meant to go home two months ago. He is on the edge and the simplest thing tips him over. Just be aware of that and tread carefully around him. You know what it is like when you get to six months - you hate everyone and everything… So be nice.’
Robert was being truthful in such a confined space everything always became exaggerated. What’s more that meant he was going to loose it at some point. God I hoped it wasn’t at me.
I glanced at the team- what a random combination. I prayed we would work well together; however, my instinct was contrary. The truth was the team consisted of a huge ego, volatility, an unaware and an over analytical. In essence the perfect combination for conflict. What a joy!
On first impressions the photo manager appeared to be a decent bloke, on first impressions most men seem like decent blokes. He was rather portly, wore glasses and spoke with a strong Australian accent.
‘Hi I’m Robert. You must be Felicity and you must be Marrissa. So just to let you know… I expect you both to reach my high photographic standards.’
‘Yeyyyssss,’ said Marrissa.
Her interruption was quite untimely.
Oh no!
‘Marissa from Braaaaaaaaazil. Rio. Very Nice,’ she said.
Robert’s jaw locked while he eyed her curiously.
Silence.
Awkward silence.
Three invisible tumble weeds rolled past with a cold wind.
A grinning Brazilian grinned and… silence.
‘Right, I see. Erm…’ He coughed. ‘Erm… Felicity I have seen your work and I have also worked as a sports photographer. I had my own company too. I have a similar attitude to you. I do have my own way of doing things and expect you to adopt my methods. I am your manager and I am in charge. There is no room for manoeuvre. You will learn that I am the best and expect MY team to emulate me.’
I listened, I remained quiet. Was he a control freak or just a complete dick?
Ken and Linda had warned me about him: ‘you will find Robert a little odd, he has a huge ego so be careful. Just smile and get on with your job.’ Lynda advised.
It was apparent that Ken didn’t like him either. During one telephone call where Ken had been involved in a self admiring monologue and I was washing up, he mentioned that he was having a few issues with Robert. ‘You know Felicity I would like your honest opinion on him. He can be a bit of a bully but I know you won’t take it,’ he said.
The snake wanted my opinion on the man I was supposed to respect and take orders from. I had frowned, something wasn’t right. How could the director of a company put a new employee in such an awkward position? It made me a potential snitch and that made Ken an even greater shit.
‘So Ken employed you both. To be straight down the line I can’t stand the man. He’s an idiot and a liar - you’ll see. Unfortunately everything he told you to get you here was a lie. I suggest you try to enjoy yourself and forget about earning money. Look at it as an experience. You won’t make anything here but you will work your guts out for nothing. So be prepared because that is the truth.’
Marrissa just smiled and glanced about in a mental waft, ‘very ni…ce!’
Robert glanced at me purposely, I assume he was studying my reaction. I focused on creating my best poker face and revealed nothing other than sheer horror.
The last member of the team, the Assistant Manager, Jose was a good looking Columbian. He was tall, dark and amusing. Admittedly he had a look that suggested he was observing and at any moment could flip out. He had already been on the ship six months and sanity usually evacuated at four. He had been on the ship too long and something was out of balance. What was he holding back?
When Jose left Robert turned to me, ‘Jose was meant to go home two months ago. He is on the edge and the simplest thing tips him over. Just be aware of that and tread carefully around him. You know what it is like when you get to six months - you hate everyone and everything… So be nice.’
Robert was being truthful in such a confined space everything always became exaggerated. What’s more that meant he was going to loose it at some point. God I hoped it wasn’t at me.
I glanced at the team- what a random combination. I prayed we would work well together; however, my instinct was contrary. The truth was the team consisted of a huge ego, volatility, an unaware and an over analytical. In essence the perfect combination for conflict. What a joy!
Monday, 18 January 2010
Beneath the surface 11
Laden with uniform sackage I was escorted through endless off-white corridors to my new cabin. I opened the door and there it was: a room so small that a Wendy house would have looked like a mansion next to it. One person could barely live in those conditions, so of course there was going to be two of us. To enable this dramatic feat the two of us were allocated bunk beds. Interestingly when you sat up on the bunk your forehead hit the roof. The dimensions of the mattress were just slightly wider than your body so you had to roll on the spot should you wish to turn over.
To enable privacy a thin floral curtain could be drawn around the bed. Admittedly a hamster could probably reside in such a space and be relatively content. However, I was not a small rodent and the cabin was not designed for human inhabitation! What was worse was I had to share it with a huge bottomed woman in her forties. That bottom could be described as a couple of ferrets in a sack but that would an understatement more like buffalos in a sack - is that bitchy or truthful? The latter. What bothered me was how, if the two of us were in the cabin, would I get past? What if she got the top bunk and it collapsed and I got suffocated by a giant arse? Oh here comes the imagination… God what if her bottom touched both sides of the cabin? What if she got elephantitus and her bottom got so big over night that I was trapped against the wall by a giant bottom? What if… Oh God! I never thought I would arrive at the grand age of thirty four and be in that situation; especially not when I left a lovely spacious apartment in Bournemouth. What have I done?
At times like that you had a choice - cry or laugh. I had to turn my mind around: it was all part of the adventure. If I began with a negative mind set I would go mad. I had to see the bright side: a giant bottom in a confined cabin was all part of the adventure and I had no rent! It could have been worse - the phillipinos lived in cramped conditions with six to a cabin, it was inhumane. If I began the contract with a negative mindset I would go mad. I had to be like a Zen master and focus.
Standing in the confines of that cabin I smirked, ironically people envied my ‘luxurious’ life. Surely if they witnessed this they would have a re-think! If I attempted to swing a cat, it would suffer concussion mid-oscillation. The fact I could stand with my hands on both walls made it clear how tiny that cabin was. I would have loved to have seen my friend's faces if that was their new home for the next six months. No doubt their faces would have contorted to same expression as dropping their toothbrush down the toilet.
Okay time for the mind switch: focus on the good. What was good about the cabin? It was well organised. Everything was designed for time efficiency. The cupboards were compartmentalised and could hold a couple of socks and a pair of thong knickers before they reached full capacity. The beds had curtains for privacy and they were generous in their provision of two pillows. Nowhere in the cabin were bars so essentially it was not a prison. Oops slight negative realisation - the only ‘privacy’ was behind a floral curtain designed for the 1920’s bed and breakfast. And you could see over the top of that curtain. What’s more privacy space is approximately six foot five by two foot. The same size as a coffin.
The last time I returned to land after being at sea for years I slept on the floor for a couple of years. Through the trauma of being in a confined space for such a long time I had to be as far away from the ceiling as was physically possible. I had forgotten the confined space thing. Thank God I didn’t get claustrophobic.
Bright orange life jackets were kept in the space above our cupboards. They were a constant reminder that the ship could sink and that you had to be prepared for emergency. Talking of emergencies, when we walked past the luggage loading bay there was conflict. Two of the local luggage loaders were screaming at each other.
‘Man you are shit!’ said one.
‘Fuck yourself and fuck your fat, fucking, stinking mother,’ the other responded.
Welcome to Miami!
When I walked past the conflict stopped and the men tipped their hats. Once I was further down the corridor one turned to the others, ‘man… Those lucky bastards on board get some fit wholesome women. They look like they’re fed properly and wear perfume.’
Why not announce that over the tannoy?
‘Fuck off,’ said one assuming I was out of ear shot. ‘That bit of pussy wouldn’t purr at you!’
‘Fuck she would…’
It was getting pretty heated but that was normal. Is was strange what took place below deck - away from passenger’s prying eyes. That is it… Passengers do not witness what is going on beneath the surface…. That is it. That is what I will call this diary - Beneath the Surface!
Outside the cabin the crew area resembled a hospital, all stark and off white. There were hard grey floors and doors leading to endless corridors of uniform crew cabins. There really was a prisonesque feeling to it, although it was a prison where the inmates had their noses rubbed in luxury and a façade of glitz.
The decks below us were full of crew cabins, then below those the engine rooms and laundry. The laundry always fascinated me because it was so vast. Consider how many sheets, table cloths and towels a ship with one thousand guests and five hundred crew consumed in a day. Needless to say the laundry was in constant use. Chinese men washed endless towels and bedding in a steam imbued metallic environment. They were robotic in their motion and never seemed phased by the endless piles of laundry to be cleaned. It was fascinating; albeit depressing. Their lives consisted of endless piles of dirty sheets and no recognition for slave labour. I could never comprehend it. What people did to earn money was beyond me and no doubt their families believed they lead glamorous lives visiting far off shores when in fact they washed shitty sheets and soiled towels.
Sadly, the previous year one of the potato peelers jumped over board and died. It seemed that twelve hours a day peeling potatoes was too much. He didn’t have the money to get home so was trapped peeling piles of potatoes for oblivious guests to consume. Realising his choices were removed it seemed there was only one option left.
Sometimes it is hard not to focus on the negative stories but I had to accept the situation as it was and fulfil my intention: write the truth about ship life and earn money from photography. I had six months and I intended to enjoy myself. Making a loud sigh I realised I had to accept that everyone present was there through choice and were doing the best with what they had. I had to stop judging and analysing because I had made the very same choice. I was there to work! I had to suck it up and deal with it!
