In the company of eight thousand boxes and a gallery of soft-porn
Omelette meal number ten. We cross over the galley to the have a more relaxed chat with the ABs and sit down with the men known in the ship as ‘the Indians’. Even official notices sometime mention them as Indian men 1, or Indian men 2; perhaps because of the crew’s unfamiliarity with their type of names, Rajasekhara Naidu, Sitaramanjaneyula Reddy, and Yarlagadda Rao. All three are from a small coastal town near the port city of Visakhapatnam. They have been employed by a manning company. They typically work as painters (ships require a lot of painting and repainting every day). They also do general physical jobs around the ship, moving around loads, helping others with maintenance jobs, keeping watch at nights for pirates and other threats. Except for the occasional night shift to keep watch, they work from nine to six. It is hard work for them, in the engine room, in the open sun, often moving heavy gear and they are perpetually drenched in sweat. They have an extremely humble demeanour about them and smile and greet everyone who comes their way.
After work hours, the ship doesn’t appear to be a natural den for Indians. All the DVDs and books available are in French. And while all the Romanians on-board speak fluent French, the Indian’s speak only English and Telugu. Rajasekhara, or Indian man 2, is in high spirits even when he talks about this isolation, “After six, we just keep chit-chatting among the three of us. It is important. In this kind of life, we are away from home for so long. Without their friendship, I might go crazy. So we just talk about anything.” Sitaramanjaneyula and Yarlagadda just smile. Rajasekhara continues, “Life in a cruise ship is slightly better. At least, we get Indian food there. Here, it is always French.” Sitaramanjaneyula, the Indian man 1, is married and has children while the other two are still bachelors. Rajasekhara’s eyes twinkle when I ask him about the challenges in finding a mate when one spends so much time disconnected from land, “We will get married very easily, I am confident. We may be busy here, but our parents are not busy. They are on the lookout and the prospects always think we have great jobs. They have no idea what skills we have, whether we paint or work as cleaners, but since we are away, we must be doing well.” Yarlagadda gets soda drinks for us and asks Lobo where she is from. She says she is Indian too because she is married to me. The three look very pleased with the answer. I ask them the countries they like to visit most. Rajasekhara says with his permanent smile and swaying head, “You see we have been to more than thirty countries; but at most places, we have seen it only from the ship. Because Indians need visa for almost every country in the world, so at most ports we just have to stay on-board.” They keep looking at the clock and leave sharp on the dot when the meal hour ends, habits that come with a contract job.
Salaries of ABs and officers differ significantly. The Interns make about seven hundred euros a month; when they join as officers, they make two thousand; and as they graduate one day to become either the chief engineer or master, they could make as much as ten to fifteen thousand euros a month. On the other hand, the ABs and the stewards make between a thousand to fifteen hundred euros a month. But while most officers have permanent jobs with long holidays in between the trips, most shipping companies hire ABs on contract. ABs, therefore, look for jobs all around the year. Most of them, after all, come from countries where the per capita income is well below three hundred euros a month.
Omelette meal number twelve. I have been looking at the same scene from my windows; a block of containers, almost regal, gently piercing the sea and the sky. It never changes, the same arrangement of colours and shapes. I feel part of this mission, with a sense of responsibility, to deliver these giant shapes to their destination. Who knows what sleeps inside these sonorous waterproof structures? There could be families inside, dead or alive, as were found in the Tilbury docks in 2014; thirty-five Afghan Sikhs, one dead, the rest lucky by a few minutes in the airless chamber; all put inside by traffickers who even divided the container into partitions for families to sleep with some privacy. Once I open the windows, I can hear the constant roar of the reefers. If indeed there were migrants inside and were crying for help; only death could answer.
Containers sail around for seven to eight years after which they show up on eBay, selling for two thousand dollars. Some are refurbished into fancy homes for bohemians, some end up as housing for construction workers at worksites or as shelters for homeless people or refugees. Container ships on the other hand, typically have a life of twenty-five years during which their ownership changes hands two to three times, and then eventually, when their scrap value is worth more than their resale value, they are sent on their final journey to their graveyards, their favourite ones being places with long shores, high tidal difference, and a lot of cheap labour, essentially three places in the world, the shipbreaking sites at Gadani in Pakistan, Chittagong in Bangladesh, and Alang in India.
Yesterday, we were a day away from Hong Kong, our destination. Today, we are two days away. Whenever we see the master, I can see his stress levels going up, “We don’t know. There could be more delay. There is no berthing space in Hong Kong and pilots are also not free.” I ask him if that means the shipping line will have to compensate its customers. That puts him in a spot, “Really,” he looks confused, “Well, I don’t know the commercial terms. Maybe, yeah, it does make sense to have some kind of penalty for delays.” Such secrecy is common in the shipping industry, crew members even hardly know what cargo they are carrying,
The ship has come to a crawl. The massive engine is now pushing us at less than five knots an hour. After six hours of crawling, the master decides to let the ship go adrift till he has a confirmed berthing time from the Hong Kong port. The bridge is in a relaxed state of mind, even though the crew there has to be on watch for wayward ships. Dragoslav, the navigation officer, is chattier than usual, and more philosophical, “Times have changed for shipping. It is all about money now that the shipping companies care for.” He begins to sing, “Money, Money, Money.. Do you know this song by Kraftwerk?” “It’s by ABBA,” I correct him. “Who is that? Anyway, to cut costs, nowadays, the shipping companies hire many young people as officers with little experience. These young people often ignore the rules. Like today, I was shocked. A ship was coming towards us and according to rules, both of us have to move towards starboard to avoid collision. I moved, but the other guy just kept coming straight. I was furious. That’s what I mean, you cut costs and you get crew like this. You don’t know what kind of schools they have graduated from. You should have heard me; I gave him such a good thrashing on channel 16.”
I like to call myself an insomniac, tormented by the problems of humanity. But on this ship, I have been sleeping too well. The sea has been completely calm and the gentle vibrations of the ship were working on my back like cheap massage chairs on low battery. To make most of my short experience, I was hoping for a storm, so I can get the full thrill. But when I mention my dark desires to the master, he gives me a look of horror, “No, no, we never wish for bad weather on a ship.”
Omelette meal number fourteen while being adrift, I feel unsettled. I didn’t get this feeling while we were still moving, scattering the innocent fish for the birds. But now, the word ‘adrift’ feels too strong to be associated with me. I am a prisoner of this sea. There is no other way to get out here. I am helpless. The forces of the world, all well beyond my control, the fire in the refinery in Brazil, the strong currents near South Africa, the long queue for berthing space in Hong Kong port, has brought me to this situation, being adrift.
The master has organized a small party for us and the other officers. I am sitting opposite Léonard, the introvert Chief Officer, who I always thought to be rather suspicious of me. But when the master asks me where we will travel next and I answer, “To the mountains, in Sichuan,” the Chief Officer’s eyes brighten up. He and I begin name dropping the peaks we have been to, “Everest, Nandadevi?” he asks, “Annapurna,” I say, “Chimburazo?” he asks, “No, I have been to Rua Pichincha only,” I say, “Mont Blanc?” he says, “Matterhorn,” I reply. A smile forces out of his face; finally we have won his trust by naming places where one cannot see the sea.