The biggest and most secretive gathering of ships in maritime
history lies at anchor east of Singapore. Never before photographed,
it is bigger than the U.S. and British navies combined but has no
crew, no cargo and no destination – and is why your Christmas stocking
may be on the light side this year
The tropical waters that lap the jungle shores of southern Malaysia
could not be described as a paradisical shimmering turquoise. They
are more of a dark, soupy green. They also carry a suspicious smell.
Not that this is of any concern to the lone Indian face that has
just peeped anxiously down at me from the rusting deck of a towering
container ship; he is more disturbed by the fact that I may be a
pirate, which, right now, on top of everything else, is the last
thing he needs.
His appearance, in a peaked cap and uniform, seems rather odd;
an officer without a crew. But there is something slightly odder
about the vast distance between my jolly boat and his lofty position,
which I can’t immediately put my finger on.
Then I have it – his 750ft-long merchant vessel is standing
absurdly high in the water. The low waves don’t even bother the
lowest mark on its Plimsoll line. It’s the same with all the ships
parked here, and there are a lot of them. Close to 500. An armada
of freighters with no cargo, no crew, and without a destination
My ramshackle wooden fishing boat has floated perilously close
to this giant sheet of steel. But the face is clearly more scared
of me than I am of him. He shoos me away and scurries back into
the vastness of his ship. His footsteps leave an echo behind them.
Navigating a precarious course around the hull of this Panama-registered
hulk, I reach its bow and notice something else extraordinary. It
is tied side by side to a container ship of almost the same size.
The mighty sister ship sits empty, high in the water again, with
apparently only the sailor and a few lengths of rope for company.
Nearby, as we meander in searing midday heat and dripping humidity
between the hulls of the silent armada, a young European officer
peers at us from the bridge of an oil tanker owned by the world’s
biggest container shipping line, Maersk. We circle and ask to go
on board, but are waved away by two Indian crewmen who appear to
be the only other people on the ship.
‘They are telling us to go away,’ the boat driver explains. ‘No
one is supposed to be here. They are very frightened of pirates.’
Here, on a sleepy stretch of shoreline at the far end of Asia,
is surely the biggest and most secretive gathering of ships in maritime
history. Their numbers are equivalent to the entire British and
American navies combined; their tonnage is far greater. Container
ships, bulk carriers, oil tankers – all should be steaming fully
laden between China, Britain, Europe and the US, stocking camera
shops, PC Worlds and Argos depots ahead of the retail pandemonium
of 2009. But their water has been stolen.
They are a powerful and tangible representation of the hurricanes
that have been wrought by the global economic crisis; an iron curtain
drawn along the coastline of the southern edge of Malaysia’s rural
Johor state, 50 miles east of Singapore harbour.
It is so far off the beaten track that nobody ever really comes
close, which is why these ships are here. The world’s ship owners
and government economists would prefer you not to see this symbol
of the depths of the plague still crippling the world’s economies.
So they have been quietly retired to this equatorial backwater,
to be maintained only by a handful of bored sailors. The skeleton
crews are left alone to fend off the ever-present threats of piracy
and collisions in the congested waters as the hulls gather rust
and seaweed at what should be their busiest time of year.