To enable privacy a thin floral curtain could be drawn around the bed. Admittedly a hamster could probably reside in such a space and be relatively content. However, I was not a small rodent and the cabin was not designed for human inhabitation! What was worse was I had to share it with a huge bottomed woman in her forties. That bottom could be described as a couple of ferrets in a sack but that would an understatement more like buffalos in a sack - is that bitchy or truthful? The latter. What bothered me was how, if the two of us were in the cabin, would I get past? What if she got the top bunk and it collapsed and I got suffocated by a giant arse? Oh here comes the imagination… God what if her bottom touched both sides of the cabin? What if she got elephantitus and her bottom got so big over night that I was trapped against the wall by a giant bottom? What if… Oh God! I never thought I would arrive at the grand age of thirty four and be in that situation; especially not when I left a lovely spacious apartment in Bournemouth. What have I done?
At times like that you had a choice - cry or laugh. I had to turn my mind around: it was all part of the adventure. If I began with a negative mind set I would go mad. I had to see the bright side: a giant bottom in a confined cabin was all part of the adventure and I had no rent! It could have been worse - the phillipinos lived in cramped conditions with six to a cabin, it was inhumane. If I began the contract with a negative mindset I would go mad. I had to be like a Zen master and focus.
Standing in the confines of that cabin I smirked, ironically people envied my ‘luxurious’ life. Surely if they witnessed this they would have a re-think! If I attempted to swing a cat, it would suffer concussion mid-oscillation. The fact I could stand with my hands on both walls made it clear how tiny that cabin was. I would have loved to have seen my friend's faces if that was their new home for the next six months. No doubt their faces would have contorted to same expression as dropping their toothbrush down the toilet.
Okay time for the mind switch: focus on the good. What was good about the cabin? It was well organised. Everything was designed for time efficiency. The cupboards were compartmentalised and could hold a couple of socks and a pair of thong knickers before they reached full capacity. The beds had curtains for privacy and they were generous in their provision of two pillows. Nowhere in the cabin were bars so essentially it was not a prison. Oops slight negative realisation - the only ‘privacy’ was behind a floral curtain designed for the 1920’s bed and breakfast. And you could see over the top of that curtain. What’s more privacy space is approximately six foot five by two foot. The same size as a coffin.
The last time I returned to land after being at sea for years I slept on the floor for a couple of years. Through the trauma of being in a confined space for such a long time I had to be as far away from the ceiling as was physically possible. I had forgotten the confined space thing. Thank God I didn’t get claustrophobic.
Bright orange life jackets were kept in the space above our cupboards. They were a constant reminder that the ship could sink and that you had to be prepared for emergency. Talking of emergencies, when we walked past the luggage loading bay there was conflict. Two of the local luggage loaders were screaming at each other.
‘Man you are shit!’ said one.
‘Fuck yourself and fuck your fat, fucking, stinking mother,’ the other responded.
Welcome to Miami!
When I walked past the conflict stopped and the men tipped their hats. Once I was further down the corridor one turned to the others, ‘man… Those lucky bastards on board get some fit wholesome women. They look like they’re fed properly and wear perfume.’
Why not announce that over the tannoy?
‘Fuck off,’ said one assuming I was out of ear shot. ‘That bit of pussy wouldn’t purr at you!’
‘Fuck she would…’
It was getting pretty heated but that was normal. Is was strange what took place below deck - away from passenger’s prying eyes. That is it… Passengers do not witness what is going on beneath the surface…. That is it. That is what I will call this diary - Beneath the Surface!
Outside the cabin the crew area resembled a hospital, all stark and off white. There were hard grey floors and doors leading to endless corridors of uniform crew cabins. There really was a prisonesque feeling to it, although it was a prison where the inmates had their noses rubbed in luxury and a façade of glitz.
The decks below us were full of crew cabins, then below those the engine rooms and laundry. The laundry always fascinated me because it was so vast. Consider how many sheets, table cloths and towels a ship with one thousand guests and five hundred crew consumed in a day. Needless to say the laundry was in constant use. Chinese men washed endless towels and bedding in a steam imbued metallic environment. They were robotic in their motion and never seemed phased by the endless piles of laundry to be cleaned. It was fascinating; albeit depressing. Their lives consisted of endless piles of dirty sheets and no recognition for slave labour. I could never comprehend it. What people did to earn money was beyond me and no doubt their families believed they lead glamorous lives visiting far off shores when in fact they washed shitty sheets and soiled towels.
Sadly, the previous year one of the potato peelers jumped over board and died. It seemed that twelve hours a day peeling potatoes was too much. He didn’t have the money to get home so was trapped peeling piles of potatoes for oblivious guests to consume. Realising his choices were removed it seemed there was only one option left.
Sometimes it is hard not to focus on the negative stories but I had to accept the situation as it was and fulfil my intention: write the truth about ship life and earn money from photography. I had six months and I intended to enjoy myself. Making a loud sigh I realised I had to accept that everyone present was there through choice and were doing the best with what they had. I had to stop judging and analysing because I had made the very same choice. I was there to work! I had to suck it up and deal with it!
Friday, 15 January 2010
Beneath the surface 10
Once our passports were handed in we were unable to leave the ship until we received a crew card - a kind of forced imprisonment. What’s more that card was kept in a locked box for arrival in port, it enabled the ship to know whether you were on board or not. What’s more without a passport individuals were unable to abscond into a country and disappear. Essentially all crew were imprisoned until the crew purser manufactured a card with their passport number on it. I was not concerned, in fact I was quite happy just to sit on the ship for a bit. It was the first peace I had had in months.
As I was escorted along the corridor I had my first realisation: I was no longer a civilian. From that moment forward I was to be dressed in uniform for the majority of my time. Regulation and discipline were instilled and conformity was a must. My hair had to be tied back. I was expected to wear make-up and discard individuality. What’s more I was told specifically not to question any decisions made by officers or managers. That was somewhat of an issue for me. I would have to bite my lip until it bled. My mind was to be closed, unquestioning and non-rebellious. Another reason to write a diary. The rebellion had to go somewhere!
I was lead down to a dungeon-like area three floors below the surface of the water. The metallic depths of the ship resembled a labyrinth. Each section was lit with a pale green fluorescent lights and there was no day light. The atmosphere was stagnant and around every corner was a water-tight door. Each had a red emergency leaver and a ringing bell which warned of danger. Every time we met high seas a symphony of bells sounded alerting the crew to the fact that the ship was entering dangerous waters.
That stark location was where the uniform cupboard resided. Every ship I have ever worked on had a rather small Philippino in charge of the crew the uniform. His title was the ‘Uniform Master.’ The JedI Master of uniform combat. What a title for a man who spent hours alone amongst uniforms in the depths of the ship.
As soon as the Uniform Master saw me he frowned. That is never a good sign. ‘Oh dear… Oh dear,’ he said tutting. ‘I don’t think we have clothes big enough for you. You are a very, very big girl!’
Shall I work naked? Would that fall into a seven star deluxe service?
Admittedly I was close to six foot so my dimensions followed accordingly, not that I was six foot wide or round. I was just on the chunky side, big bones, with flesh surrounding those bones…
After a lot of thought the Uniform Master kindly handed me numerous items of hideous uniform; each item purposely constructed to enable the wearer to feel fat, look pallid and resemble a granny. The designer had a thing with prison uniforms and the fifties - it was repulsive! What’s more not one item fitted and the green polyester shirt restricted my arms - not too useful when you’re a photographer. Maybe I could photograph using my feet. I doubt that would go down well on the most exclusive ship in the world, especially as I was expected to wear a skirt the majority of the time. Shame. Actually what was going on? Why would I wear a short skirt and high-heels if I was a photographer? Something just occurred to me, it was no accident! The patriarch!
The more I looked at the attire, the more repulsed I became. Whoever had designed that uniform was bitter and cruel. In terms of attractive/sexiness, no sausage would twitch a response. Every single man who gazed upon uniformed individual would most definitely think of their grandmother. Since the ship was primarily packed with guests in their seventies maybe there was method in the floral madness.
The uniform master handed me a jacket to try on, it had a functional problem no arm movement. A photographer had to be able to bend, squat or crouch. What’s more we had been advised to wear stockings with the short skirt - how was I supposed to photograph people sitting on a white background on the floor? Should be interesting. Memories of re-birth?
The main issue for me was the jacket. There was nothing in stock that would enable any arm movement. I can tell you this now - I never thought that clothing could be such an issue. I tried numerous jackets and one had to be cut off! Talk about humiliatio! Finally I had an ill-fitting set. With the full uniform in front of the mirror I came to the conclusion I resembled a floral granny, in a tarty short skirt, stockings and a straight jacket. Brilliant!
‘We don’t usually have women as big as you,’ said the uniform master attempting to console me.
I tended to disagree. Yes I am tall but I had noticed some South Africans and Scandinavian women working onboard the ship. Most of them could happily weild an axe!
‘Can’t I just wear a man’s jacket?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘You’re not a man,’ he responded.
He was keen with his observation, but there was still no answer. Eventually a cardigan two sizes too small, that constricted the blood to my arms was provided. Brilliant!
I already knew I was in trouble. If the hotel manager saw the mess of ill-fitting uniform I would be called in and disciplined!
As I was escorted along the corridor I had my first realisation: I was no longer a civilian. From that moment forward I was to be dressed in uniform for the majority of my time. Regulation and discipline were instilled and conformity was a must. My hair had to be tied back. I was expected to wear make-up and discard individuality. What’s more I was told specifically not to question any decisions made by officers or managers. That was somewhat of an issue for me. I would have to bite my lip until it bled. My mind was to be closed, unquestioning and non-rebellious. Another reason to write a diary. The rebellion had to go somewhere!
