CenShip

The Carnival Triumph safely returned to port after an ordeal at sea. I’m happy to say that, during the intense media coverage on CNN and other networks—which I was corralled into—passengers unanimously praised the tireless hard work and positive attitude of the crew. There were many horror stories about poor sanitation on the crippled ship. Alas, these are not always relegated to disaster. Allow me to share a particularly gross ship I worked on for months. We crew endure this for you, dear passenger.
Gross things are common on cruise ships. No, not the gastronomic atrocities occurring nonstop at the buffets—horrifying as that may be to quantify—but what lies below the waterline. Not the slimy, oil-tainted waters of the bilge, either. I’m talking about what life is like on the crew decks.
Carnival Triumph recently made the news when a fire left it without propulsion, little running water, less electricity, and utterly bereft of sanitation. One passenger reported “sewage running down the walls and floors” and said travelers were being asked to defecate in bags and urinate in showers because toilets weren’t functioning. Understandably shocking, considering how rarely passengers endure such privations. The crew deal with it every day. It should be noted they bring it on themselves.
Crew are generally denied food in their cabins because it invariably ends up in the toilets in a most nonbiological manner. Hiding evidence of a smuggled, late night snack is always the same: flush it. After all, there are no portholes twenty feet below the sea. But ship toilets are very, very sensitive. The crew? Not so much. When working on RCI’s Majesty of the Seas, fish bones backed up the sewage system so often that the entire aft crew deck smelled like feces. Literally. And this was where the crew kitchen and dining room were located!
Oddly enough, this disposing of contraband was the only time many flushed the toilets at all. This can be partly explained by the wide variety of nationalities that compose the crew. Hygiene standards vary radically from nation to nation, but are all but absent in some developing nations. Such is the resource pool from which the cruise industry hires its labor. When first indoctrinated into crew, on day one, everyone is educated on what is required for first-world hygienic standards. They are ordered to wash daily and to use deodorant, whether they ‘need’ it or not. Many even comply. But when working a minimum of eighty hours a week without a day off for ten months straight, focus flags.
On Majesty of the Seas, these men—for they were invariably so—lived in tiny, shared cabins along the main corridor leading to the crew mess. Tucked between were communal showers and toilets. Everything was crowded, everything stank. And it was stiflingly hot. Because the cooling system was also spotty, all doors were always open. Three times a day, on the way to every meal, I passed dozens of overworked zombies brushing their teeth beside toilets filled to the brim, lids wide open. A perfect appetizer for a enjoying a meal in a latrine.
I learned about such things in dramatic fashion upon signing onto Majesty as a junior officer. After returning to my cabin, I discovered a man wearing officers’ whites bent over my desk, examining the contents. While there was no pretext of privacy on a cruise ship, having my own cabin had given me delusions of it. Upon hearing me enter, the man shoved the drawer shut and irritably snapped, “Cabin inspection. I have reports that you routinely order room service. This is highly improper and will not continue. We have a cockroach problem in the stern deck, and I will not have it spread into this section of the ship.”
I didn’t have time to explain that I had just arrived because he brushed me aside to search my shower. Because cabin inspections were conducted by each department head and, since I was a department head, I suddenly realized the man searching my toilet was the most powerful officer beside the captain himself! He dropped the toilet lid with a slam, trying to hide his disdain behind a professional countenance. His grimace worked through.
“No fish bones,” I said cheerily. He glared at me and replied, “I am seeking a shoe.”
“Um… shoes?” I asked, confused. He corrected me sharply, “A shoe! The entire sewage system is backed up ship-wide because a crewman flushed a shoe down the toilet this morning.”
Brian David Bruns is the best-selling author of Cruise Confidential and Ship for Brains, the latter from which the above story is taken.

I’m talking about a man of a different sort. A bird whisperer. The Bird Man of Conquest. I prefer the latter name because it evokes the cramped, sparse living conditions of Alcatraz. That’s closer to a crew’s experience than, say, comfy suburbanites with enough expendable income for professional pet counseling. I’m not judging, but rather reminding that American attitudes towards animals are puzzling to the majority of the world. American pets are part of the family, receiving the same affection and accommodations as our children (certainly mine, anyway!). But many people around the world coexist with animals in a way I can scarcely conceive. I saw some of it on Conquest.
We were docked in Montego Bay. The sun shot through the clouds in bold shafts, I remember, and the air was heavy with moisture. Those of us in the Lido restaurant denied shore leave were consoled by the nearby presence of damp green tree tops, mottled with shadows yet lively with colorful birds hopping to and fro. It was a quiet afternoon of dazzling beauty. Apparently we were not the only ones dazzled. A solitary bird, perhaps lured by the scent of food, had flown into the restaurant.
He was a small, gaily-colored little bird. The poor guy fluttered about, unable to find the exit, confused by the overhanging mezzanine that refused to act like a jungle canopy. He zig-zagged through the dining room, zipping this way and that, growing more and more agitated by the minute. We gleefully kept the doors open and tried to herd him towards freedom. There was much laughter, but we were ultimately unsuccessful. After a while, now flapping in pure desperation, the bird disappeared deeper into the galley. Suddenly we realized the little burst of joy that gave us a much-needed break in an otherwise rigid, exhausting routine had probably done so at the expense of his life. It was a sad moment.
“I’ll get him,” said a waiter confidently. He was from Indonesia. His name was Bambang.
“If he couldn’t figure out how to escape through all these open double doors,” I said doubtfully, “How can you expect to herd him through the small doors of the galley and the corridors?”
Bambang just smiled and asked, “May I go after him?”
Like I would say no. But then again, this could easily have been an excuse to sneak a cigarette while on duty. (I’ve had waiters literally claim their mothers’ death just to get an extra smoke). Nary five minutes passed and out from the galley came Bambang. We clustered around him, but he gave us a silent head-shake to keep us at bay. For perched upon his finger, tiny chest heaving, was the bird. Bambang strode to the nearest exterior doors, whispering softly to his new companion. He even caressed it with gentle strokes of the back of his fingers. Once outside, the bird flew off to its native Jamaica.
“I’m from a small village in the jungle,” Bambang explained simply before returning to soiled plates and silverware. I was awestruck. Could I have made the transition Bambang had? Before ships he had not only been one with nature, but likely lived entirely defined by its caprice. How utterly different his life must have been, before this one of tight metal walls, recycled air, and artificial light. I was reminded that each crew member, regardless of duties or labels, was indeed an individual treasure. And it gave me hope that I could maybe, just maybe, hope to someday control my cats.
By Brian David Bruns, author of national best-seller Cruise Confidential.
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