Transparensea: The Cruise Industry Exposé

By Indira Lake

Discover the secrets and truths the cruise industry doesn't want you to know with this uncensored exposé.

 

This journey through the eyes of a seasoned crew member reveals the darker reality beneath the surface of the multi-billion-dollar cruising industry. Uncover the shocking stories of crew members treated like dirt, drug smuggling, scams, prostitution, bullying, fraternising, and even passengers buying tickets with the sole intent of ending their lives on board. Learn about safety procedures skipped, pollution regulations disregarded, and vital repairs going unfixed, as well as passengers becoming victims of unspeakable crimes.

Benefits of Reading this Book:
- Uncover the secrets of the cruise industry and learn the truth about what really happens on board
- Gain insight into the issues of crew members, passengers, and safety regulations
- Get a unique, uncensored look at the darker side of the cruise industry from a seasoned crew member

What's Included in the Book:
- A decade of insider knowledge
- Unfiltered stories from crew and passengers
- An in-depth look at the cruise industry
- Shocking revelations from industry experts and whistleblowers

Get it today to find out everything you've always wanted to know about the cruise industry!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Indira Lake
• Release date: Nov 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9781738458912

Indira Lake

Indira Lake is a British author and journalist. ​She left university with a degree in journalism and a thirst to do something different, so after starting her career ashore, she joined a major cruise line, working in entertainment. ​Over time she became increasingly frustrated with the cruise ship guidance books being published, none of which gave the real truth about life on board for passengers and crew, rather they only portrayed what the cruise ship companies wanted to show and paid for. ​The author began to assemble details of various events that would be considered as unbelievable were it not for her vast experience and the verification of other officers and crew from these ships. Advocating for better working conditions and fair wages is a cause close to her heart and she is a member of the International Cruise Victims association. ​Indira worked on cruise ships for 10 years and this is her first book.

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Preface

At the tender age of 22, having just graduated from university and armed with nothing but a degree certificate and a profound sense of bewilderment, I chose an unlikely path: I went to sea. I swapped my London life for a floating city, a journey that would take me into dangerous, unchartered waters.

The voyage I embarked on was far from a pleasure cruise. It was an odyssey into a world so surreal, indulgent, and chaotic that it feels, even now, like a wild dream. There, below deck, in that maritime microcosm, alcohol, and sex were not merely indulgences; they were as vital to the crew’s survival as oxygen. I never expected to be surrounded by so much drama, debauchery, crime, and injustice.

This isn't just my story; it's the collective voice of seafarers who've shared this journey with me. This account gives you an honest and unique look behind the scenes of these floating resorts, and the many truths omitted from the mainstream narrative that glamourises cruising. This book isn't meant to scare you off from taking that vacation at sea. After all, it can be an amazing experience, provided you know what to expect.

So, strap in. It's going to be one hell of a ride.

PART 1

THE BEGINNING

1

Ship Life

For as long as I can remember, I wanted to go to sea. As fate would have it, I've bonded with the ocean since birth. My parents called me 'little fish' when I was a child because I was a natural in the water and a strong swimmer. I was sure I was a mermaid and believed I had sea salt in my blood. I was never more at home than when we were on holiday by the sea. Unfortunately, I didn't grow up in a tropical paradise but in rainy England. Throughout my teen years, I felt my best by the ocean, connecting with the sea whenever I could. After graduating from university, I was a typical clueless 20-something: I didn't know what I wanted to do or who I was, mindlessly following paths constructed for me. For years, I had an office job. Every day, I'd sit in my office chair and think: will the rest of my life be this boring? And the thought would scare me half to death. I wanted my life to be like one of those Bacardi Breezer TV adverts from the early 2000s: fun, exciting, and wild. A life full of colour, travel, and exotic far-flung places. So, there I was, wanting to be somewhere and someone else, depressed, feeling I was going nowhere, and living in a dingy flat in a dodgy area of London.

I then realised that, just maybe, there was a way out. I was looking through the Sunday papers and came across the holiday section and saw the adverts for cruise ships. I usually didn't bother to look at these pages, as there was no way I could afford such a holiday on the pittance I was being paid. But out of the blue came a thought. What if I could get a job on these ships? I had never thought this before, as I had no seafaring qualifications and knew nothing about boats or those on board, but what if there was a chance?

I searched the internet and found a British hiring company for cruise ships. They sold crew life as a dream come true to life-weary landlubbers like me. They told me I could sail around the world, work a little, and get paid for the pleasure. They didn't have to sell it to me; I was eager to become a crew member. Of course, I never wondered why they were so anxious to sell me the idea of sailing on these ships, and in my new dream world, I never thought there might be a catch. I looked at the definition of a seafarer - a person who regularly travels by sea. Later I found out that some argue that you are only recognised as such if you run and maintain the vessel and hold a recognised qualification or certificate (deck or engine officer, for instance).