I was lead down to a dungeon-like area three floors below the surface of the water. The metallic depths of the ship resembled a labyrinth. Each section was lit with a pale green fluorescent lights and there was no day light. The atmosphere was stagnant and around every corner was a water-tight door. Each had a red emergency leaver and a ringing bell which warned of danger. Every time we met high seas a symphony of bells sounded alerting the crew to the fact that the ship was entering dangerous waters.
That stark location was where the uniform cupboard resided. Every ship I have ever worked on had a rather small Philippino in charge of the crew the uniform. His title was the ‘Uniform Master.’ The JedI Master of uniform combat. What a title for a man who spent hours alone amongst uniforms in the depths of the ship.
As soon as the Uniform Master saw me he frowned. That is never a good sign. ‘Oh dear… Oh dear,’ he said tutting. ‘I don’t think we have clothes big enough for you. You are a very, very big girl!’
Shall I work naked? Would that fall into a seven star deluxe service?
Admittedly I was close to six foot so my dimensions followed accordingly, not that I was six foot wide or round. I was just on the chunky side, big bones, with flesh surrounding those bones…
After a lot of thought the Uniform Master kindly handed me numerous items of hideous uniform; each item purposely constructed to enable the wearer to feel fat, look pallid and resemble a granny. The designer had a thing with prison uniforms and the fifties - it was repulsive! What’s more not one item fitted and the green polyester shirt restricted my arms - not too useful when you’re a photographer. Maybe I could photograph using my feet. I doubt that would go down well on the most exclusive ship in the world, especially as I was expected to wear a skirt the majority of the time. Shame. Actually what was going on? Why would I wear a short skirt and high-heels if I was a photographer? Something just occurred to me, it was no accident! The patriarch!
The more I looked at the attire, the more repulsed I became. Whoever had designed that uniform was bitter and cruel. In terms of attractive/sexiness, no sausage would twitch a response. Every single man who gazed upon uniformed individual would most definitely think of their grandmother. Since the ship was primarily packed with guests in their seventies maybe there was method in the floral madness.
The uniform master handed me a jacket to try on, it had a functional problem no arm movement. A photographer had to be able to bend, squat or crouch. What’s more we had been advised to wear stockings with the short skirt - how was I supposed to photograph people sitting on a white background on the floor? Should be interesting. Memories of re-birth?
The main issue for me was the jacket. There was nothing in stock that would enable any arm movement. I can tell you this now - I never thought that clothing could be such an issue. I tried numerous jackets and one had to be cut off! Talk about humiliatio! Finally I had an ill-fitting set. With the full uniform in front of the mirror I came to the conclusion I resembled a floral granny, in a tarty short skirt, stockings and a straight jacket. Brilliant!
‘We don’t usually have women as big as you,’ said the uniform master attempting to console me.
I tended to disagree. Yes I am tall but I had noticed some South Africans and Scandinavian women working onboard the ship. Most of them could happily weild an axe!
‘Can’t I just wear a man’s jacket?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘You’re not a man,’ he responded.
He was keen with his observation, but there was still no answer. Eventually a cardigan two sizes too small, that constricted the blood to my arms was provided. Brilliant!
I already knew I was in trouble. If the hotel manager saw the mess of ill-fitting uniform I would be called in and disciplined!
Beneath the surface 9
Amy stood next to me. ‘I can’t wait to get onboard and see my boyfriend we are going to break the bed when we see each other.’
‘Is he really heavy?’ Or was it strange ship ritual for arrival?
She smiled, ‘no we haven’t seen each other for two months. We have some catching up to do.’
Lovely! Why do people feel the need to inform strangers of their sexual escapades?
Once inside the ship the crew were lined up against the wall in the crew corridor. We had to wait in line for the crew purser. The crew purser’s office was where we handed our passports - our freedom. There we were photographed, given a crew number, cabin key, handed in medicals and signed documents. A couple of days later we would receive a crew card.
While I waited in the corridor a took in the scenery, of lack of it. The stark corridor travelled the length of entire ship and appeared to go on forever. That corridor was the link to all areas. The floor was mid-grey, the walls off white and the crew space was illuminated by bright fluorescent tubing. Fire safety diagrams and muster station information decorated the walls. They reminded you of your duties and gave the subconscious reminder that you always had to be prepared for a disaster. It could happen at any time. The area was empty and impersonal.
Closer to the crew office crew boards listed crew activities and safety training. Times New Roman type on coloured paper was the extent of luxury. Everything was so stark and sterile in comparison to the exuberant luxury above. In truth the underbelly of the ship resembled a hospital or an asylum. It gave the clear message that you were worth nothing and deserved nothing. The extremes between the division was extreme to say the least. Polarities: glitz versus prisonesque. Maybe it was a purposeful psychological construction to remind crew of their servile role. Where they could observe the guest who wallowed in luxury. The crew could look in but never experience it- imagine being in a room full of chocolate and not be able to taste it. My beautiful ship was simply a veneer with a hollow interior. No-one would know that to look at her; her superficial beauty distracted from the truth- the stark emptiness that laid beneath the surface.
I glanced down the corridor, crew in a variety of uniform rushed back and forth. Most were in preparation for embarkation duty, when an influx of new guest stormed the ship- the cruise sausage factory. That day the crew suffered, it began at midnight the previous night when all the suitcases were moved into the loading bay in the crew area. Each case was stacked and thrown against the wall where the crew were sleeping. While this took place your bed shook until all the cases were stacked. Breakfast began at four for the early leavers and service throughout the day continued until eleven in the evening. The stewardesses clean and prepared rooms, while everyone else was allocated welcome duties. The guests never had a clue, it was a usual embarkation. Now imagine having to wear an exhausted smile from no sleep for the whole day. What’s more you were lucky to get an hours break.
While I stood in line for the crew office I received my first glances. I had forgotten the vulturous protocol and the new meat syndrome. By stepping on board I had become what was termed as ‘new meat.’ New meat is exactly what it says it is: you fresh meat which has not been tainted by the sexual escapades of the other crew. By being new you become a prize to be competed for. On the gangway your previous sexual is wiped clean and you become a ship virgin that everyone wants a piece of. You don’t have a torrid sexual history that can be tracked and remembered by everyone on board, nor have you been the focus of malicious gossip. That means you are now considered pure: a ship virgin and everyone wants a piece of it.
After I folded my arms I shuffled closer to Amy; numerous men came and kissed her, each surreptitiously checked me out. Each one sizing me for potential shag-ability. It was like watching starving dogs jostling for a meaty bone. It was something you learned to accept, but something you are very aware of. Some find it empowering, others find it degrading. I was ambivalent. It would take someone very special to capture my eye since I was still recovering from a fractured heart. It was either join the Foreign Legion or join a ship.
The crew line slowly diminished; it seemed that the Sparkle crew returned contract after contract. That was a rare thing within the cruising industry. Most ships had a constant turn over, maybe there was something special about the company. Why else would crew to keep returning? Admittedly it was a small company, and of all the companies I have previously worked for Sparkle was considered the best. What’s more it seemed rare for new people to join unless they worked in the shops or the photography department. Both the shops and the photography sections were concessions which meant they outside and outcast by the ‘Sparkle’ hierarchy. Of course being a concession made you the lowest of the low and you were treated as such.
Back in the line, waiting for the crew purser, Amy was kissed and cuddled by everyone who passed by. With every kiss she grew more and more excited; I was concerned she might unintentionally orgasm. It was obvious Sparkle Symmetry was her home and her life. The fact that she was so overwhelmed with joy to be back was touching. It was a good sign; maybe it would be okay.
‘Is he really heavy?’ Or was it strange ship ritual for arrival?
She smiled, ‘no we haven’t seen each other for two months. We have some catching up to do.’
Lovely! Why do people feel the need to inform strangers of their sexual escapades?
Once inside the ship the crew were lined up against the wall in the crew corridor. We had to wait in line for the crew purser. The crew purser’s office was where we handed our passports - our freedom. There we were photographed, given a crew number, cabin key, handed in medicals and signed documents. A couple of days later we would receive a crew card.
While I waited in the corridor a took in the scenery, of lack of it. The stark corridor travelled the length of entire ship and appeared to go on forever. That corridor was the link to all areas. The floor was mid-grey, the walls off white and the crew space was illuminated by bright fluorescent tubing. Fire safety diagrams and muster station information decorated the walls. They reminded you of your duties and gave the subconscious reminder that you always had to be prepared for a disaster. It could happen at any time. The area was empty and impersonal.
Closer to the crew office crew boards listed crew activities and safety training. Times New Roman type on coloured paper was the extent of luxury. Everything was so stark and sterile in comparison to the exuberant luxury above. In truth the underbelly of the ship resembled a hospital or an asylum. It gave the clear message that you were worth nothing and deserved nothing. The extremes between the division was extreme to say the least. Polarities: glitz versus prisonesque. Maybe it was a purposeful psychological construction to remind crew of their servile role. Where they could observe the guest who wallowed in luxury. The crew could look in but never experience it- imagine being in a room full of chocolate and not be able to taste it. My beautiful ship was simply a veneer with a hollow interior. No-one would know that to look at her; her superficial beauty distracted from the truth- the stark emptiness that laid beneath the surface.
