Friends in high places…..

I’m a professional event organizer.  And with EVT I work all over the world, marshalling other professionals and specialists to deliver amazing, breathtaking, exciting, memorable experiences.  EVT expects the best from the people we work with, and as a result deliver the best to our clients.

 

But sometimes it’s a good thing to remember what drew us all to this profession in the first place.  For example, the simple joy of creating something from scratch and being able to look on in wonder and say….”I did that.  It’s so cooll!!! “,  the pleasure of working with a team with little or no budget for the sole purpose of seeing what we are really capable of pulling out of the hat when we don’t have easy or local access to a full range of props, linens, furniture and theming, and top name corporate acts.  The crazy things that can happen when when budgets are forced to take a back seat and innovation and creativity take a step forward to compensate.

 

The best opportunities we have to go back to our roots in this way are when working in remote locations (and I’m talking about Australia now). The moment we have to truck or fly equipment somewhere I know the budget will be psyching itself up to take a couple of very deep breaths and then throw the equivalent of a two year old’s temper tantrum in the middle of a supermarket.

 

It is true that it’s not easy getting ‘stuff’ to places that aren’t well connected.  But just because something isn’t easy doesn’t mean that the budget from our client magically increases to match the difficultly level.  And therein lies the problem.

 

But problems are not problems, they’re challenges.  Because what happens when the prices go up and keep heading up is that people like me go rogue and start talking to local people, ‘normal, everyday’ people.

 

Which brings me to my point.  Every now and again it is great to be reminded how much fun it can be to work with complete amateurs.

 

All you really need to do is find one local resident, just one, with the ‘spark’, that little look in their eye that tells you they can’t resist a challenge  Someone who is liked and respected and who can help energise and unite their community to create something amazing.  A one off, just for one night.

 

What happens then?  You get a whole community excited and motivated to be involved in something out of the norm.  People who can’t resist the idea of showcasing their hometown to the ‘outsiders’.  People who will put in long hours and huge amounts of their own time, blood, sweat and tears to bring our vision alive.

 

Port Lincoln in South Australia is one such community.  The surrounding area is stunningly beautiful, the people are friendly and it’s a short flight from Adelaide.  There are some great ‘individual experiences’ to be had – shark diving, swimming with tuna or sea lions or tasting the delights of the local winery.  But that’s kind of it in an ‘unique, incentive destination’ sort of way.

 

Unlike Adelaide, there is no long list of MICE suppliers to choose from.  And for a lot of the services you might want there are no suppliers at all.  Pretty much everything has to be flown in from Adelaide.  Don’t get me wrong, the actual conferencing and accommodation itself is handled beautifully by Port Lincoln Hotel and their amazing staff but once you leave the meeting room your options for unusual, and well serviced event locations are limited to say the least..

 

Unless of course you make some interesting friends aka ‘locals’.  I’m not going to name drop but they know who they are.

 

Friends who’ll take an idea and run with it. 

 

Friends who’ll find the oldest tuna boat in Australia and transform it into a sushi station for pre dinner drinks and canapés,

 

Friends who’ll recruit an army of local volunteers to transform a tin shed into a magical world through natural talent and sheer hard work. 

 

Friends who’ll sweet talk farmers into providing walls of straw, artists and tradespeople to provide side show games, people to drape, light, disguise and make outrageous props and theming.

 

Friends who’ll convince retired chef’s who could hold their own in 3 hat metro restaurants to serve out of this world, innovative food whilst ensuring the diners have fun at the same time,

 

I’m proud to call them my friends (even though I never knew half of the names of the entire crew – there seemed to be hundreds of people giving their time and good cheer throughout the course of the two day set up).  There wasn’t a professional event supplier amongst them but by the time those guys had finished, it was one of the most beautiful (and funny and quirky and simply brilliant) transformed venues I’d ever seen.  The energy level and good humour throughout was inspiring and it was an honour and a joy to work with them.

 

As for the end result, our client had seen the ‘before’ version of the venue and was very uncertain when we urged her to trust in the amazing powers of the Port Lincoln Posse (despite much good natured teasing and promises of outrageous forfeits should the desired effect not be achieved).

 

Who knows when I’ll next be fortunate enough to have another event which takes me back to Port Lincoln but I’d do it again tomorrow at the drop of a hat – and so would our client.   Judging by the coverage from the local media, the team rocked!!!

