The accommodation on-board could be mistaken for a modern motel, with the addition of a cupboard above the wardrobe containing an immersion suit which, when donned, makes you look something like a lobster, but on the plus side gives you the respective aquatic capabilities if the ship were to go under.
We are treated more luxuriously than I expected for a cargo ship, and we are served our meals by the mess-man Syrel, a Filipino member of the crew with a warm heart and a very gentle smile. The Romanian officers have disappeared to relax and smoke by the time I polish off my dessert, and as Syrel comes to clear the table, he lingers. He seems to appreciate having new people in the mess, who haven't become indifferent to his valuable presence, and with his nervous English he strikes up a conversation.
I'm shown on the huge map covering the wall behind me the parts of the world to which work on the ships has taken him, most proudly, the north coast of Russia. Undoubtedly he is far better travelled than most Filipinos. His wages too are probably higher, but it is still a fraction of what European seamen receive in the same post. His wages, he reveals to me, are sent home to his family in the Philippines, from whom his bread-winning separates him, sometimes for up to six months at a time.
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