I glanced down the corridor, crew in a variety of uniform rushed back and forth. Most were in preparation for embarkation duty, when an influx of new guest stormed the ship- the cruise sausage factory. That day the crew suffered, it began at midnight the previous night when all the suitcases were moved into the loading bay in the crew area. Each case was stacked and thrown against the wall where the crew were sleeping. While this took place your bed shook until all the cases were stacked. Breakfast began at four for the early leavers and service throughout the day continued until eleven in the evening. The stewardesses clean and prepared rooms, while everyone else was allocated welcome duties. The guests never had a clue, it was a usual embarkation. Now imagine having to wear an exhausted smile from no sleep for the whole day. What’s more you were lucky to get an hours break.
While I stood in line for the crew office I received my first glances. I had forgotten the vulturous protocol and the new meat syndrome. By stepping on board I had become what was termed as ‘new meat.’ New meat is exactly what it says it is: you fresh meat which has not been tainted by the sexual escapades of the other crew. By being new you become a prize to be competed for. On the gangway your previous sexual is wiped clean and you become a ship virgin that everyone wants a piece of. You don’t have a torrid sexual history that can be tracked and remembered by everyone on board, nor have you been the focus of malicious gossip. That means you are now considered pure: a ship virgin and everyone wants a piece of it.
After I folded my arms I shuffled closer to Amy; numerous men came and kissed her, each surreptitiously checked me out. Each one sizing me for potential shag-ability. It was like watching starving dogs jostling for a meaty bone. It was something you learned to accept, but something you are very aware of. Some find it empowering, others find it degrading. I was ambivalent. It would take someone very special to capture my eye since I was still recovering from a fractured heart. It was either join the Foreign Legion or join a ship.
The crew line slowly diminished; it seemed that the Sparkle crew returned contract after contract. That was a rare thing within the cruising industry. Most ships had a constant turn over, maybe there was something special about the company. Why else would crew to keep returning? Admittedly it was a small company, and of all the companies I have previously worked for Sparkle was considered the best. What’s more it seemed rare for new people to join unless they worked in the shops or the photography department. Both the shops and the photography sections were concessions which meant they outside and outcast by the ‘Sparkle’ hierarchy. Of course being a concession made you the lowest of the low and you were treated as such.
Back in the line, waiting for the crew purser, Amy was kissed and cuddled by everyone who passed by. With every kiss she grew more and more excited; I was concerned she might unintentionally orgasm. It was obvious Sparkle Symmetry was her home and her life. The fact that she was so overwhelmed with joy to be back was touching. It was a good sign; maybe it would be okay.
Thursday, 14 January 2010
Beneath the surface 8
November 10th.
At seven thirty in the morning I stood on the dock gazing up at a pristine white ship. A man hung from a harness polishing a brass bell on the side of the bridge wing. The ship was a pure white, hotty amongst the world of cruise ships. She was graceful and exuded class. I instantly liked her. Already I was impressed by her curvature, her cleanliness and her elegant presence. The ship before me was the Sparkle Symmetry.
Upon arrival I spotted my first gravity defying bouffant. A masterpiece of hair arrangement, somewhat like a Mr whippy of hair perched on the scalp of a woman in her late seventies. It swirled in perfect gravity defying solidity. Beautiful… Well not really beautiful but definitively a point of interest amongst bouffant spotters.
My body jolted: I was back. Surely I should have been pleased but I had an unsettled feeling in my solar plexus. As much as the ship was beautiful, it was only a façade. What was inside her was entirely different. At that precise moment a metamorphosis began: I bid farewell to me, the civilian, and transformed into the uniformed member of crew in servitude. ‘The smile.’
The only barrier separating me from the ship was a large metal gate and security. The crew could not escape! That solitary security guard painstakingly checked the new luggage. Next to him numerous crew lined up like convicts. Each waited patiently, aware that as soon as they stepped on the ship they would instantly be expected to work.
Amy stood next to me watching the guard examine, socks, knickers, shoes - everything.
‘What’s he searching for?’ I asked.
‘Drugs and explosives,’ Amy responded flatly.
‘Standard crew luggage ? Unfortunately I forgot mine…’
She shook her head and smirked. ‘Don’t say that - they might arrest you on suspicion.’
She was right.
Once the security guard completed his task, each member of crew was expected to place their suit case in a large metal container with high walls. The action involved lifting the suitcase above their head. How was that healthy and safety? Imagine failing to turn up for work because you were crushed by your own suitcase! It was possible.
Two hours passed. The mass of crew remained in line, each aware time was dwindling before they began six to eight months of servitude. Many shifted anxiously. The work treadmill was waiting. Once the crew member stepped on the mill the maximum incline and highest speed buttons were both pressed simultaneously. That treadmill would continue between 12-15 hours per day, seven days per week for around six to eight months. The only time for recovery was when you were spat off the end. I shook my head, my survival technique was: sleep whenever you could even if it meant standing up!
In the mean time the security guard painstakingly searched. His method was specific, detailed and involved checking everything from knickers to pockets; pedantic to say the least but that was his job and he was doing it well. The crew watched, each willing him to go faster. It did not happen.
When it came to my turn I stood before him. He studied me. Did I look like a terrorist? I certainly didn’t have a beard, were there any signs that could implicate me?
‘Open the bag,’ he commanded.
I opened a pocket of my bag to reveal a mass of tampons… Always better to be safe than sorry.
‘What are those?’ he asked.
Vaginal incendiary devices?
‘Tampons,’ I replied.
‘You need that many?’ he asked with a serious tone.
How do you answer that? Unfortunately there is no opportunity for reuse or recycle.
‘Erm… yes.’
‘And the other bag?’ he asked.
‘Stinky shoes and some dirty knickers. Do you need to search them?’
He smirked but covered his mouth.
Oh God… What if I was a potential suspect for knicker terrorism. Miss Bliss and the dirty knickers that were a threat to national security.
‘Miss Bliss do you or do you not agree that your knickers are dangerous?’ My tired mind played out the court room scenario. I unconsciously shook my head - it was a horrible thought.
Once my mind was back in order I noticed his straight face had cracked.
‘I guess I win the award for most random contents of bags,’ I said.
‘Yes you do,’ he paused and studied my coat. ‘What’s in the pocket of the blazer?’
‘A mass of snotty tissues,’ I replied.
He studied me in awe/ repulsion. Why lie? What did he expect? A nice answer?
‘Could I have an escort to the ship,’ he called down his radio.
A moment later a fellow security guard arrived and made the crew line up. He led us single file towards the crew gangway where we had our bags x-rayed as we embarked.
One ship I joined a fellow crew member was pulled aside for attempting to smuggle a vibrator on board. In front of everyone the Ghurkha security waved the vibrator at her.
‘Is there potential for explosion?’ he demanded.
She smiled coyley, ’yes but not the way you think…’
She was then escorted to the Staff Captain’s office to explain the find.
At seven thirty in the morning I stood on the dock gazing up at a pristine white ship. A man hung from a harness polishing a brass bell on the side of the bridge wing. The ship was a pure white, hotty amongst the world of cruise ships. She was graceful and exuded class. I instantly liked her. Already I was impressed by her curvature, her cleanliness and her elegant presence. The ship before me was the Sparkle Symmetry.
Upon arrival I spotted my first gravity defying bouffant. A masterpiece of hair arrangement, somewhat like a Mr whippy of hair perched on the scalp of a woman in her late seventies. It swirled in perfect gravity defying solidity. Beautiful… Well not really beautiful but definitively a point of interest amongst bouffant spotters.
My body jolted: I was back. Surely I should have been pleased but I had an unsettled feeling in my solar plexus. As much as the ship was beautiful, it was only a façade. What was inside her was entirely different. At that precise moment a metamorphosis began: I bid farewell to me, the civilian, and transformed into the uniformed member of crew in servitude. ‘The smile.’
The only barrier separating me from the ship was a large metal gate and security. The crew could not escape! That solitary security guard painstakingly checked the new luggage. Next to him numerous crew lined up like convicts. Each waited patiently, aware that as soon as they stepped on the ship they would instantly be expected to work.
Amy stood next to me watching the guard examine, socks, knickers, shoes - everything.
‘What’s he searching for?’ I asked.
‘Drugs and explosives,’ Amy responded flatly.
‘Standard crew luggage ? Unfortunately I forgot mine…’
She shook her head and smirked. ‘Don’t say that - they might arrest you on suspicion.’
She was right.
Once the security guard completed his task, each member of crew was expected to place their suit case in a large metal container with high walls. The action involved lifting the suitcase above their head. How was that healthy and safety? Imagine failing to turn up for work because you were crushed by your own suitcase! It was possible.
Two hours passed. The mass of crew remained in line, each aware time was dwindling before they began six to eight months of servitude. Many shifted anxiously. The work treadmill was waiting. Once the crew member stepped on the mill the maximum incline and highest speed buttons were both pressed simultaneously. That treadmill would continue between 12-15 hours per day, seven days per week for around six to eight months. The only time for recovery was when you were spat off the end. I shook my head, my survival technique was: sleep whenever you could even if it meant standing up!
In the mean time the security guard painstakingly searched. His method was specific, detailed and involved checking everything from knickers to pockets; pedantic to say the least but that was his job and he was doing it well. The crew watched, each willing him to go faster. It did not happen.