The hiring partner didn't tell me that I wouldn't just be taking an entertainment job for a well-known cruise line but adopting a whole lifestyle, an arduous one at that. When I signed my contract, a cruise ship job was the equivalent of Willy Wonka's golden ticket. The clouds parted for a bit, making me see some fun and hope on the horizon, and I didn't stop thinking about what this kind of job would entail.

Even if I had, nothing would have prepared me for the exhilarating, heart-stopping, jaw-dropping, head-rattling, death-defying, soul-crushing rollercoaster ride of madness I was about to be swept away on.

First came the interview. This was an intensive 2-hour interview process via video call with the cruise company recruiting office, after which I was hired.

There began the vigorous process of updating my passport, securing a Seaman's Record Book, and a special crew visa. All of this was at my own cost. But I didn't care. I had my best rose-tinted glasses on. Then came a £500 medical that had to be done before boarding and leaving the UK. This was quite a performance. An X-ray to rule out tuberculosis and measure your weight and height. Body mass index. All this I learned later was used to determine my ability to carry out my emergency duties on board and participate in emergency lifesaving procedures and drills. This involved being able to run, climb stairs, go down a marine evacuation slide, fill up, and launch a lifeboat or raft. They certainly made sure that you were fit.

I also had to prove I wasn't pregnant and didn't have psychosis, personality disorders, or addictions. This included testing for any diseases, severe allergies, and depression. You couldn't be on antidepressants, either. Also, have no STDs. Later, I discovered there was more chance of catching these on board than ashore! The crew had to pay for their airfare to join the ship at whatever port it was in, so I paid £900 for a one-way ticket to Tokyo and hundreds more for my first set of basic uniforms. With all the expenses, my dream job had cost me over £2,000 before I'd even set foot on a cruise ship! I didn't have it, so I borrowed it from my parents.

The hiring company sent me a 10-page guideline of the rules, including hygiene and appearance, because cruise ships had auditors come on board to check that grooming standards were met! No unnatural hair colour unless you were in a band or a guest entertainer, showering twice a day if needed, having fresh breath, and no jewellery except for stud earrings for women. Men couldn't wear them at all. No heavy makeup or nail polish unless you worked in the spa. No offensive perfume or cologne. No miniskirts. No one told me that rules could be easily bent if you were pretty. That came later.

From getting the job to boarding the ship, it felt like I'd been swept off my feet. That's how intense the recruiting and onboarding process was.

Now, I was on my way, heading to Japan, where the ship was. A few months ago, I was miserable, hated my job and flat, and was fed up with life. Yet, here I was, being airlifted to adventure. On arrival, I was put into a Tokyo hotel for a 4-hour sleep before joining the rest of the new crew in the reception area. So many staff chattering in a variety of languages. So many of them seemed to know each other and were huddled in groups while I was the stranger, the odd one out. Once our names were checked off the list, we boarded buses headed for Yokohama, the largest port city in Japan and only a short distance from Tokyo.

A nauseating feeling settled in my stomach when we passed through the port terminal gates as a vast steel beast, and my soon-to-be home loomed into view. Nothing could have prepared me for how big it was. I thought of all those who stood on Southampton docks in awe of the Titanic. But this ship would have dwarfed her. I suddenly felt out of my depth. My whole life had been spent on solid ground in the UK, and I had no idea what to expect from a cruise ship, but there was no going back now.

Going onto the ship was an out-of-this-world experience. We waddled up a small metal gangway into a tunnel, from the light of day to the artificial light inside. A mob of us milled together like cattle. Having been to sea before, this was normal to some, but it was bewildering to others like me.

The words of worried relatives and friends rattled around in my mind as I went through the motions of getting on board, known as signing on. What have you done? Why on earth would you want to work at sea? What if the ship sinks? What if you get homesick? What if you don't get over the seasickness?

I had no time to get my bearings as I was swept through to the HR center, had my photo taken for my crew ID card (with terrible eyebags, I might add), and then cattle-herded to the training room with a group of other lost souls with vacant expressions. Before the ship sailed, all new crew had to complete a 1-hour training session where we learned about essential safety protocols. We knew nothing as the confusion still swirled in our brains. I met the girl who did my job and was going to show me the ropes. She was boisterous and friendly - I instantly liked her. She told me I would be the new assistant to the cruise director and the sole wedding planner on board. Yikes!

