The Only Woman on the Ship

When we arrived at the CMA CGM Hugo the Second Mate cried ‘Right gentlemen, here we are.’ Had he not noticed I have breasts?

Before boarding our floating hotel of 6,000 containers I had a suspicion that I would be the only woman onboard, and I was correct. Indeed at fire drill twenty surprised faces looked out from under florescent orange helmets to see me clambering through the door clutching an ‘adult oversize’ immersion suit to fit a person three times my size. But then given that the signs for the fire drill read ‘Gentlemen, today there will be a fire drill at 15:30...’ perhaps I really wasn’t expected. I was therefore a little apprehensive and to start with kept a low profile.

However, my voyage has not been the chauvinist experience I had chauvinistically expected. Sure there was a collection of dodgy DVDs (like the temptingly titled Erotic Werewolf in London), some strange comments ('You don’t eat seconds so that you stay sexy') and a number of wink wink nudge nudge jibes and jokes (especially after we announced our engagement), but this bunch of Germans, Filipinos and a Pole were real gentlemen.

So it would seem that I need to revise my prejudicial view of randy sailors based on tales of old from films, rumour and the Reeperbahn, for I have been able to sunbathe and have had a very pleasant journey. All apart from one traumatic experience - having visited the bridge to check our position and course I happened upon the Captain, or Master, sprawled out naked in the sunshine on a white towel with nothing but a flannel to cover his modesty. At that moment, I really wished I was a man.
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Russian dolls

In a country where women are still expected to behave in a ‘traditional’ manner, I have broken many rules of etiquette. I have carried heavy bags when walking with a man; I have been assertive in public; opened doors; and paid my way in social situations. Who knows what scorn I have received in doing so. But there is one aspect of Russian life that makes me relieved to be a woman - vodka drinking. Women are excused after a couple whereas men are expected to finish the bottle.

As soon as we boarded the Trans-Siberian Railway from Moscow to Irkutsk we were offered a drink by Alexei - a drunk, shirtless, built Russian with a scorpion tattoo on his chest. After repeated invites, we sat down to look at the video clips on his phone. Following a Full Metal Jacket episode of bathroom cleaning set to ‘In Da House’ we realised that him and his mate were Russian soldiers. So it would appear were many of the men on our train including Serge, the army instructor in our berth taking his daughter to Vladivostok to see his mother. Seemed like a nice bloke. You wouldn’t imagine that he mended machine guns for a living.

So for 36 hours Tom was avoiding Alexei’s various invitations to drink: the flick on the neck, the body builder pumping motions and the range of masculine grunts. Tom admitted feeling like a prisoner, only happily roaming the carriages once we saw Alexei being put to bed by the carriage attendant at three in the afternoon. I have another friend who has feigned hepatitis in order to avoid similar macho vodka drinking sessions. My refusals were however taken more readily. Sometimes it pays to be a woman in Siberia.
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