 

And if you’re thinking of heading off to Port Lincoln to hold a conference or event – do it without delay!!!  I’ve never worked with better and all those new friends are just waiting there to meet you.

You Tarzan….Me Injured

South Africa……It’s bucket list stuff.  6 star safari lodge, breathtakingly swanky outdoor en suite showers which give the local wildlife an eyeful every morning, game drives at dawn and sunset with the accompanying heart-starter coffees or sun-downer cocktails.  Wild tribal parties in the Boma and memory card after memory card filled with once in a lifetime photos taken during the search for the ‘Big Five’.  (Incidentally no one can ever remember the fifth…everyone gets the elephant, the rhino the leopard and the lion but what of the poor Cape buffalo – they’re always forgotten)

And there’s obviously something about finding yourself in the wilds of Africa (albeit pretty luxurious ‘wilds’) which brings out the Tarzan in every man.

This was apparent at 3.30am one morning when I was woken from a deep sleep by the unmistakable sound stylings of the wild man himself shattering the pre dawn silence and echoing across the plains.  Come on…you know it well…..AaaaaaehahegahaAAAAAehehaehhahaha

Johnny Weissmuller sadly passed away in 1984 so after careful consideration I decided it could only be one of my group.  Correction, ‘some’ of my group.  There was definitely more than one culprit and the sounds were emanating from several different directions and showed no sign of abating.

Mindful of the fact that in the films, whenever Tarzan did his warble thingy, a vast variety of wildlife tended to come running tout suite, I decided to investigate – just in case I had to divert a herd of charging elephants away from the breakfast area.  There’s nothing that disrupts a group more than having to wait to be seated first thing in the morning.

I jumped out of bed.  I armed myself with a pair of flip flops (it is a completely unknown fact that they are 100% effective against charging elephants – but I’m a professional, it’s my business to know these things)  and set for battle I stumbled out onto the veranda of my ‘hut’.

I squinted out into the darkness in all directions.  Obviously, what with me not actually being a meerkat I failed to sense any useful information at all and turned around to walk back into my hut – nose first straight into the patio door which I was too half asleep to remember closing.

It really hurt.

Really

After a few minutes of pathetic moaning and rocking back and forth whilst clutching at my face I noticed that the Tarzan cry had abruptly stopped so even though I spent the rest of the night prodding tentatively at the white hot ball of heat which had previously been my nose, at least I could do it in relative silence.

Over breakfast the next morning (the area thankfully unscathed by elephant charge I might add) I refused to answer why the middle of my face looked like a baboon’s bottom until I’d gotten the gory details of the Tarzan story.

It turns out that experience of the outdoor showers had inspired all the chaps to have a Tarzan Cry competition and it had been scheduled for 5.30am that very morning.

However, a few select members of our group (they swore that they’d been guarding the camp perimeter against the local wildlife but I happen to know the closest they’d gotten to animals that night was the zebra skin rug on the floor of the bar in the main lodge) had been en route to their huts at 3.30am and ‘accidentally’ let off a shout.

That set off a chain reaction throughout the huts as the male population, thinking that they’d overslept, stumbled out of bed and into their outdoor en suites to do their vocal bit until their wives and girlfriends had restored order and sent them back to bed.

The moral of this story is threefold.  Firstly, leave the wake up calls to your iPhone, secondly flip flops might in theory protect you against an elephant stampede but they’re definitely useless against a patio glass door and finally nobody remembers you when you come in fifth.  Bet you’ve forgotten already…….

Now that’s what I call a polo pony….

Ever played or watched polo?  You know, the frightfully civilized game of the rich and famous…lots of deeply tanned, god-like, glamorous people, girls daintily treading divots in their Ferragamos, drinking Pimms and Veuve whilst the chaps gallop up and down on a succession of terribly expensive ponies whacking a little white ball.  Yes, that’s it…polo.

If so, good for you – can I borrow your private jet sometime?

If not, all is not lost.  I’ve found a slightly cheaper alternative.  Elephant polo.  The dress code is much more relaxed (trust me you don’t want to go anywhere near an elephant polo field wearing expensive shoes – the divots you’ll find there are best avoided or you’ll find yourself up to your knees in a pile of something unmentionable).  The ball is a common soccer ball and the mallets are about 5 meters long and bendy and about as easy to use as a golf club made out of drinking straws and a bowling ball. 

