He is (I asked) still cheerfully unrepentant about
giving the NZ marine forecast people a hard time – “I have lost all faith in
Kiwi forecasters!” – and now jokily relies on Siri for his weather predictions
in his PA announcements. Not that, he admitted, he would have done anything
different back at Tauranga if he’d been given more accurate information about the storm and sea conditions.
Then there was a lecture on Australia’s
dark history of transportation – a subject always good for some horrifying
facts and figures: 300 lashes with a cat o’ nine tails was pretty standard on
the ships coming out, laying the bones bare with just 100; in Tasmania men
running alongside the jigger acted as the engine for a railway; a full quarter
of the convicts on board the second transportation fleet died at sea; it didn’t
end till 1868 in Western Australia.
And then he moved onto the topic of the
treatment of Aboriginals (no excuse for the several incorrect spellings of the word, by the way): “Not a pretty story”. Their population in Tasmania
was reduced, in 1873, to just one, Truganini, who died three years later. The
‘Keep Australia White’ campaign of the first half of the 20th
century today sounds (though this American professor chose not to make the
connection) alarmingly like current news.
Next I did a galley tour, full of steam and
stainless steel and spotless white uniforms: 59 cooks, 5 kitchens, 24-hour
activity which, during the tour, involved much stirring, frying, rolling and cutting.
Of course, by the time it finished, it was lunchtime and I had to eat some of
it – for form’s sake, naturally.
Afterwards there was art: an attempt to do
a version of an Aboriginal dot painting that was not a great success, thanks in
equal part to having to use a fancy brush instead of a stick; to having to listen to nerve-jangling, apparently inescapable and absurdly inappropriate musak (Frank
Sinatra) given that the average age on this ship is 63; and to a total lack of
talent on my part. But I learned to respect the inspiration and dexterity of
the original artists. (My pale imitation consigned without regret to the rubbish bin.)
Outside, the pool deck was well used through the afternoon by
sunbathers, snoozers and readers, with an alarming number of tats on full
display (remember: 63). On the jogging track above, serious women in stretch
pants swirled around above the recumbent forms below, presumably keeping count
of their revolutions in their heads: 13 to cover a mile. I wondered: if they
jogged instead of walked, would they have to do more circuits to make up for
the ship moving below them with each stride? Or would going first with the
ship’s direction, and then against it, cancel each other out?
Dinner tonight was at Prime C on the top
deck, one of the two specialty restaurants on board, which are not included in
the fare (so thanks, Azamara, for hosting us). It was a very classy affair,
from the décor through the service to the food itself, which was beautifully
cooked and presented. Chateaubriand, since you ask. Delicious, and so tender!
Finally, tomorrow being the last full day
of this cruise, there was the Crew Parade – a cheesy affair, but irresistible, especially on a small ship, where so many of the faces are recognisable. Captain Johannes was jolly, and keen to share how many passengers are staying on board, or have signed up already for further cruises. The ambiance was so friendly that it was even more of the shame that the mood was so totally wrecked five minutes later by sodding jazz on the piano.
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