by Jo Ivan Llaneta | 2023
Fig. 1. Costa Serena at the port of Ajaccio, France (2009)
In 2008, the Asian economy took a downturn with the global financial crisis. Photographic jobs and projects in Manila were the first to disappear. I was a cash-strapped photographer hopelessly searching for work. In a bit of good fortune, I found an opening for a cruise photographer in Europe. I immediately took the opportunity, thinking that the crisis wouldn’t affect Europe so much.
After a short and rigorous seafarer’s training, I became a member of the first batch of Asian photographers hired by the Italian cruise company Costa Crociere. It was August 23, 2009 when I signed on the position of ship photographer for the first of my two contracts.
I was onboard the fairly popular Costa Serena. She is a Concordia-class megaship with a capacity of 3,700 passengers (2,600 guests and 1,100 combined crew and staff). She became famous after being featured in National Geographic’s six-part series Cruise Ship Diaries (2009) and having served as the setting of an Italian comedy film, Natale in crociera (2007).
Fig. 2. Filipino photographers meet at the port of Savona, Italy (2009)
True to the spirit of Italian slapstick comedy, most of the guests only spoke one European language. Normally, the information desk’s international hosts assist other personnel with language translation for guests’ needs. However, cruise photographers are assumed capable of directly talking to the guests without the international host’s assistance.
Cruise photographers run the ship’s photography studio, capturing the guests’ journey on the ship and ports of call, and operate the ship’s photography shop and gallery, selling postcards, photos, video souvenirs, photo and video cameras, and related supplies and services.
On Concordia-class megaships, the photography shops also function as the ship’s mobile top-up center; the postal service; and the ship’s unofficial second information desk for very lost guests who can’t find the just nearby information desk, one deck down.
In the early days, all I could say in Italian was, “Facciamo una bella foto [Let’s make a beautiful photo]!” Italian guests would either find it endearing, laugh me off, or worse, utter insults they thought I didn’t understand. All I could do in response was to present my best smile. I took mental notes and was motivated to learn languages, so as to respond accordingly.
Filipinos are, at the very least, bilingual; able to speak English and the Filipino language. We can deal with the occasional Spanish guest due to our cultural heritage. However, dealing with hundreds of Italians was an entirely different affair. And in winter, flocks of European seniors would arrive to keep warm on the ships. These wintering snowbirds ranged from the charming old lady giving candies to children to the grumpy geriatric shouting “Nein, nein, nein!” while banging the counter of our photography shop because nobody could speak her language.
The cruise photographers were no saints either. Realizing that it was easier to point the camera and shoot than to explain before taking shots, we often took photographs without prior consent. Experienced cruise guests would see this as part of the ship’s entertainment. However, some newbies didn’t. Nonetheless, when they smiled reflexively, we took the opportunity.
The biggest number of photos shot by cruise photographers are the guests’ dinner photos. On a cruise of 2,000+ guests with ten or so photographers, speed beats propriety. We enter like the mob, aim our cameras, take our shots—individuals first, then couples, and then groups, exit, and head to the next restaurant (Concordia-class megaships have two).
During themed dinner nights, our costumed colleagues interact with the guests helping with the shoot. On formal nights, guests are more willing to share their smiles while wearing their best dresses and suits. And on regular dinner nights—most guests would not even bother to turn and look.
We did the spiels but non-verbal communication worked best when the guests were occupied in an activity—during embarkation, excursions, or meeting the captain—and couldn’t escape our lenses. Rather than polite persuasion, well-timed hand motions drew more vacation-high guests to our photography sets.
The photography department is likewise a collection of nationalities. Leading the department is a photography manager, a position which was exclusively for Europeans, followed by a video operator, a print operator, and a photography team, comprised predominantly of Latin Americans with a handful of Europeans (until we Asians came). I embarked on Costa Serena with a photography team of eight Hondurans.
It was also a challenge to communicate with my colleagues. I was able to do my job adequately because of three colleagues—a Genovese video operator, the other new hire photographer who was Venetian, and the almost-always drunk Hungarian print operator. They were happy to translate on behalf of our photo manager—a Sicilian who understood but barely spoke English. Roughly halfway through my first contract, all three were about to disembark from cruise work, I realized I had to build my Spanish vocabulary for better rapport with the remaining Honduran colleagues.
Our photography managers were good people, but I always felt awful about how they managed the Hondurans. When complaints and snafus occurred, one manager would separate the photography team from the rest of Team Honduras. He would then pointedly give Team Honduras a good dressing down. Indeed, a few of them were responsible for creating problems, like drunken disorder or getting chased by an angry knife-wielding guest, but it didn’t make sense to segregate us by the flags on our name tags. Under another manager, I was asked to privately spy on my Honduran colleagues. I agreed but never complied.