You have an elephant driver on board with you (a bit like a Melbourne taxi driver in that he’ll go pretty much the opposite direction to the one you want no matter how loud you scream, shout and point) and the pace is much slower.  In fact it’s possible to have an afternoon nap and read the first three chapters of War and Peace in the time it takes for the elephant to reach the ball.

Apart from that, it’s every bit as exciting as the real thing and I don’t think I have ever laughed so much as when I was on the back of that elephant.  It’s not a game for the feint hearted – 6 elephants heading for the same soccer ball can be a little intimidating – not to mention the risk of 6 complete idiots trying to master the use of a 5 meter bendy mallet without falling off.  On the plus side, falling off is harder than you think and can be less painful than anticipated if you’re lucky enough to land in one of the aforementioned ‘divots’.

Add to the mix the magic of a ride through the hills to the sound of a distant flute on the way to the polo field and the fanfare of a full marching band when you arrive and I guarantee you one of the most memorable sporting experiences of your life.

Who needs to be a millionaire when you can simply hop on the back of your elephant daahhhling.

 

New York New York

I wasn’t sure of the best way to incentivise 70 people to go for a jog around Central Park before breakfast on a cold wintery morning in March.  It was a toss up between offering them free access to a waffle stand or a post run ride in an ambulance.  The waffle stand was cheaper

As part of our ‘see New York like a New Yorker’ plan, day 3 was spent indulging in a range of sporting activities.

It started with a little light exercise in the park whilst our puffing guides pointed out the sights (well OK, the guides were pretty fit, we were the puffers).  There were random encounters with the infamous New York dog walkers struggling with their possies of pampered pooches (all wearing tshirts with our client’s logo on the back – the dogs that is, not the dog walkers) and  our client’s mascot was spotted doing star jumps and leg lunges of Jane Fonda like quality on a nearby hill.   And, as previously mentioned, if the exercise hadn’t done us enough harm, then the ‘waffles with everything’ nearly finished the job.

Undeterred by aching muscles and indigestion we forged on.  Next stop…a private session on the ice rink at Rockefeller Plaza.  Surprisingly few wipe outs, one subsequently diagnosed fractured coccyx (but that was the other trip manager so doesn’t count) and just the odd pair of wet trousers later we had to face our toughest challenge….avoiding the St Patrick’s Day parade madness.  I don’t think it’s an olympic event…but it should be.  You have to dodge, skip, run, jump, reverse, slow, slow, quick quick slow and that’s just in getting past the first pub.  The other street sport is in in not losing half the girls into the shops.  I should get a gold medal in that.

And to complete our sporting day…. a Knicks Game at Madison Square Gardens.  Wow…there’s never a dull moment at those things, you can’t even go to the bathroom in case you miss a competition or the t-shirt cannons, or your name flashing up on the boards.  Of course, it’s possible to do the whole corprorate box thingy but it’s soooooo much more fun being out in the war zone, buying your own dogs and beer!  It’s funny though,  everyone seemed to just disappear when I suggested working off the hotdogs with another run around the park the next morning.

Pimp My Tuk Tuk

So, literally, only one night in Bangkok.

A beautiful balmy night and I’d taken the incentive group for dinner at Vertigo, the restaurant on the roof of the Banyan Tree Hotel. We didn’t tell them about the venue and the first glimpse of things to come was after they’d exited the lift and walked two flights of stairs. Bam! Suddenly there they were, on the open roof, with the whole of Bangkok, lit and twinkling beneath them. It took their breath away. Occasionally, someone suffers from the same name as the restaurant and we seat them at a romantic table in the restaurant on the floor below but on this night even the Vertigo sufferers didn’t want to miss out so they groped their way to their seats and spent the rest of the night feeling very proud that they’d overcome their fears.

Dinner was superb as always and as we neared the end of the meal I was just waiting for someone to ask the question. No one had yet, but someone would – they always do……

And finally, some brave soul did indeed ask.

Um Lisa, how far is Patpong from here?

I grinned and walked around our tables. Yes, I had two coaches downstairs waiting for us. Yes, if people wanted to visit the night markets and/or Patpong I could arrange for one of the coaches to do this while the other took the remainder back to the hotel. No problem, just say the word etc etc.

