I had the misfortune of working on this vessel a couple of years back during a job in India, and let me tell you — it was less a ship and more a floating monument to human misery and bad management.
First off, the accommodation. Four-man cabins, all on the same shift. Because apparently, sleep deprivation and shared body odour are key parts of team bonding. The bathroom looked like it hadn’t seen a mop since the last ice age — despite there being “cleaners” on board. You know, the kind of cleaners who consider lifting a rag to be above their pay grade.
The Wi-Fi? Oh, it was a masterpiece. Slow, unreliable, and barely functional — like the rest of the operation. I mean, it’s the 2020s, not the 1920s. But on this vessel, you’d be forgiven for thinking you’d travelled back in time to an era when electricity was still a novelty.
The gym was another triumph of mediocrity — a sad little corner with a bike, a rowing machine, and one lonely dumbbell. I’ve seen better setups in retirement homes. And there was no TV at the time, so your only entertainment off shift was listening to the haunting echoes of your own despair.
Now, the galley. Oh, what a sight. Cracked floors, a suspicious bulge in the middle, and a strict “no shoes” policy. Because nothing makes dinner more appetising than the smell of fifty pairs of sweaty boots fermenting on the floor beside you. Michelin would be proud.
Transfers to and from the boat were done via rope ladder — because apparently, health and safety took one look at this ship and said, “No thanks.” And the pièce de résistance? Bags of rubbish piling up on the back deck, serving as a five-star resort for cockroaches and mice.
So if anyone ever asks you to work on this vessel, do yourself a favour — ask for a massive pay uplift. Because the owners clearly don’t value the welfare of their crew, and if you’re going to suffer, you might as well get paid properly for it.
In summary: it floats, technically. But that’s about the nicest thing I can say.