I knew that the Hondurans thought of me as the manager's pet; I couldn’t disagree. I had messed up some photography duties too, but all I received were mild and private admonitions. Since I didn’t want to have a hard time working with the Hondurans, who made up the majority of the photo department, I had to dispel their fears.
It was an open secret that some Hondurans made money by selling photos directly to guests, instead of going through the ship’s payment system. I knew discretion was key to building trust.
Fig. 3. Team Honduras and Team Italia—manager and photographers on Costa Serena (2009)
When they were within earshot and colluding, I would nod and listen in. If they asked whether I understood, I would robotically reply, “No hablo español y no entiendo nada [I don't speak Spanish and don't understand anything],” and wink at them impishly. They would usually break into laughter. When one of them finally gave me the nickname of Chino (Chinaman), like one of their gang, I knew I had become an honorary member of Team Honduras.
Ship life was arduous; only fellow crew members could empathize with our situation. At the ports, we (the photographers) became tourists, posing and taking photos of sights and landmarks. On board, we shared the guests’ experience by sneaking in short photo sessions in guest areas and at our portrait studio sets.
Fig. 4-5. Indonesian Housekeeping Steward and Romanian Spa Therapist Sala Carte Portraits (2010)
We were usually approached by crew members to take their photos when they passed us by on the gangways for their shore leaves, or when we met on our short personal excursions. Since many members of the crew are not allowed in guest areas, on land is the only place where they have a chance to partake in the guests’ experience.
Photography provided a break from reality for all the cruise workers. Even the most stringent cruise officer would allow the removal of his name tag, violating the most sacred ship uniform regulation, while participating in a photo session at our studio sets.
And the photographs—they are souvenirs of happy moments that were either too fleeting or were just imagined.
By 2010, I had gained the fluency to pin three language flags on my jacket. I was promoted to the portrait photographer position and was assigned to be in charge of the chroma-key photo set and the artistic Sala Carte portraits.
Regular portrait studio sets were placed strategically for the quick shoot-and-release of guests heading toward or leaving the casino, the cigar bar, or the library. They had colorful backdrops of flower abstractions, the classic beach scene, or a grand staircase. They were flatly lit and had no props.
The Sala Carte (Card Room) portraits were different—made in a more private lounge area and shot in front of a muted gray or plain white backdrop. Under a three-light setup, the subjects posed with pomp and festivity using the provided props, or with drama and romance while standing together or lying on the pillows. This special studio set only opened on formal nights.
Fig. 6. Sala Carte on Costa Concordia (2010)
Making Sala Carte portraits was a matter of enticing the first guests to enter. The flashing lights would attract the other guests, and soon the line would form. There were nights when the lines were so long that other photographers had to wait on me, ready to close up for the night.
Cunning ship officers scheduled closed-door photo sessions when the guests were engaged in the theater during the captain’s speech. And on rare moments of inactivity, ship staff, dressed for the formal night’s soirée, would seize the opportunity for a photo or two.
Getting noted and appreciated felt good, but following the end of each cruise cycle, there was a growing feeling of emptiness, as we piled up unsold photographs—a pallet’s worth of labor, work politics and struggle—to be devoured and chewed up by the shredder.
Nearing the end of my second contract, I understood why the Hungarian print operator and a few Hondurans developed drinking problems; I was at the beginning of mine. I was lonely and felt isolated from the people at home. I felt burnt out; the monotony of doing and saying the same things crept into my dreams. I lost sleep.
Fig. 7. Demonstrations in Tenerife, Spain (2009)
I began listing down reasons for not returning to the ship after my second contract. The financial crisis hit Europe. Greece, Spain, and Portugal defaulted on their debts, which led to protests and riots. Berlusconi added more chaos with an election riot in Rome and there were the beginnings of the Arab Spring. Everything on that side of the planet became volatile, but what made me decide to leave was when Carnival Cruises bought Costa Crociere. The company callously changed the salaries of the non-Europeans from the Euro to US Dollars, keeping the numerical value with a currency of lower exchange rate for the same ship position.
When my contract ended, I went home, slept, and didn’t report for work. The Asian economy got better; photography jobs and projects were back in the market. I felt safer at home than on European waters. I was sleeping better.
Fig. 8. Costa Concordia’s last wetdock at Genoa, Italy (2011)
Nine months after I signed off, my second ship Costa Concordia was on international news. She was run aground and got abandoned by her captain. She sank partially on the rocky shores off the island of Giglio on 13 January 2012. The tragedy took 32 lives.
Comments