Strangely enough I found myself on the coach to the markets/Patpong. I was now “off duty” and had meant to go back to the hotel but the VIP pulled a fast one and collared me on the way to the coach with some “very important questions” and shortly there we were, merrily on our way to the bustling street.

Oh well, I thought, if you can’t beat ‘em join ‘em so I explained to everyone that the markets run the length of the street and the bars/clubs line the sides etc etc. In short order we arrived, jumped off and hit the markets en masse.

I have no intention of saying how many of the group peeled off into the bars. You know, what goes on in Patpong stays in Patpong and all that. I simply kept my head down and helped the shoppers. Anyway, I couldn’t wait for the stories which would be told over breakfast in the morning!!

About an hour later I calculated that as the 30 people still with me were carrying more or less their own body weight in fake Rolexes, Ed Harvey T-shirts and D&G handbags, they were about ready to go back to the hotel. We gathered on the corner and began the fine art of bartering for cabs and tuk tuks. We’d all picked a target and the whole process was conducted with much laughter, us arguing with our cabbie or tuk tuk driver and then shouting to other members of the group further down the street to make sure we were getting a good deal. It was a riot!!

Hence, we all piled into our transports at about the same time and set off. Now normally the ride back to the hotel takes about 10 minutes but our high spirits must have been contagious as the drivers all wheel spun away into what was obviously the first ever Bangkok F1 street race.

Cabs vied with Tuk tuks, red lights were ignored, road etiquette unheard of as we wove in and out of the rest of Bangkok’s unsuspecting drivers.

I was one of the first back to the hotel and stood under the portico to give a rousing welcome to those who came behind, in a seemingly never ending convoy.

And come they did, racing up the drive and skidding to a halt, the occupants helpless with laughter as they spilled onto the carpet and paid their money.

I noticed that a few were still missing and was about to ask if anyone had seen them when in the distance, over the night-time noises of busy Bangkok the “duff duff duff” of a severe sound system gradually got louder and louder. Out of sight at the entrance to the hotel we heard a screech, the duff duff swelled and around the corner came a tuk tuk unlike anything I have ever seen before. Disco lights mounted on every available surface (inside and out) and flashing in time with the music, ultra violet tubes which lit the ground from underneath the chassis, a TV screen mounted in the back (showing god knows what but I think it was XXX rated) and the now deafening pounding of what was obviously a very popular club hit.

The tuk tuk showed no signs of slowing down and I assumed that it was going to carry on, nothing to do with our group, but at that moment the driver performed the most stunning extended wheelie which lasted more or less the entire length of the hotel and revealed the hysterical faces of the missing three of my group.

They ‘dismounted’ with cheers and much back slapping, having literally showered the driver with Baht for his prowess at the wheel (and I’m assuming for his knowledge of where they could get the beer that they hadn’t spilled a drop of) and the tuk tuk duff duffed off into the night.

At breakfast the next morning the pimped up tuk tuk got as much airplay as the other events in Patpong, surpassed only by the story of how many darts it took for one Thai hostess to pop 6 balloons. (I didn’t ask……..)

What’s for Dinner?

I have two wonderful memories of my overnight stay in Agra. The first was the Taj Mahal. Yes, the monument itself was as pretty as in all the pictures – although be warned, if you want to get the classic photo of the Taj Mahal’s reflection in the water you have to lie absolutely flat on the ground within sniffing distance of everyone else’s hot dirty feet… But by far the best thing was an encounter with the locals.

After we’d walked through the monument to the other side of the building we found the steps packed with a group of Indian people from a remote village up north, come to pay their own respects at the shrine. None of them spoke English, most of the women were heavily tattooed on their arms and necks (the real thing, not just henna) and the whole group of about 60 people had about 10 teeth between them.

While we were waiting for the rest of our group we ‘mimed’ to these visitors that we’d like to take a photo with them. They welcomed us into their ranks and we assumed the position waiting for our guide to press the button. However, the locals had other ideas – within seconds the ladies had whisked off their headscarves and were draping us girls and the gents were busily wrapping up the heads of our male colleagues into expert turbans. They were all smiling and laughing and everyone within reach had an arm on our shoulders or were holding our hands.

It was beautiful. We were as strange to them as they were to us. They didn’t want a ‘tip’ for posing in our photos, they were just happy to have met someone different and enjoy the moment. As were we.