After a whirlwind few hours of going through what my job entailed, I was finally directed to the small, windowless shared cabin I'd call home for the best part of the following year. Cabins were a far cry from the spacious bedrooms I was used to on land and were comparable to a 10 ft-by-10 ft shoe box for two. The shared rooms had metal bunk beds like you were a 12-year-old at a friend's sleepover. There was a flimsy grey curtain to pull across your bed space for privacy. Furniture was sparse: a small desk, a wardrobe (that you shared), a chair, a flat-screen TV fixed to the wall, a mini-fridge, one mirror, and a few shelves. There was zero storage space, and it was only marginally larger than the average prison cell in the UK. Most cabins were below the water line, so I would sleep with the fish!

I wondered how I would get fresh air. How will I know whether it's day or night? Well… I wouldn't. This cabin had a smelly carpet instead of the faded vinyl floor on other ships. My nose detected a faint odour like wet mould. We weren't allowed to keep fresh food in our rooms, but I found out later that everyone used the drinks fridge for that anyway. Freshening up in the tiny bathroom cubicle, I tried to uncrumple my ill-fitted uniform shorts resembling an old-fashioned parachute. I opened a drawer to find an old comic book. It turned out to be Japanese hentai (basically a porn comic). What a pleasant surprise from the previous tenant.

After the thick, heavy door slammed shut, I saw other newbies frustrated to tears trying to find their cabin. Later in my seagoing career, I realised that every ship had a different way of numbering their cabins, which made little sense. I was just grateful someone had shown me to save me that anguish.

Another delightful problem the crew had was that no lift went down to the crew quarters, just flights of clunky metal stairs. So, the team had three options to get suitcases down there:

Arguably, the second most crucial crew area on any ship, after the bar, is a generic plain grey alleyway that runs the entire ship length, connecting forward with aft (back), on the lower decks (floors). This 'central highway' led us to our cabins, offices, the mess (canteen), and the crew bar and was a haven to escape passenger areas. You were safe when you ducked under the rope separating this area from the passengers on their carpeted staircase.

Later that evening, after my first muster drill and more information cramming, I watched my first glowing orange and yellow sunset. I soaked in the unfamiliar but spectacular view of our planet as the ship's bow pushed through the sea toward the most awe-inspiring tangerine sunset I've ever seen. It spilled an evening glow over the decks, and the sounds of the ocean waves swished relaxingly against the ship's sides. I even caught sight of a school of mischievous dolphins chasing the boat. London was thousands of miles away on another planet, and here I was in this new world. I felt a thrill like never before. Maybe spending close to 7 months here wouldn't be so bad after all!

Day two was an even bigger assault on my brain. After vomiting all morning - before and during safety training - I visited the medical centre on the main crew deck. The kind doctor took pity on me and gave me a painful injection in the bum. This quickly sent me to the land of nod for 5 hours. This was the only time I could relax - when I was unconscious. When I came around, I continued attending many safety training sessions, signing attendance sheets like a celebrity signing autographs. Finally, I found the aft of the ship. I sat on a sun lounger, staring out into the waves, concentrating on inhaling, exhaling the fresh air deeply, eating a green apple, and sipping ginger beer – tricks that the experienced crew told me would alleviate nausea.

I had never imagined I could fall out of bed and be at work without a mind-numbing commute, but walking 40 metres to my office became the norm. That would be just about the only thing that was easy on board. The first week was an assault on all five of my senses, the dial constantly whistling into sensory overload. I didn't even have the time to unpack until day seven! While facing forward, the ship's left side was called portside, and the right was starboard. Odd numbers were on the starboard side, and even numbers were on the port side. It took me ages to get used to this, know my side, and call it either one or the other. The bow was at the front of the ship, and the stern was at the back. My brain felt like a sponge soaking in the information I had to learn, but there was no time to stop and process what was happening. There were no days off, evenings to chill, or weekends to decompress. I worked every day for 10 hours, with the only downtime between shifts meant to be reserved for sleep—no time to make friends.

But the battle against the hangover of jetlag and creeping fatigue was no joke. Each email to my family started with: I'm struggling to keep my eyes open as I type this! Quickly, my concept of time became warped. GMT didn't exist, only the ship's clock.

Days of the week no longer existed; a calendar was useless. Instead, it was either a sea day or a port day. And countries or islands became your day of the week as you lived by the itinerary schedule. Being new meant the lusty, hungry eyes of fellow crew members constantly assessing me. I felt like a fresh piece of meat on the table, ready to be spit-roasted. I was never alone, which was exhausting.

