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!
Friday, 15 January 2010
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.
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