The second thing took place as I was sitting on my balcony at the hotel in the late afternoon. I’d positioned my feet on the railing and was admiring the view of the Taj Mahal dead centre between my dusty toes – every single room at the hotel has this view – (although admittedly most don’t have my dirty feet in them which would improve the view somewhat……).

Suddenly my attention was diverted to a small family of goats in the near distance that were happily trotting along the wall of the hotel gardens. They made such a pretty picture against the immaculately manicured lawns that I grabbed my camera but at that moment one of the littlest goats simply fell off the wall and into the hotel grounds. (I didn’t actually think that was possible – aren’t they supposed to be really, really surefooted?)

Suddenly, all hell broke loose. The goats still on the wall were running up and down its length anxiously, the little goat on the grass couldn’t figure out how to get back up, all of them were bleating at the top of their voices. It was heartbreaking. This went on for a few minutes (It was better than telly and I was glued to the action, would the little goat make it back to its family, tune in next episode etc etc)

Then (and this is when a scary soundtrack would have been perfect) two hotel employees appeared from around the corner of the hotel, brandishing big sticks and running towards the little goat. The rest of the goats took one look and legged it, leaving little goat alone and defenseless.

The men chased the little goat across the lawn, around a tree a couple of times and then out of sight into a wooded ditch (Perhaps the music would need to change to a Benny Hill soundtrack at this point). All that could be heard was the pitiful bleating of the goat and the occasional shout of one of the men.

I’ll never know if the men were just trying to herd the goat back to where it could rejoin its family or if they were up to something more sinister. However, I will say that we ate in the hotel restaurant that night and I chose the vegetarian option…………

Poor Piggy

When choosing menus for a group you have to be very, very careful. There are some truly delicious and some very scary local delicacies throughout the world but for every person on an incentive trip that would be keen to try there are twenty more who couldn’t think of anything worse. As a result I tend to choose beautiful food but food that is easily identifiable as something familiar and not too ‘exotic’.

So I was very surprised when at least half of the members of my group to Peru approached me within the first few days on the trip saying that they’d been challenged by the folks back home to try ‘Cuy’ (or Guinea Pig as you or I would say).

With those sorts of numbers I needed to give them what they wanted. But, never one to give everything away, I just nodded sympathetically and said that I understood but that I had to cater for everyone so it probably wouldn’t happen. I then slunk off to the caterer for my gala dinner and had a quiet word.

When Cuy is served ‘formally’ at an event it’s cooked just like a suckling pig and arrives on the silver platter with a cherry tomato in its mouth. I arranged for two Cuy, one as a ‘presentation pig’ (for the photo opportunities) and one that would be chopped into small pieces so that everyone could have a taste.

At speech time, before dessert and after the VIP had said his thing I took the microphone and centre stage.

“Hello everyone. I hope you’ve enjoyed your time here in Peru and are as sad as I am to be leaving tomorrow. Now, most of you have told me at some point on the trip that you would have liked to have tried the Guinea Pig.

Well I tried and tried to get hold of one and finally today, while we were in Ollantaytambo I had a bit of luck…”

(At this point the waiters appeared bearing the sacrificial guinea pig and were greeted with spontaneous cheers and applause from the group. I waited a few seconds until people had started to try their mouthful of guinea pig and carried on….)

“I do hope you enjoy it and please don’t be at all distressed at the thought that at this very moment, there’s a little girl in Ollantaytambo who is saying to her mum “Mummy, why did little Pedro have to go away…..?”

Heartless lot!

PS: For those of you who are wondering, it tastes just like pork (strange eh)……..but crunchier.22

Beer and High heels in Machu Pichu

The five words most guaranteed to strike terror into the heart of any incentive travel Director is “we’ve run out of beer’.

Now I go to great lengths to make sure that this doesn’t happen. On each site inspection I spend an extraordinary amount of time discussing this issue with suppliers. In fact, I stress the importance of sufficient quantities of beer so much that I’m sure they think that it’s got nothing to do with my group at all and that I am in fact a closet dipso.

They just won’t believe me when I say that Australian groups drink a lot of beer and that should the worst happen and supplies run out then it could get ugly…….

Fortunately, most of my suppliers humour me and functions swing happily along with no disasters but once in while, despite my best efforts (and due to the best efforts of my beer-loving companions) the worst happens. And wouldn’t you just know it, it always happens in the most impossible location.