When it came to my turn I stood before him. He studied me. Did I look like a terrorist? I certainly didn’t have a beard, were there any signs that could implicate me?
‘Open the bag,’ he commanded.
I opened a pocket of my bag to reveal a mass of tampons… Always better to be safe than sorry.
‘What are those?’ he asked.
Vaginal incendiary devices?
‘Tampons,’ I replied.
‘You need that many?’ he asked with a serious tone.
How do you answer that? Unfortunately there is no opportunity for reuse or recycle.
‘Erm… yes.’
‘And the other bag?’ he asked.
‘Stinky shoes and some dirty knickers. Do you need to search them?’
He smirked but covered his mouth.
Oh God… What if I was a potential suspect for knicker terrorism. Miss Bliss and the dirty knickers that were a threat to national security.
‘Miss Bliss do you or do you not agree that your knickers are dangerous?’ My tired mind played out the court room scenario. I unconsciously shook my head - it was a horrible thought.
Once my mind was back in order I noticed his straight face had cracked.
‘I guess I win the award for most random contents of bags,’ I said.
‘Yes you do,’ he paused and studied my coat. ‘What’s in the pocket of the blazer?’
‘A mass of snotty tissues,’ I replied.
He studied me in awe/ repulsion. Why lie? What did he expect? A nice answer?
‘Could I have an escort to the ship,’ he called down his radio.
A moment later a fellow security guard arrived and made the crew line up. He led us single file towards the crew gangway where we had our bags x-rayed as we embarked.
One ship I joined a fellow crew member was pulled aside for attempting to smuggle a vibrator on board. In front of everyone the Ghurkha security waved the vibrator at her.
‘Is there potential for explosion?’ he demanded.
She smiled coyley, ’yes but not the way you think…’
She was then escorted to the Staff Captain’s office to explain the find.
Beneath the surface 7
November 9th
Day one of adventure! Yes! Leaving England at four in the morning was not an experience I loved. Still I was leaving England to avoid an English winter. That morning was freezing and I of course I had to carry the heaviest bag in the world on my back. If I could have filled a bag with cement it would have been marginally heavier.
My brother was kind enough to walk me to the bus station. It was Sunday morning after Saturday night and there were plenty of drunks meandering across the road. A group of drunken teenagers had cleverly found an Asda trolley and filled it with their mates. They were ramming everything they saw; everyone screamed with drunken delight. Bournemouth by night - spectacular!
At the bus station a group of swearing drunks were trying to convince the bus driver that they were sober and should be allowed on the bus… When I turned up with my luggage they stopped swearing and asked my brother where I was going.
‘Antarctica,’ he said.
‘What’s it like to party down there?’ they asked.
‘It’s a vast land of ice, settled with a few military bases and scientific research stations,’ was Bro’s specific response.
‘So not that great then?’ asked the drunk.
‘Not unless you’re a penguin,’ I responded.
The group studied me curiously.
Once at Heathrow I made my way to terminal five for a fast and efficient check in. I kept the heaviest bag in the world with me and realised this was the last time I would be in England for six months. For an hour I sat and watched people mill about the airport. It dawned on me that we were all there for a common reason: we were all going somewhere to do something. The airport, for me, was always the beginning of something new. I love airports because people are united or have a purpose. Everyone at that airport is anticipating a new adventure or returning from an experience. I find that inspirational. Although making your way through security was quite the opposite - especially when your knee-high, buckled boots set off alarms.
The window seat of the plane was always the worst in terms of toilet access. On top of that two guys slept next to me. Boring! The flight was ten hours long so I had no choice but to watch four films in a row. I regulated my bladder to three hourly bursts… You know what? The guy next to me kept blowing off. He was from Norway and whenever he woke up stuffed that weird tobacco stuff under his lip. He then made a loud sucking sound before he returned to sleep. He smelt odd too, like mud, wet dog and pete bog combined. So ten hours of rot smell - brilliant! That was the trouble of flying alone: you never know who you’re going to get stuck next to. One time I had an obese Russian with a body odour problem. Another time the check-in girl was having a joke and placed me amongst the Kenyan weight lifting team. I was the last person on the plane, with one seat remaining amongst five rows of muscle bound Kenyans. What made it worse was the other passengers appeared to be waiting in anticipation: who was the lucky person who had been allocated the remaining seat? Me!
Arrival in the U.S is usually awkward; they treat you like convicts; guilty until proven innocent. As a member of crew I was escorted to a room full of other potential felons who were obviously trying to break into America. Anyway in the ‘special’ interview room I met Amy, a South African who worked on my new ship. She was tall, blonde and had a face designed for customer service. Her face could smile while her eyes drove daggers into anyone who gave her grief. I liked her.
‘Are you going to be working for Sparkle too?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Is it your first time on a ship?’
That was a standard question; it seemed people were always interested in gauging how ship naive you were.
‘No it’s my fourteenth.’
‘Ah, quite experienced then?’ she said with a wink.
Brackets (ah you know what it’s like and you’re not going to fall for anything. And you are aware of the new meat syndrome.)
Inside the potential felons waiting room we waited and waited. Amy was friendly so we chatted about everything under the sun. She was in awe of the fact that four of the five interviewers /guards were in a heated debate about Obama and the pro’s and cons of his leadership. Bearing in mind there were probably fifty of us waiting to be cleared, it seemed a little shoddy. It was apparent the interviewers were all trying to get out of work! Eventually a fight broke out between the guards and they had to be separated. It was apparent that to avoid work all you had to do was physically fight with your colleagues! A technique I may well employ on the ship.
Two hours later I was interviewed about being a photographer. I was further interviewed about the fact that I used Canon rather than Nikon. The security guard was actually attempting to convert me… Madness! I wondered whether I would be put back on a plane because of my taste in camera equipment.
Eventually I cleared security and Linda was waiting in the arrivals area. She was a portly, middle aged lady with yellow-blonde bobbed hair and a classic English accent. When we caught the taxi a wave of realisation hit me: I was out of England and in the warmth of Miami. Life was full of potential. Yey!!!!
When we arrived at the hotel Linda arranged for me to have my own room. Thank goodness! The first thing I did was check to see if there were any biscuits and peruse the mini-bar to see what drinks were for the taking. After eating a whole host of short breads and pistachio nuts with diet coke I finally relaxed. Whilst still chewing I took a shower and ignored the little voice calling me to sleep. At that moment I had already been awake for at least to twenty four hours.
‘Do you want to go for a stroll and get some food or go to sleep?’ asked Linda down the phone.
‘A stroll and food would be good. I’d love to see Miami by night,’ I replied
‘Okay I will meet you in the foyer in five minutes,’ she said.
Strolling through a plaza close to the Marina you could smell salty, warm air. It was so comfortable in comparison to the bitter English weather.
We found an Italian restaurant with tables spread along a promenade, it overlooked numerous yachts. Beneath the restaurant was a docking area for speed boats. One particular boat had two drunken topless guys wearing baseball caps; they danced/swaggered in a drunken seductive manner to some Latin music. Their dance evolved into gestures, I side glanced and noticed they were trying to gain our attention.
‘Don’t look but they’re calling you over. Do you want to go and dance with them?’ I asked cheekily.
‘No way! Not to that music!’ she said very seriously.
‘Do you want me to get them to change the music?’ I said with a smirk.
She giggled and sensed I was up to mischief. Linda was a real sweetie; she was organised, efficient and straight down the line. We drank wine and chatted endlessly. In fact we could have both won medals in the chatting/random story Olympics.
On the journey back to the hotel I noticed a massage area. Chairs were set up for a street massage. Ten dollars for ten minutes and my God it was worth it. After such a long flight and carrying such a heavy bag the massage was perfect. I treated Linda to a pummelling I think she would have preferred not to have. In a daze the pair of us wafted back to the hotel to learn that Marissa had arrived.
Marissa was Brazilian and employed to work on my photo team. It turned out that she was not a trained photographer; she had worked as a waitress on a ship. She decided to change roles and become a photographer. Something was niggling me: Ken had clearly stated that all the photographers on board would be professional… Was I surprised he had lied again? What was worse was I suspected she was paid the same wage. I wondered how she got the job.
Marissa opened the door, ‘Hello.’
The answer to how she got the job suddenly became clear: massive boobs.
‘Marissa?’ asked Linda
‘Yes me Marissa from Braaaaaaaaaazil.’
‘Hi,’ I said.
‘I am from Rio,’ she said side-glancing me.
‘Good,’ said Linda.
Marissa looked around forty something, a bottled blonde with light eyes and brown creased skin. She was petite on top and looked as though she was carrying two pillows in her knickers. I accepted Brazilians were famed for their behinds, but this lady had an amble bottom that did not fit with the rest of her body. How could I explain? The bottom suited a woman who may well require one and a half seats on a bus rather than just one. Maybe it could be described as two ferrets trapped in a pillowcase - per cheek. Obviously Marrissa caught me looking her over and shot me a glance.
For a woman of her age her behaviour was like that of a small girl. She looked and acted with a soft voice, a voice eager to impress her new boss. Still when you peered into her eyes you sensed something else: she was not quite what she seemed. I could sense we weren’t going to get on. What was worse we were going to have to share a cabin.
Oh God I hope she’s not a psycho! I have shared rooms with far too many nutters to list. Although the one who stapled beer cans together to build her plane home was pretty bad, then there was the woman who I woke up to find her watching me sleep. God please let Marrissa be sane!
