The Romance of the Cruise Ship Work
Denys Bulikhov, former worker on Carnival Cruise Lines

Reproduced with permission from http://www.new.facebook.com/group.php?gid=16789478215#/topic.php?uid=16789478215&topic=4663

Three dates of the retarded

Date one: Sun

The sun… White, hot wound in the sky, burning everything around it. Irresistible flaming spot. I look at it for just few seconds and, crying, shut my eyes as much as I can. Pain makes it almost impossible…

Squinting, I look around me. Incandescent wooden deck. Red-hot handrails. Striped white and blue beach chairs. Small, almost empty pool with boiled water. Rubbered dirty slide. Melted people in the chairs… Who am I? What am I doing here?..

I have had this feeling for three weeks already. It doesn’t go away. I still question myself. And the answer is always there. Waiting. Simple like the sun. Money. I came here for it.

The ship is not a bad place. Not at all. It has restaurants, nice cabins, attractions, casino, lounges, theater, pools, spa, decks, shops, morgue and even prison. I compare it with the city. I am not new in that comparison. I heard it from somebody. This somebody told me that the ship has all the attributes of a real state - president, government, police, and population. There is only one difference: population is divided in two parts - aborigines and aliens.

I am one of the aborigines. I live here. I work, eat, sleep, relax, chat, study, and hopefully, have sex in here. Oh, sorry… No sex. I’m married. She is waiting for me at home. With the money.

Home… This is the biggest pain. It is too far away. Everything that I love is there: my wife, my parents, my friends, my city, my place… Trying to forget, I want to get “hammered” by alcohol until my mind will be free, but I can’t. I start at 6:00 AM every single day. If I start my shift drunk, I will be fired. I cannot get fired. I need money.

…Aliens do not live on the ship. They come only for one week. Sometimes two. They are the total opposite of me. They are relaxed. They do what they want. They do not work. I work for them. And other aborigines also work for them.
Do I hate them? No. They are on vacation. Why should I hate them? At least, not at first.

I clean after them. I scrub and shine my small part of the deck eleven hours a day seven days a week. I pick up the glasses and plates, pack and unpack the chairs, clean water drains, shine the brass on the steps, wipe the mirror ceiling and windows, and scrub the pool and the slide. Do I like it? No. But I do it. And I will. Because,… oh, I explained that already!..

I have to smile. That is what I was told. It seems totally impossible. How can I smile? I work like a horse, sweating and getting crazy under this impossible sun; there is nothing here that I love; there is almost nobody who can even understand me. What should I smile about?.. But I have to. No smile – no promotion. No promotion – no… you know that already.

My supervisor is from Guyana. His name is Edroy. He is stupid. Totally. But he is a very nice person at the same time. I don’t understand him at all. He has a caribbean-british accent. He sounds all the time like he wants to sing. I never understood a word from English songs.

My department manager is from India. His name is Cirilo. I couldn’t believe at first that he speaks English. His speech sounds meaningless for me. He has a monstrous accent.

Same story with the captain. Probably he thinks about Italy, when he speaks. When he tells about weather over the loudspeakers, I see pizza, pasta, Coliseum, mafia, Roman hills and Napoli’s nights… Did he say something about weather? Oh, my, I missed it!..

The ocean is my only friend now… So blue… I can spend hours just watching sky-blue waves with curly white hair lazily rolling into each other. Watching flying fishes. Watching hammer-head sharks. Watching seagulls… I can even forget about home…

…At the end of the work shift totally burned, melted and boiled in my own sweat, I drink as much as I can. This is the first thing I do entering the conditioned crew dining room. Crew “mess”. I drink so much that I cannot really move after that. And I don’t want to eat. I just want to sit and relax. Catching myself falling asleep, I decide that I have to eat. At least a little bit. Rice, some vegetables and fruits. Just enough to stop the remorse that I’m killing my body. Ok. Just a little bit…

…Covering myself with bad smelling blanket, I’m crying. May be it is a shame, but I do cry. It looks like I cannot take it anymore. It looks like I will crack. But I know it will not happen. Even if I want. Unfortunately, it is not enough to force me to step back. I know that I will come to work tomorrow, and everything will be fine. I know that I will get through. I just need to stop pitying myself. I wipe my eyes and lay straight on the bed. I have to rest. I have to prepare myself. Prepare for my date. With the sun…


Date two: Corridor

The corridor… My first date with it was quite pleasant. I was tired from the sun so much, that any change would be pleasant; so much, that I didn’t go out from the steel womb of the ship for almost two months…

The corridor is long. It is around three hundred yards. Two sides and two decks; altogether it is close to a mile. Only doors, walls, ceiling lights and carpet. And me, pushing or dragging the trolley with towels.