Take Peru. Chugging through the mountains between Cuzco and Machu Picchu on the Orient Express, one of the most luxurious trains in the world. Fine dining, stunning views and a carriage full of excited Aussies, all looking forward to climbing the famous ruins. On the outbound journey they were all very well behaved and heeding my warnings about drinking at high altitude with the prospect of some heavy exercise ahead.

Machu Picchu….. we arrived, we walked, we climbed, we marveled, we took a group photo, we had afternoon tea.

(I’m not being flippant, I just can’t begin to put into words how special this place is so please, please, if you ever get the opportunity, go and see it for yourself)

At this point I must mention a very special woman. I had been incredibly specific about the clothing and footwear necessary for Machu Picchu in the itinerary and everyone had appeared in the required attire. All except one. This lovely lady turned up in 4 inch wedges and refused to change them even when I begged. I started the day anticipating multiple broken limbs or at the worst, her tripping and freefalling down into a Canyon but she walked, climbed and scaled with the best of them with not a single complaint and not a single blister. Not that she’d have dared utter a word I suppose after my entreaties of the morning…..

By the end of the day she’d escalated from foolhardy to a goddess in my eyes. Talk about stamina!

By the time the group had had a quick squiz around the markets at the train station and was back on board the train they were ready to really enjoy themselves on the three hour or so journey back to Cuzco.

Dinner was served and savoured and then, not wanting them to miss out of the entertainment in the bar I led a 60 person strong conga line down the train to start things off. Waiting there were two of the best musicians I’ve found in a long while – armed with nothing but a guitar, a tambourine and a wooden box seat which doubled as a drum they swung straight into Waltzing Matilda (They didn’t speak a word of English so I’d sent them the words and music and they’d learnt it especially for the group). From there into Beatles, Rolling Stones and so on and so on and the party began.

About 1 hour into the trip the train manager, looking very concerned, pulled me to one side.

“Miss Lisa, we’ve run out of beer…..”
“What? We went through this, you promised me you’d triple your supplies just so this didn’t happen!!”
“We did Miss Lisa! But they’ve drunk everything!”
“Well, where can we get some more?”

She gave me a very odd look and at this point even I realized how stupid my last question was. We were chugging through the mountains, dark, quiet, not a house in sight.

“Are you telling me there’s not a single village between here and Cuzco?” I asked.

“Well no, there is one about 10 minutes up the track. There is a small station but we don’t stop there.” She replied.

“We do now”

15 minutes later some very surprised, sleepy villagers were roused from…..whatever they were doing, putting the llamas to bed or something……and relieved of every bottle of beer they possessed. They charged a very reasonable price (if the beer had been Moet & Chandon that is) and beerless but happy they waived our train off.

My group, still partying in the bar, greeted the beer with cheers and applause – keen to try the local brew.

Whatever was in it worked. I’d have given my left arm to have been standing on the platform in Cuzco when our train pulled in. The entire train was empty, except for 60 jumping, dancing, crazy Aussies bouncing around to the music in the bar car. Our coach drivers, waiting on the platform couldn’t speak for laughing and I had to more or less physically hold them back from boarding the train to join in.

So reluctant was this incentive group to call it quits it took me 30 minutes and the combined efforts of the train manager, the train guides, the train driver and the chef to get them off the train. And the lady in the heels? She carried on dancing all the way to the coaches. Ah me, what a night……..

Serves Me Right or, What goes around comes around………..

Coach travel is boring and should be avoided at all costs.

(There is only one exception to this rule and that is when travelling between Hanoi and Halong Bay. By coach is the only way to travel. It’s about a 3 hr drive on more or less a single lane road and all you can see coming in the opposite direction is a constant stream of trucks, cars and mopeds carrying men, women, children, pigs or the kitchen sink (and sometimes all five at once). It’s the best game of chicken I’ve ever played. They all hold their course and at the last moment the most cowardly driver swerves out of the way – it’s brilliant!!!. I don’t think my group were as impressed – at one point I turned around to look and they had all moved on to the ‘kerb’ side of the coach ‘just in case’. With 30 people on a 45 seater coach this meant that nearly half the passengers ended up sitting on someone else’s lap but at least it meant that the group had bonded well and I put the high spirits at dinner that night down to the sheer joy of having survived the trip!! Of course I wasn’t at all nervous. I was sitting at the front of the coach and kept my eyes on the driver’s hands. I figured that as long as his knuckles didn’t turn white we were all going to be fine.)