We bid Marissa good night, it was already apparent that her English language was not all that. There was confusion and a blank expression over simple words.
‘We will see you tomorrow Marissa,’ said Linda.
‘Yeyyysss.’
‘At Breakfast,’ said Linda.
‘Yeysss.’
‘You understand?’ asked Linda in a concerned tone.
‘Yeyssss.’
‘Tomorrow,’ said Linda in a louder tone.
‘Yeysss.’
‘Okay?’ said Linda.
‘Yeysss.’
‘Good night,’ said Linda
‘Linda, where tomorrow meet I?’
Oh shit!
Day one of adventure! Yes! Leaving England at four in the morning was not an experience I loved. Still I was leaving England to avoid an English winter. That morning was freezing and I of course I had to carry the heaviest bag in the world on my back. If I could have filled a bag with cement it would have been marginally heavier.
My brother was kind enough to walk me to the bus station. It was Sunday morning after Saturday night and there were plenty of drunks meandering across the road. A group of drunken teenagers had cleverly found an Asda trolley and filled it with their mates. They were ramming everything they saw; everyone screamed with drunken delight. Bournemouth by night - spectacular!
At the bus station a group of swearing drunks were trying to convince the bus driver that they were sober and should be allowed on the bus… When I turned up with my luggage they stopped swearing and asked my brother where I was going.
‘Antarctica,’ he said.
‘What’s it like to party down there?’ they asked.
‘It’s a vast land of ice, settled with a few military bases and scientific research stations,’ was Bro’s specific response.
‘So not that great then?’ asked the drunk.
‘Not unless you’re a penguin,’ I responded.
The group studied me curiously.
Once at Heathrow I made my way to terminal five for a fast and efficient check in. I kept the heaviest bag in the world with me and realised this was the last time I would be in England for six months. For an hour I sat and watched people mill about the airport. It dawned on me that we were all there for a common reason: we were all going somewhere to do something. The airport, for me, was always the beginning of something new. I love airports because people are united or have a purpose. Everyone at that airport is anticipating a new adventure or returning from an experience. I find that inspirational. Although making your way through security was quite the opposite - especially when your knee-high, buckled boots set off alarms.
The window seat of the plane was always the worst in terms of toilet access. On top of that two guys slept next to me. Boring! The flight was ten hours long so I had no choice but to watch four films in a row. I regulated my bladder to three hourly bursts… You know what? The guy next to me kept blowing off. He was from Norway and whenever he woke up stuffed that weird tobacco stuff under his lip. He then made a loud sucking sound before he returned to sleep. He smelt odd too, like mud, wet dog and pete bog combined. So ten hours of rot smell - brilliant! That was the trouble of flying alone: you never know who you’re going to get stuck next to. One time I had an obese Russian with a body odour problem. Another time the check-in girl was having a joke and placed me amongst the Kenyan weight lifting team. I was the last person on the plane, with one seat remaining amongst five rows of muscle bound Kenyans. What made it worse was the other passengers appeared to be waiting in anticipation: who was the lucky person who had been allocated the remaining seat? Me!
Arrival in the U.S is usually awkward; they treat you like convicts; guilty until proven innocent. As a member of crew I was escorted to a room full of other potential felons who were obviously trying to break into America. Anyway in the ‘special’ interview room I met Amy, a South African who worked on my new ship. She was tall, blonde and had a face designed for customer service. Her face could smile while her eyes drove daggers into anyone who gave her grief. I liked her.
‘Are you going to be working for Sparkle too?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Is it your first time on a ship?’
That was a standard question; it seemed people were always interested in gauging how ship naive you were.
‘No it’s my fourteenth.’
‘Ah, quite experienced then?’ she said with a wink.
Brackets (ah you know what it’s like and you’re not going to fall for anything. And you are aware of the new meat syndrome.)
Inside the potential felons waiting room we waited and waited. Amy was friendly so we chatted about everything under the sun. She was in awe of the fact that four of the five interviewers /guards were in a heated debate about Obama and the pro’s and cons of his leadership. Bearing in mind there were probably fifty of us waiting to be cleared, it seemed a little shoddy. It was apparent the interviewers were all trying to get out of work! Eventually a fight broke out between the guards and they had to be separated. It was apparent that to avoid work all you had to do was physically fight with your colleagues! A technique I may well employ on the ship.
Two hours later I was interviewed about being a photographer. I was further interviewed about the fact that I used Canon rather than Nikon. The security guard was actually attempting to convert me… Madness! I wondered whether I would be put back on a plane because of my taste in camera equipment.
Eventually I cleared security and Linda was waiting in the arrivals area. She was a portly, middle aged lady with yellow-blonde bobbed hair and a classic English accent. When we caught the taxi a wave of realisation hit me: I was out of England and in the warmth of Miami. Life was full of potential. Yey!!!!
When we arrived at the hotel Linda arranged for me to have my own room. Thank goodness! The first thing I did was check to see if there were any biscuits and peruse the mini-bar to see what drinks were for the taking. After eating a whole host of short breads and pistachio nuts with diet coke I finally relaxed. Whilst still chewing I took a shower and ignored the little voice calling me to sleep. At that moment I had already been awake for at least to twenty four hours.
‘Do you want to go for a stroll and get some food or go to sleep?’ asked Linda down the phone.
‘A stroll and food would be good. I’d love to see Miami by night,’ I replied
‘Okay I will meet you in the foyer in five minutes,’ she said.
Strolling through a plaza close to the Marina you could smell salty, warm air. It was so comfortable in comparison to the bitter English weather.
We found an Italian restaurant with tables spread along a promenade, it overlooked numerous yachts. Beneath the restaurant was a docking area for speed boats. One particular boat had two drunken topless guys wearing baseball caps; they danced/swaggered in a drunken seductive manner to some Latin music. Their dance evolved into gestures, I side glanced and noticed they were trying to gain our attention.
‘Don’t look but they’re calling you over. Do you want to go and dance with them?’ I asked cheekily.
‘No way! Not to that music!’ she said very seriously.
‘Do you want me to get them to change the music?’ I said with a smirk.
She giggled and sensed I was up to mischief. Linda was a real sweetie; she was organised, efficient and straight down the line. We drank wine and chatted endlessly. In fact we could have both won medals in the chatting/random story Olympics.
On the journey back to the hotel I noticed a massage area. Chairs were set up for a street massage. Ten dollars for ten minutes and my God it was worth it. After such a long flight and carrying such a heavy bag the massage was perfect. I treated Linda to a pummelling I think she would have preferred not to have. In a daze the pair of us wafted back to the hotel to learn that Marissa had arrived.
Marissa was Brazilian and employed to work on my photo team. It turned out that she was not a trained photographer; she had worked as a waitress on a ship. She decided to change roles and become a photographer. Something was niggling me: Ken had clearly stated that all the photographers on board would be professional… Was I surprised he had lied again? What was worse was I suspected she was paid the same wage. I wondered how she got the job.
Marissa opened the door, ‘Hello.’
The answer to how she got the job suddenly became clear: massive boobs.
‘Marissa?’ asked Linda
‘Yes me Marissa from Braaaaaaaaaazil.’
‘Hi,’ I said.
‘I am from Rio,’ she said side-glancing me.
‘Good,’ said Linda.
Marissa looked around forty something, a bottled blonde with light eyes and brown creased skin. She was petite on top and looked as though she was carrying two pillows in her knickers. I accepted Brazilians were famed for their behinds, but this lady had an amble bottom that did not fit with the rest of her body. How could I explain? The bottom suited a woman who may well require one and a half seats on a bus rather than just one. Maybe it could be described as two ferrets trapped in a pillowcase - per cheek. Obviously Marrissa caught me looking her over and shot me a glance.
For a woman of her age her behaviour was like that of a small girl. She looked and acted with a soft voice, a voice eager to impress her new boss. Still when you peered into her eyes you sensed something else: she was not quite what she seemed. I could sense we weren’t going to get on. What was worse we were going to have to share a cabin.
Oh God I hope she’s not a psycho! I have shared rooms with far too many nutters to list. Although the one who stapled beer cans together to build her plane home was pretty bad, then there was the woman who I woke up to find her watching me sleep. God please let Marrissa be sane!
We bid Marissa good night, it was already apparent that her English language was not all that. There was confusion and a blank expression over simple words.
‘We will see you tomorrow Marissa,’ said Linda.
‘Yeyyysss.’
‘At Breakfast,’ said Linda.
‘Yeysss.’
‘You understand?’ asked Linda in a concerned tone.
‘Yeyssss.’
‘Tomorrow,’ said Linda in a louder tone.
‘Yeysss.’
‘Okay?’ said Linda.
‘Yeysss.’
‘Good night,’ said Linda
‘Linda, where tomorrow meet I?’
Oh shit!
Beneath the surface 6
November 8th
My last day in England. I met up with Jen in Boscombe garden’s clock café. That little café made the best soup in the world and sold the best carrot cake and chocolate brownies ever! I was going to miss it; actually thinking about it - it was amazing what you missed while you were away : toasted cheese and pickle sandwiches, friends, Cadburys chocolate and home made carrot cake.
Anyway Jen and I sat giggling when Jill, soup maker extraordinaire, came over wearing her most appropriate soup making outfit: white jacket, white hat and dark blue trousers. Jill was salt of the earth and you could only imagine the delight on her face when she created a new soup flavour.