I deliver towels to stewards’ sections. After they finish cleaning, I pick dirty towels up. I have a master key from every steward locker, so any time I want I open one and grab some complimentary mint chocolates. They are sweet, cooling and little bit… disgusting… I’m chewing them almost every minute of my work…

The trolley is a big cart in a yard width, one and half yard length and more than yard height. When it gets loaded with the towels on one foot higher than my head, the funny ride through the long corridor converts to a hard physical work. Everybody has to get their towels before 7:00 AM; I have less than two hours to deliver all of them to 20 sections. That is why I almost never have a pleasure to push only one trolley with towels. To be on time I have to connect three, sometimes four of them together and drag them behind.

When I have my “train” behind me, I always remember people called “burlaks”. In old times in Russia burlaks were dragging the ships up on the river against the flow. A bunch of them were connected to the boat with special belts. Pushing the belts with the shoulders, they were moving the ship inside the river… Impossible work…

My mood always goes up when I remember that. Especially when ship rocks. When the deck dances under my feet, the train always wants to kill me by kicking my legs or dragging me back bumping against the walls. The work becomes so ridiculously hard that I hysterically laugh. Burlaks were moving ships. I cannot move the stupid towel train… Sometimes it is funny… But usually not…

The corridor is extremely narrow. Two trolleys cannot pass. One and half. My train always bumps the walls. I never care. I cannot care. All I think about are towels. And time. And money.

…First thing I do after shift is going down to crew mess to drink. Quarter of gallon at least. I sit on the chair and close my eyes. I relax… But not for too long. I can go sleep now. For almost two and half hours. No, I have to go sleep. On this job I count every minute of my sleep…

…Picking up towels is more “entertaining”. I dive in the corridor again, but now I see people. They are working. Cleaning, scrubbing, washing and wiping. Complaining. It is never enough towels, and of course it is my fault. I don’t want to deliver more, because he is Asian, she is black, they are rude, somebody is Romanian, and bla-bla-bla… Everyday is the same. I don’t answer anymore. Useless. Just nodding, smiling and doing my work…

…After lunch and two hours sleep circle repeats. The corridor, me and my towel train. Getting ready for evening service… Night pick up… I enter my cabin by 10:30 PM. I take a shower and go to bed. Read little bit. Sleep…
People say here you become crazy after five months of work. Inadequate. Strange, but I feel that I have been retarded all the time here. Mind and thoughts are straight and short. Short sentences. Phrase, period. Word, period. Two words, period. Like a robot. No people. No home. No happiness. No me. Just towels and corridor…

I close my eyes and try to fall asleep. I am ready for the next date. With the corridor…


Date three: Toilet

Nine thousand seven hundred sixty. Amount of a life time. It is how many toilets I will clean during eight months contract. Forty per day, seven days a week. Eternity is broke. God does not exist. The toilet bowl is a path to immortality…

It’s pretty fast. Usually it’s around five-six minutes for each bathroom. Sometimes three. While steward cleans the room and makes the bed, I perform “Formula 1” competition in the bathroom. Wipe the shower, wipe the sink, wipe the toilet, put the towels, fold the “hospitality corner” on the toilet paper. That is it! Next cabin. Wipe, wipe, wipe, put, fold… Next! Wipe, wipe, oops, tooth brush fell in the toilet, wipe the tooth brush, put, fold. Next!..

No rags. All cleaning I do with towels. Everybody does. Used towels are get used again for cleaning, only after that they go to the laundry, and come back on the next day clean. Or… not so clean… Disgusting? No. It is life. I have to clean with rags, but I don’t have them. Management says we do. They always say that. But we don’t have them. No rags. The cleaning has to be done. Somehow. Fast. This is difficult puzzle for me. I don’t care. I just clean.

The guest cabin is small. Much smaller than in the advertisement. The bathroom is just tiny. That is why, when I come in, the first thing I see is a huge toilet in this tiny bathroom. I think, I’m getting obsessed with the toilets. They are white and shiny. They are elegant. They even don’t smell if I clean them every day… Yes, I’m definitely obsessed…

All days are the same. I do only four things during a day: eat, sleep, clean toilets and sit on the toilet. Did I go crazy? I’m not sure. Probably. When I eat, I see sometimes a toilet bowl instead of my plate… I guess, I did go crazy. Or, may be, I’m just retarded…
Around fifty dates with the toilet bowl every single day… It is a lot…

Enough to make me crazy…


EPILOGUE

…The end of my contract. I cannot believe it. I leave the ship with deep sadness. I don’t feel like going home. There are no dates at home. With sun, corridor and toilet… No work… Just rest…

Definitely the ship affected my brain. I do not feel like myself anymore. There is some alien personality inside me addicted to sun, corridor and toilet… I hope I will never go back to the ship. But I know for sure I will. Because I need money…

Being a family man is not an easy task…