Anyway, back to my point. Coach travel is boring. Even when there is no other way to get from point A to point B there’s always a way to break up the journey, sometimes by visiting point C on the way or sometimes by arranging a little ‘technical hitch’ en route and having an alternative method of transport available just to cover the last stretch.

And this is what we’d done in Prague. We boarded the coaches in the morning to head out to Nelahozevez Castle. The journey was about an hour and a half or so and the last bit was through some beautiful countryside, perfect for a bike ride along the river. All we had to do was stage a fake breakdown at a designated spot.

The coach driver took his new acting career very seriously and starting pumping the brakes about 10 minutes too early. Finally the coach came to a juddering halt at which point I explained to the group that obviously there was something wrong with the engine thingy and that Second In Command and I would just take a quick sprint up the road to see if we could fetch help. (Can’t believe they swallowed that one, it had been pretty obvious up to that point that neither of us could speak Czech so God knows what sort of help we’d have come back with if it had been a real emergency).

We disappeared around the corner to check that our fleet of beautifully branded bicycles were waiting in the arranged spot and 5 minutes later the guide led the group after us. I’m assuming that they’d decided that Second in Command and I were bound to get in trouble and need rescuing.

They were all delighted at the sight of the bicycles, and after donning the appropriate safety gear we happily set off along the river with the fairytale castle in the distance as our final destination and the sun shining brightly overhead – idyllic!

They loved it. They also loved the elegant morning tea that we’d arranged with the real live Prince who owns the castle and were fascinated at his stories of how his family reclaimed their many properties and treasures from the State following the fall of the communist government. They loved his personal tour of the castle and they loved the fine lunch set up in the courtyard and the very impressive synchronized cloche removal from the plates by the waiters.

All in all a success. Finally it was time to reboard the coach and head back to Prague. The clouds were closing in and it was about to rain but everything was set and it was time to leave. The driver took his seat and………nothing. He turned the key a couple of times more but the engine was dead so he let off the handbrake and cruised down the long drive of the castle. The group was so busy chatting about the morning’s activities that they didn’t notice at first but when the coach failed to jump start itself and came to rest just as it reached the road they couldn’t help but figure out something was wrong..

Normally in this situation a group would get cranky and impatient. Their afternoon was free for shopping and if there’s one thing you absolutely never do with a group it’s get between the girls and their shops.

However, this time their reaction was one of triumph. A lot of these people are regular attendees of the annual incentive trips and are used to (and expect) our little surprises and tricks. We catch them every time and our subterfuges have to get more and more complicated every year. Each time they find out what we’ve done they scold us affectionately and say something along the lines of ‘Oh, you girls. What will you come up with next…..”

The group was jubilant. Our little stunt with the coach breakdown in the morning had come back to bite us in the bum and they couldn’t have been happier.

The hysterical giggling didn’t start until I got off the coach to head up the drive to ask Prince Lobkowicz for help. I’d got about 20 metres before the torrential rain started. Hence I had to beg a bona fide royal for assistance looking like a drowned rat. He jumped into action (didn’t seem to hold it against me that I wasn’t in the mood for curtsying) and immediately organized for a spare battery to be brought from his storage dungeon or some such.

Thirty minutes later we were all fixed and on our way back to Prague with plenty of time for shopping.

This group have never let me forget it though. Every time something ‘unexpected’ happens to them now on a trip I can just see them waiting for me to get my just desserts………

Walking Wounded In Vietnam

Occasionally on our travels someone in a group will become ill or hurt themselves but to have three injured on the same trip is unusual to say the least.

Our stay in Vietnam was half over. We’d done Ho Chi Minh; the group had been rendered speechless at

a) the sheer numbers of mopeds and bikes and
b) the amount of cargo it’s possible to load onto the back of one (4 people at a time, a fridge, a door – you name it we saw it wobbling along).

We’d visited the Cu Chi tunnels (one of the group got stuck) and now we’d arrived in Hanoi for one night before heading up to Halong Bay.

The first casualty occurred as we checked into the hotel and funnily enough it wasn’t a member of the group at all, it was my Second in Command. She was very helpfully trying to assist one of porters with someone’s case (why?) and just like that – pop – her back went.