‘We’re going to miss you Felicity. I always know when the pair of you’re here because there’s always raucous laughing. You know I thought about you and your travels and came up with the idea of a silver flask being parachuted into Antarctica.’
‘Good idea, but Antarctica is pretty huge,’ I said.
‘We’ll need a homing device then,’ said Jill matter of factly.
‘Jill you know I’m going to really miss your carrot cake… Please make me a whole carrot cake for my return…’
‘Will do, we’ll ice it with your name on. It’ll be waiting,’ she said. ‘In the mean time I’ll be wishing on the star for Mummy Jills café to come about. You know how I wish on that star…’ she said with her hand on her hip.
She was such a star herself and I genuinely wished that her dream would come true by the time I returned.
‘I hope it works,’ I said.
Jill grinned, ‘it will,’ she said toddling off.
Jen sighed and shook her head; her female partner in raucous laughter crime was abandoning her.
‘I can’t believe you’re buggering off on a ship! I feel so abandoned. What about Salsa? God I’m going to miss you. I don’t blame you though. Business is crap. The winter is coming. God I wish I was going too,’ she said with a loud sigh.
‘You could go if you really wanted to,’ I replied.
‘You know I can’t leave my business,’ she said shaking her head.
Her business was recruitment and at that time in England, where job losses were thick and fast, it was probably the worst job she could have, other than banking.
The rest of the afternoon was spent packing. I am such a limited packer. I just took two of everything except knickers and socks of course - I take more of those. My mum once asked whether people on World cruises took a pair of knickers for each day. I have never found out the answer but it would explain why some women turned up with twenty four suitcases. They probably wore very large knickers!
My last day in England. I met up with Jen in Boscombe garden’s clock café. That little café made the best soup in the world and sold the best carrot cake and chocolate brownies ever! I was going to miss it; actually thinking about it - it was amazing what you missed while you were away : toasted cheese and pickle sandwiches, friends, Cadburys chocolate and home made carrot cake.
Anyway Jen and I sat giggling when Jill, soup maker extraordinaire, came over wearing her most appropriate soup making outfit: white jacket, white hat and dark blue trousers. Jill was salt of the earth and you could only imagine the delight on her face when she created a new soup flavour.
‘We’re going to miss you Felicity. I always know when the pair of you’re here because there’s always raucous laughing. You know I thought about you and your travels and came up with the idea of a silver flask being parachuted into Antarctica.’
‘Good idea, but Antarctica is pretty huge,’ I said.
‘We’ll need a homing device then,’ said Jill matter of factly.
‘Jill you know I’m going to really miss your carrot cake… Please make me a whole carrot cake for my return…’
‘Will do, we’ll ice it with your name on. It’ll be waiting,’ she said. ‘In the mean time I’ll be wishing on the star for Mummy Jills café to come about. You know how I wish on that star…’ she said with her hand on her hip.
She was such a star herself and I genuinely wished that her dream would come true by the time I returned.
‘I hope it works,’ I said.
Jill grinned, ‘it will,’ she said toddling off.
Jen sighed and shook her head; her female partner in raucous laughter crime was abandoning her.
‘I can’t believe you’re buggering off on a ship! I feel so abandoned. What about Salsa? God I’m going to miss you. I don’t blame you though. Business is crap. The winter is coming. God I wish I was going too,’ she said with a loud sigh.
‘You could go if you really wanted to,’ I replied.
‘You know I can’t leave my business,’ she said shaking her head.
Her business was recruitment and at that time in England, where job losses were thick and fast, it was probably the worst job she could have, other than banking.
The rest of the afternoon was spent packing. I am such a limited packer. I just took two of everything except knickers and socks of course - I take more of those. My mum once asked whether people on World cruises took a pair of knickers for each day. I have never found out the answer but it would explain why some women turned up with twenty four suitcases. They probably wore very large knickers!
Beneath the surface 5
Nov 2nd
As I thought… There was a catch. My new company kindly booked me a hotel in Miami. Which sounds very nice but I just read the booking form: No.1 guest Me. Additional Guest Marissa. Who is Marissa? And why did no-one tell me that I was going to be sharing a hotel room with a stranger? Oh God it was another one of their short cuts - lets save some money and treat our professional photographers like cattle. What was ironic about that was my friends were going on about my so called glamorous life. Truth: it is not glamorous. That is why I write this diary - evidence - the anti-thesis of glamour.
E-mail:
‘Dear Linda,
Who is Marissa?
So just to point out the obvious: I am staying in a hotel room and some stranger walks in. What do I do? I assume I am being robbed and take the appropriate action. I think you should be aware of that. Is there any chance I could have my own room?
Kind Regards
Felicity.’
Oh God did I really want to work for that company? They seemed to be making short cuts the whole time. If that was their attitude off the ship then what would it be like onboard - once I was trapped? I could understand if the hotel room was expensive but it cost about £100. A company that made two million profit a year spending £100 on a hotel room wasn’t that massive.
I had a bad feeling.
November 6th
Another trip to London. It took just over two hours from Bournemouth and cost around eighty pounds to reach the Vietnamese embassy during their limited opening times. When I arrived at the embassy I went to collect my passport. I quickly learned they had thrown all the documents away that supported my application. What’s more (and this made me particularly happy) one of the documents was a letter of immigration. Thank God I photocopied it!
‘Where are the documents with the passport?’ I asked.
‘You have them,’ he said
‘No you requested them for the visa,’ I said.
‘No my responsibility,’ he said.
‘So whose responsibility is it?’ I asked.
‘Yours,’ he said,
‘Oh I see… So it is my responsibility that you look after the documents that I give you to enable me to have a visa.’
‘Yes.’
There was nothing that could be done. There was no-one to complain to. You had to accept defeat.
As I thought… There was a catch. My new company kindly booked me a hotel in Miami. Which sounds very nice but I just read the booking form: No.1 guest Me. Additional Guest Marissa. Who is Marissa? And why did no-one tell me that I was going to be sharing a hotel room with a stranger? Oh God it was another one of their short cuts - lets save some money and treat our professional photographers like cattle. What was ironic about that was my friends were going on about my so called glamorous life. Truth: it is not glamorous. That is why I write this diary - evidence - the anti-thesis of glamour.
E-mail:
‘Dear Linda,
Who is Marissa?
So just to point out the obvious: I am staying in a hotel room and some stranger walks in. What do I do? I assume I am being robbed and take the appropriate action. I think you should be aware of that. Is there any chance I could have my own room?
Kind Regards
Felicity.’
Oh God did I really want to work for that company? They seemed to be making short cuts the whole time. If that was their attitude off the ship then what would it be like onboard - once I was trapped? I could understand if the hotel room was expensive but it cost about £100. A company that made two million profit a year spending £100 on a hotel room wasn’t that massive.
I had a bad feeling.
November 6th
Another trip to London. It took just over two hours from Bournemouth and cost around eighty pounds to reach the Vietnamese embassy during their limited opening times. When I arrived at the embassy I went to collect my passport. I quickly learned they had thrown all the documents away that supported my application. What’s more (and this made me particularly happy) one of the documents was a letter of immigration. Thank God I photocopied it!
‘Where are the documents with the passport?’ I asked.
‘You have them,’ he said
‘No you requested them for the visa,’ I said.
‘No my responsibility,’ he said.
‘So whose responsibility is it?’ I asked.
‘Yours,’ he said,
‘Oh I see… So it is my responsibility that you look after the documents that I give you to enable me to have a visa.’
‘Yes.’
There was nothing that could be done. There was no-one to complain to. You had to accept defeat.
Beneath the surface 4
October 29th.
The travel photography awards was a classic ‘Felicity’ evening. I was given two different times for the awards ceremony. One was at seven, the other seven thirty. I arrived at seven thirty considering that was the most sensible time to start an awards ceremony. Unfortunately that logic resulted in me being locked out of the ceremony and having to bang on the window like a complete nutter. I still don’t quite understand how they managed to miss the fact that their winner was not present.
Once inside I kept smirking to myself; yet another ‘Felicity’ scenario had taken place. Further into the evening the winners and their partners were invited for dinner with the Editors. One particular winner’s girlfriend repeatedly stated she was renown for her photographic work, although she had not won anything in the competition. The thing was she just kept going on and on. ‘I blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa bla bla bla this…I blah blah blah…. That.
Boring!
I wondered whether I could rebound some bread from a fork into her mouth. I usually carry gaffer tape (for photographic purposes) but that might have been too obvious to gag her in public. Instead I glanced at the editors who used various foods to conceal their yawns.
At one point the editor of one of the classier newspapers caught me rolling my eyes and coughed into her wine. I didn’t mean to but bla bla girl’s behaviour was so desperate. If you intend nut nuzzle / arse invade make sure you do it with style and finesse and wear a snorkel. Anyway further into the evening I met the editor of a cruise magazine who kindly gave me his card. ‘You are about to depart on a ship aren’t you? Please keep in contact and send me some wonderful pictures as you travel, we may even publish some.’
Perfect! Yes!!!! Woooppppp! Another door opened!
On the way back to my hotel I was kindly escorted in the correct direction by another travel editor.
‘Don’t you find it annoying how people just try and sell themselves to you?’ I asked.
‘I’m used to it,’ she responded.
