While we're not actually expected to swab the decks in exchange for our passage, this is a far cry from cruising. Contrasting cargo ships with cruise liners is like comparing a truck with a limousine - they both get you to your destination, but only one has a champagne fridge and leather seats.
The luxurious pampering and clientele of clubby retirees are all part of the cruise liner experience and come with a price tag to match. Cargo ships are very much the no-frills option.
The core business of our vessel is to shift stuff around the world. The financial benefit of our presence to the company, when fuel costs run into many thousands of dollars a day, is minuscule. We're essentially a welcome distraction, mainly because after several months at sea the crew, if not exactly sick of the sight of each other, at least appreciate some fresh faces and new conversation.
We have a suite that is pleasant and spacious enough - in a Travelodge sort of way. There is also a fridge which we've stocked with beer from the ship's store.
Onboard are 21 crew, a mixture of Kiwis, Ukrainians, Filipinos and Kiribatis (from a remote group of atolls in the equatorial Pacific).
There's one other passenger - a retired female Canadian Mountie who "can't stand flying" - and around 1000 metal containers. These are stuffed with dried milk products, white goods, fruit and, in the 150 or so refrigerated reefer containers, fish, meat and ice cream. We've even got a cargo of "low-specific" radioactive material going to Canada, which means we'll acquire a Mexican naval escort for the approach into Ensenada. That's what I call arriving in style.
With 16 days at sea, we make our own entertainment. We're studying Spanish in anticipation of our arrival in Mexico, for which I am also entertaining myself by growing a big, fat, culturally appropriate moustache.
With no cinema aboard, the only pirates we've seen have been in the ship's library of DVDs of dubious origin and suspect titles of the lewd, nude variety.
The male crew, it must be remembered, are alone at sea for very long periods. Apparently, one middle-aged woman found horizontal ways to entertain herself and most of the crew, on a one-to-one basis, during a recent Pacific crossing.
There are also opportunities for lovers of wildlife. We've seen pods of whales in the Great Barrier Reef lagoon, skittering flying fish off Tahiti, gangs of tiny petrels, and a lone majestic albatross wheeling gracefully around the ship in the Tasman Sea.
Nature is less visible in the mid-Pacific but there's still plenty to stimulate the senses. We're fantastically remote, potentially vulnerable, yet constantly lifted and inspired by the vivid blue beauty of sea and sky: rolling cloudscapes, wildly flamboyant sunsets and star-peppered nights. We are truly at the mercy of the ocean's might, which is as profoundly humbling as it is scary.
For exercise, all ships have some form of gym, though this is usually a slightly optimistic description of a room with a table-tennis table, weights and an exercise bike if you're lucky.
Our current vessel also has a swimming pool, which sloshes merrily with the movement of the ocean. Who needs a wave machine? It's the size of a large septic tank and filled directly with unheated seawater. As a result, it's only really fun in the tropics. Still it helps burn off the steady ingestion of food that punctuates the day.
On the gastronomic front, no two cargo ships are the same. The menus have swung from eastern European meat-and-mash offerings to Filipino fried fish, spicy okra and plenty of rice.
We crossed the Tasman on a French ship where meals were conjured up with typical Gallic culinary flair, made sweeter still by the limitless carafes of free wine.
The Hansa Rendsburg is somewhere in between these extremes, though tomorrow the entire ship's company is gathering in medieval fashion to barbecue a whole suckling pig on the aft-deck, a regular mid-ocean treat.
People are a key part of the journey and are often folk you wouldn't normally speak to, let alone get to know. Sharing a ship has been enlightening, entertaining and at times socially demanding. We have learned the hard way about Russian conversational reticence when sitting in stony silence around the dinner table. We've partied with a phalanx of friendly Filipinos over beers, and discovered a hitherto latent personal penchant for karaoke.
With senior anglophone crew members and passengers, we've wrestled with old-school attitudes on race, religion and gender equality from perspectives unpolished with any veneer of political correctness.
Cargo ship travel is not for everyone, but in an age when any idiot can get on a plane and twang themselves to the other side of the planet, there is something uniquely satisfying about a long voyage by sea.
You gain a respect for the crews who spend so many months of their lives each year half a world away from their nearest and dearest. You get to explore the mechanics of the biggest engines you'll probably ever see, hang out on the bridge and try on thick orange Neoprene immersion suits that make you resemble a cross between a Teletubby and a lobster fetishist.
Freighter cruising also gives a fascinating insight into the logistics of the way much of the world's trade is conducted - sobering when you see first-hand the scale of maritime shipping operations and the challenges involved. Cheap oriental Christmas decorations are seen in a new light when you appreciate how they've reached their destination.
A cargo ship journey is a contemplative, relaxing experience - if the weather obliges. Freed from the distractions of telephones, the internet and the modern world that permeate even the remotest holiday resorts, at sea your mind can wander, ruminate and truly escape. The tragedy is that these opportunities are in decline and capacity is limited to a few passenger cabins per ship.
Compounding this, Orwellian security and immigration measures introduced by the US in recent years have created so many headaches for shipping companies that many have simply stopped carrying passengers at all. A long, proud tradition of travel by sea is in danger of disappearing altogether. Don't miss the boat.
- OBSERVER