That was her ‘out’ for the rest of the trip but the very reason we tour managers travel in pairs is in case of situations like this so I mentally prepared myself to have all 66 of the group to myself. Like Hermione Granger in the Harry Potter Books, I’d need to be in several places at once but I’m pretty fast on my feet so I dashed up to get changed for dinner, did a quick advance check of the local restaurant and was waiting to greet the group as they boarded the coaches.

Dinner was superb. It was at Bobby Chin’s – Vietnam’s answer to a celebrity TV chef – and I knew the group would love it. The food was superb, the décor was quirky and we’d brought in a DJ for after dinner.

Come 10.30pm the dance floor was crowded and the party was in full swing. Energy was high and at least 50 mature, well-heeled, successful dealers were strutting their stuff like something out of High School Musical.

The first sign of potential trouble was when the very glamorous wife of one of the dealers hiked up her skirt and did a cartwheel across the dance floor. I was mid-dance myself and stumbled uncertainly for a moment, not quite believing what I’d just seen as the culprit was now bopping about quite demurely on the edge of the crowd but the expression on everyone else’s face convinced me that I hadn’t imagined it and we all carried on. (Under sustained interrogation the next day the perpetrator told me that it’s her party trick, she waits for the right moment, knocks out a little cartwheel and then carries on innocently. I tell you, it’s the quiet ones you’ve got to watch and whoever said life begins at forty got it spot on!!)

This display of acrobatics seemed to ramp up the energy on the dance floor and chuckling to myself I turned to get a drink, just in time to see another of the wives finish a startling Billy Elliot impression and then crumple to the floor.

We got her to a quite corner, summoned waiters, ice packs, doctors and whatever else we thought might make her more comfortable. (Someone offered tequila but I’ve never seen it on any list of acceptable medical treatments so felt I should put my foot down at that point (which is more than my invalid could do).

One visit to the casualty department later and her leg was impressively strapped up with an official diagnosis of a torn hamstring.

The next morning, I left her and Second in Command settled comfortably at the hotel (being lovingly attended by a fleet of hotel staff) and departed for the train station so that the group could get to Halong Bay for an overnight stay on a beautiful boat.

All I had to do was get them on the train. They had to get off the coaches, walk about 5 minutes along the street and then onto the train platform. Sounds simple eh?

But no, another one of the wives (yes, I know, what was it with the girls on this one?) was so distracted by the sight of a passing moped carrying 3 people, 4 cages of chickens and 3 boxes of fruit that she stepped off the kerb into a pot-hole. You didn’t need to be a doctor to figure out that she’d dislocated her ankle – it was hideous!!.

I had 64 people waiting for me to get on a train so the only thing to do was to get my latest casualty and her husband into a taxi and send them off to the local emergency room with one of my English speaking guides. I rang the hotel and Second in Command and told them to expect the wounded and to make sure that they were taken very good care of overnight until the group returned from Halong Bay.

Deciding not to take it personally that my group appeared to be dropping like flies I pressed on and the rest of the day/night proceeded smoothly and with no further disasters. The train ride was fun – especially when the group saw the local farmers and water buffalo that we’d positioned in one of the fields en route – all wearing client t-shirts (yes, even the buffalo) and waving branded flags. Everyone loved Halong Bay, loved the candle lit dinner in a remote cave even more and by the time we returned to Hanoi late the next day they were relaxed and in very good spirits – the perfect mood to undertake one of our specially created team challenges in Hanoi’s old markets..

And what of my 3 wounded soldiers? Concerned that they’d been bored and in pain whilst we’d been off enjoying ourselves, the first thing I did on setting foot back at the hotel was call their rooms and try to track them down to make sure everything was OK.

It took me half an hour. When I eventually located them they were lined up on sun-loungers by the pool, mid manicure/ massage/facial, complimentary cocktails in hand, drunk as skunks and in the process of the longest giggling fit I’ve ever seen. It was like a Beverly Hills 90210 remake of M*A*S*H and it appeared they were quite happily recovering without me – so leaving Second in Command to convince the hotel that more alcohol was the only solution I resisted the temptation to prod a few bandages to check for malingerers and left them to numb the pain to their hearts’ content while I went to check that the troupe of vietnamese dancers I’d booked for our colonial french gala dinner had learnt how to do the can-can (now that nearly gave me my own injury…….)