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘That would get on my nerves. I would probably build an obstacle course or something and make them complete that before they talked to me. Then at least I would feel like I was getting something out of it.’
‘So why didn’t you try and sell yourself?’ she asked curiously.
‘I believe my work sells itself and I am about to go around the world on a ship. And more than anything I prefer to be chased!’
We came to the cross roads, ‘Felicity send me your stories,’ she said handing me her card.
I smiled to myself, she meant my photo stories, not my random incidents or adventures. It seemed a door had opened and I was about to travel the world. Life was good!
October 30th
Not being able to drink at the awards was a bonus - I didn’t make a complete fool of myself. Usually when I drink my alter-ego believes she is Lara Croft and feels the distinct urge to explore and climb. On a number of occasions I have convinced a number of people to go garden hopping with me. When three of them were trapped in a garden with high walls and a Rotweiler you soon learn that garden hopping isn’t for everyone.
Today I had to complete my medical to join the ship. With about half an hour until I had to be at the medical I realised the surgery required a copy of my passport as evidence of identity. And where was my passport? Of course it was at the Vietnamese embassy where I couldn’t get hold of it until Wednesday. Brilliant! Another disaster to solve. If I didn’t have the passport I didn’t get the medical. What could I do? I laid down on my hotel bed and scanned my mind for times I had sent copies of my passport to various photo agencies as proof of identity. I needed to find an Internet café.
Frantically I paced Russell square until I realised I had walked past one Internet café three times. Surely if you are an internet café it would be a great idea to advise people of this by simply writing a sign and hanging it outside. Once at the computer I trawled through thousands of e-mails. Nothing. I should have given up… No! One last try. I fed the keyword ‘passport’ into the search and there it was: one e-mail attachment with a copy of my passport details. I printed it off and ran at great speed to Russell Square station where a group of French people were trying to work out how to use the ticket machine. Approximately twenty Londoners fumed behind them. The Frenchies grew angry at each other and gesticulated whilst swearing in French. I had twenty minutes to get to my medical. Brilliant! If was late the medical would be cancelled and I would have wasted three hundred and fifty pounds. Why was I getting stressed?
In the end the Frenchies gave up and the rest of the line stormed the ticket machine. I arrived at the private medical practice on time and upon arrival was kindly handed a pot to urinate in. The receptionist pointed me in the direction of the bathroom. Once inside the cubicle I lined up the container and it was then mid-flow that the fire alarm sounded.
‘Please evacuate the building,’ shouted someone with an authoritive tone.
A full scale evacuation took place but I had one major question: what did I do with the canister of urine? I could hardly run the stairs with it in my hand. I had nothing to disguise the pot with either. It wasn’t as if I was going to risk putting it in my pocket. In the end I placed the canister on a shelf and headed out the door. Who would honestly steal someone else’s pot of we?
In the evacuation point, I met a Spanish girl, ‘this happened to me once before. I was wearing pyjamas and had to leave my apartment,’ she said.
‘Thank God you didn’t sleep naked,’ I responded.
‘One man did, he had to stand outside the building covering himself. It was February.’
Shrinkage.
After climbing numerous flights of stairs back to the fourth floor practice I was called into the doctor’s office. I was given a small, brown, flannel bath robe to wear. It barely covered me and certainly did not meet in my middle.
‘Please free you arm from the robe,’ said the doctor brandishing a blood pressure gage.
Easier said than done. I kindly obliged, but in trying to hide my embarrassment I cleverly transformed the robe into a straight jacket. The doctor eyed me in a way that suggested that I was possibly on the edge of genius, probably the edge at the furthest point.
‘You have high blood pressure. Are you stressed?’
Why would I be stressed? Peeing in a cup and having to evacuate, pulling off miracles with passports, accepting awards and achieving miraculous phenomenon in the shortest time available. Who could be possibly be stressed at that? Maybe next they could set me the task of walking on water whilst wearing lead.
The travel photography awards was a classic ‘Felicity’ evening. I was given two different times for the awards ceremony. One was at seven, the other seven thirty. I arrived at seven thirty considering that was the most sensible time to start an awards ceremony. Unfortunately that logic resulted in me being locked out of the ceremony and having to bang on the window like a complete nutter. I still don’t quite understand how they managed to miss the fact that their winner was not present.
Once inside I kept smirking to myself; yet another ‘Felicity’ scenario had taken place. Further into the evening the winners and their partners were invited for dinner with the Editors. One particular winner’s girlfriend repeatedly stated she was renown for her photographic work, although she had not won anything in the competition. The thing was she just kept going on and on. ‘I blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa bla bla bla this…I blah blah blah…. That.
Boring!
I wondered whether I could rebound some bread from a fork into her mouth. I usually carry gaffer tape (for photographic purposes) but that might have been too obvious to gag her in public. Instead I glanced at the editors who used various foods to conceal their yawns.
At one point the editor of one of the classier newspapers caught me rolling my eyes and coughed into her wine. I didn’t mean to but bla bla girl’s behaviour was so desperate. If you intend nut nuzzle / arse invade make sure you do it with style and finesse and wear a snorkel. Anyway further into the evening I met the editor of a cruise magazine who kindly gave me his card. ‘You are about to depart on a ship aren’t you? Please keep in contact and send me some wonderful pictures as you travel, we may even publish some.’
Perfect! Yes!!!! Woooppppp! Another door opened!
On the way back to my hotel I was kindly escorted in the correct direction by another travel editor.
‘Don’t you find it annoying how people just try and sell themselves to you?’ I asked.
‘I’m used to it,’ she responded.
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘That would get on my nerves. I would probably build an obstacle course or something and make them complete that before they talked to me. Then at least I would feel like I was getting something out of it.’
‘So why didn’t you try and sell yourself?’ she asked curiously.
‘I believe my work sells itself and I am about to go around the world on a ship. And more than anything I prefer to be chased!’
We came to the cross roads, ‘Felicity send me your stories,’ she said handing me her card.
I smiled to myself, she meant my photo stories, not my random incidents or adventures. It seemed a door had opened and I was about to travel the world. Life was good!
October 30th
Not being able to drink at the awards was a bonus - I didn’t make a complete fool of myself. Usually when I drink my alter-ego believes she is Lara Croft and feels the distinct urge to explore and climb. On a number of occasions I have convinced a number of people to go garden hopping with me. When three of them were trapped in a garden with high walls and a Rotweiler you soon learn that garden hopping isn’t for everyone.
Today I had to complete my medical to join the ship. With about half an hour until I had to be at the medical I realised the surgery required a copy of my passport as evidence of identity. And where was my passport? Of course it was at the Vietnamese embassy where I couldn’t get hold of it until Wednesday. Brilliant! Another disaster to solve. If I didn’t have the passport I didn’t get the medical. What could I do? I laid down on my hotel bed and scanned my mind for times I had sent copies of my passport to various photo agencies as proof of identity. I needed to find an Internet café.
Frantically I paced Russell square until I realised I had walked past one Internet café three times. Surely if you are an internet café it would be a great idea to advise people of this by simply writing a sign and hanging it outside. Once at the computer I trawled through thousands of e-mails. Nothing. I should have given up… No! One last try. I fed the keyword ‘passport’ into the search and there it was: one e-mail attachment with a copy of my passport details. I printed it off and ran at great speed to Russell Square station where a group of French people were trying to work out how to use the ticket machine. Approximately twenty Londoners fumed behind them. The Frenchies grew angry at each other and gesticulated whilst swearing in French. I had twenty minutes to get to my medical. Brilliant! If was late the medical would be cancelled and I would have wasted three hundred and fifty pounds. Why was I getting stressed?
In the end the Frenchies gave up and the rest of the line stormed the ticket machine. I arrived at the private medical practice on time and upon arrival was kindly handed a pot to urinate in. The receptionist pointed me in the direction of the bathroom. Once inside the cubicle I lined up the container and it was then mid-flow that the fire alarm sounded.
‘Please evacuate the building,’ shouted someone with an authoritive tone.
A full scale evacuation took place but I had one major question: what did I do with the canister of urine? I could hardly run the stairs with it in my hand. I had nothing to disguise the pot with either. It wasn’t as if I was going to risk putting it in my pocket. In the end I placed the canister on a shelf and headed out the door. Who would honestly steal someone else’s pot of we?
In the evacuation point, I met a Spanish girl, ‘this happened to me once before. I was wearing pyjamas and had to leave my apartment,’ she said.
‘Thank God you didn’t sleep naked,’ I responded.
‘One man did, he had to stand outside the building covering himself. It was February.’
Shrinkage.
After climbing numerous flights of stairs back to the fourth floor practice I was called into the doctor’s office. I was given a small, brown, flannel bath robe to wear. It barely covered me and certainly did not meet in my middle.
‘Please free you arm from the robe,’ said the doctor brandishing a blood pressure gage.
Easier said than done. I kindly obliged, but in trying to hide my embarrassment I cleverly transformed the robe into a straight jacket. The doctor eyed me in a way that suggested that I was possibly on the edge of genius, probably the edge at the furthest point.
‘You have high blood pressure. Are you stressed?’
Why would I be stressed? Peeing in a cup and having to evacuate, pulling off miracles with passports, accepting awards and achieving miraculous phenomenon in the shortest time available. Who could be possibly be stressed at that? Maybe next they could set me the task of walking on water whilst wearing lead.
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