The sea sickness was the hardest thing to deal with. It didn't stop after the first day. I was constantly aware of the ship's movement and rocking motion, which sat like a rolling pin in my stomach, leaving me lightheaded and nauseous. Before cruise life, I didn't know it was possible to feel that sick. At first, I couldn't tell which direction we were moving in. Then, when I tried to sleep, my flimsy bunk bed was easily rocked by high seas and gales, making it feel like I was on a never-ending rollercoaster straight into the ceiling. It literally knocked the wind out of my sails. I was only at the start of my journey but could barely make it 50 metres without retching. I tried to focus on my work duties, but everything was melting and leaping. But I had to make the ship my home and adapt to it. And fast to get my sea legs.

My first ship was tiny in comparison to today's megaships. It was the smallest ship in the fleet: 69,000 gross tonnes, with just over 1,800 passengers and 700 crew. Because it was so dinky, it was moved easily by the waves. We sailed into the South China Sea, the weather was rough, and many of the crew became seasick. I saw passengers pressing on their motion sickness wristbands, congregating in the midship public spaces where the movement was less. Regardless, passengers were doubled over everywhere I went, clutching their stomachs and vomiting into paper bags. One desperate lady threw up in her straw hat. Everything opened and moved by itself, including cupboards and curtains, and heavy fire doors in the corridor creaked and groaned. Up on the pool deck, water in the swimming pool sloshed up, out, and over the sides. Not even lying down in my cabin brought relief. It was days of endless bobbing up and down, and I ended up in the medical department having injections of anti-nausea medication.

Inevitably, in the weeks following, I began to learn how to survive, proudly wearing my metal name badge. I went to the crew mess when it opened for lunch at 11:30 a.m. The food was fresh and plentiful, not just a tray of bones at 2 p.m. I learned this the hard way, having no time to pass by at the usual hours because I had to run backstage area tours for the passengers. Sometimes, I ate rice with tomato sauce slopped on top or a plain white bread roll. Unfortunately, being healthy was hard to maintain on board. An avocado now and again – a rare commodity on ships – didn't cut it. I had to buy healthy snacks at the ports unless I wanted to live on junk food from the crew shop on board (a tiny room that resembled a closet). There was an assortment of Hershey's American chocolate bars (yuck, they don't compare to UK chocolate), crisps, or instant noodles, known as heat and eat. Many crew members survived on sugar, alcohol, Monster energy drinks, and cigarettes. But going hungry was a lot easier than being sleep-deprived.

I challenged myself to explore the ship and get lost to find my way out of the labyrinth. Still, it took months to learn the ship's layout as the winding corridors and endless staircases in all directions were a rat's maze. Sometimes, it felt like Groundhog Day, repeatedly going over the same passage.

When I stumbled onto the helipad, it was the best seat in the house and a favourite spot for the crew to hang out, as it was off-limits to the passengers. It meant privacy, peace, and a place to sunbathe and reflect. It was also a beautiful place to stargaze at night. I went there on nights when the sea was calm, the skies were clear, and I lay on my back to stargazing. The stars shone against the shimmering black ocean, and with no light pollution dulling their glow, it was a sight to behold. The stars looked like steppingstones, guiding us across the universe.

In the daytime, it became a crew sunbathing hotspot. Located directly beneath the bridge, the watchkeeping officers took advantage. They ogled the female sunbathers, drooling as the dancers rolled over and sizzled like chicken rotisseries in the glorious tropical heat. I caught them eyeing them with their binoculars more times than I could count.

As a new hire, the first two weeks of my contract involved sitting in a dimly lit training room and learning everything there was to know about safety on board. The Doc also taught us the importance of constantly washing our hands as if we were at school. The chief safety officer, or one of his lackeys, taught new crew members everything from fire extinguishers to use in various fires to giving recruits a go on the jumbo water hoses on an outer deck. Nobody volunteered, so a shy person was usually picked out to do it. Since I was a newbie, I had the teeth-chattering task of jumping into an ice-cold salt-water swimming pool at 8 a.m. to learn how to flip an overturned liferaft the right side up. Most of the females felt self-conscious, standing in their swimming costumes, being judged like they were in a beauty pageant. It helped if you could swim, but believe it or not, being able to wasn't a requirement of the job, and many crew members didn't know how to. In fact, many of them told me they were terrified of the ship sinking because they couldn't save themselves! After the two weeks, you were expected to be a Navy Seal and know what to do in an emergency and how to help the passengers. I admit I found it hard to retain all the information from the training. At the same time, I was expected to learn my job from scratch – so I was more interested in getting my job right before anything else. It was the same for all new crew. We just wanted to ace the job and not get fired; passenger safety was secondary. After being shown the