11.00-11.15 AM, balcony of our Airbnb lodging in Faber Gardens, Singapore

• three slices of toast with mixed berry jam
• tea
• water
• Angus O'Neill's ginger beer

Afraid that our no-meat diet would cause problems on the ship, we filled up our backpacks with snacks before heading to the port. We were told by the Singapore shipping agent (a middleman who brings people to ships at high-security container ports and charges ridiculous amounts of money for his services) to be at the pass office at four sharp: a driver would meet us there, help us to acquire our temporary passes – that were mandatory to access the terminal area – and drive us to the ship.

We were at the office in good time, and some minutes after four the driver also arrived – a youngish, chubby Chinese man with a twinkle in his eyes. Holding photocopies of our passports, he recognized us without effort, and handed us forms to fill. Most of the information to be given was routine – passport number etc. - but what was our “purpose of the visit” in the terminal? “Meeting with the Master”, the driver said, providing no further explanation. M-E-E-T-I-N-G..., we scribbled on our sheets. With an urgency that brought to mind our weeks in China, he hurried us to sign the forms and told us to sit down and wait, as he carried the papers to the Port Authority; a flegmatic Indian woman sitting deep behind her desk in a uniform poorly suited for the climate (although the air conditioning was admittably quite harsh). Noticing what we had stated as our “purpose of the visit”, the lady seemed confused, as we had already, before the driver's arrival, brought it to her knowing that we would be sailing off with one of these ships. With our backpacks leaning against the wall, we also could not have looked like the average visitors. “Meeting with the Master”, the driver insisted, joking away about something we couldn't understand.

Sitting there, rather unable to make a difference, we observed the driver; a small, round man with a particularly bad breath; and thought about chapters of Bulgakov's “Master and Margarita”.

No arguments were raised, no further questions were asked, and in a matter of minutes we were on our way to the container ship terminal. Passing piles of containers, stacks of a giant's Legos, we arrived at the MV Praha, where Polynesian-looking deckhands in greasy overalls smilingly greeted us welcome. With an intensive course to seaman talk, we quickly learned that “Master” refers to the captain of the ship.