Speak my language
My friend Lyn has just managed to squeeze in a skiing break to Italy. A keen fan of the slopes, she was looking forward to meeting up with the Italian ski instructor who had taught her to ski at the same resort last year. Apparently what he can’t do with a pair of poles and a quick downhill isn’t worth doing, and, because of his expertise he’d moved up a grade.
Lyn has taken the decision that she too, will move up a grade – for the challenge, of course. He doesn’t speak any English, but he is lovely, she cooed.
Which adds a twist to the current argument surrounding the employment of English ski instructors. The French have taken against the British teaching on their slopes (so much for open borders) preferring instead to employ natives.
I’m all in favour of the right man for the right job and I’m happy for other countries to assert their national identity but I do feel there could be an issue of safety here if instructors are not fluent in what has become the world’s language – English.
It’s all very well to be seduced by a heavy French accent (or an Italian one), but I’d be happier knowing an instructor could understand the utterings of the injured non-French speaking holidaymaker.
How many of us when on holiday or participating in an educational, have thrown caution to the winds and undertaken daredevil activities organised by local companies whose staff may or may not be qualified, or who may or may not speak English?
I know that I for one have behaved completely out of character and found myself actively involved in the most foolhardy, dangerous activities available.
What it is to find oneself half way up a rock face or dangling from a paraglider over a vast sea or knee deep in muck and bullets!
Of course, by the time you’ve realised the potentially life-threatening nature of what you’re doing, it’s too late to back out.
Once in Malaysia I found myself clinging to a rock face led by a barefooted guide who had little English but who did have a sufficiently confident smile to inspire trust in him. I had little choice but to trust him as he removed a leech from my ankle with a burning cigarette.
Similarly, I was gripped with terror when climbing Ayers Rock. My knuckles turned white as I grabbed the guide rope when the Japanese tourist in front of me stopped with no warning to take a photograph of his companion.
You’d think I’d leave mountaineering alone with my luck, but no. Cape Point had to be climbed and I was doing quite well when I was hit by a flying frau. I clung to her well made German anorak and together we rolled down to the bottom.
Scratched, bruised and cursing, I was thrilled to know it had all been captured on video by a grinning tourist.
In Tunisia, my companion Mandy suffered minor injuries when she head-butted a paragliding instructor who had misjudged his landing.
All of which goes to prove that the potential for accidents abroad is considerable; it would be great to think that those in charge of us loony holidaymakers were armed to the full, not only with the sorts of qualifications that make activities as safe as possible, but with the language of the people in their care.
Holding back the beers
It’s bad enough having to withhold information regarding the whereabouts of wedding abroad when nosy Aunt Gladys phones to find out for sure that she’s been left off the A list, but now we are increasingly being asked to keep the stag night venue/resort confidential too!
My friend’s son recently sailed to Hamburg with Scandinavian Seaways to celebrate the last days of singledom of two of his pals.
One of the lucky grooms was able to enjoy an inhibitions-free alcoholic adventure, but the other remained sober and subdued.
Word soon spread to the 40 revellers in the party that the reason for this uncharacteristic behaviour was not the grave thought of marriage, but the fact that his future father-in-law had learned the details of the event and, uninvited, had booked himself a place on board with the rest of the lads.
The event lost the spirited abandon it might otherwise have had and things were not made any better by the slow disembarkation at Hamburg which took over an hour.
Just the one operator at passport control meticulously examining photos dampened the atmosphere for sure. The return was much the same, although the lads were surprised to see the boat’s entertainments manager doubling up as a passport controller!
It was smooth sailing at Harwich however where British efficiency scored high against our German counterparts. Our brave revellers were impressed with one aspect of their Scandinavian Seaways in particular: they didn’t run out of booze!
Spiritual healing
My recent comments on the pursuit of alternative medicine abroad prompted a letter from Jon Baines of Master Travel in London.
Master Travel specialises in travel for those interested in spiritual healing and alternative medicine and covers the globe from Guatemala to China, South Africa to Tibet. Initially the tours were undertaken by medical professionals, doctors, midwives, nurses and the like, but more recently Master Travel have received requests for help from practitioners of other complementary treatments including aromatherapists and reflexologists .As such services now abound in most towns, Master Travel are looking for agents to promote their tours. If your agency is up on its flower remedies and its massage oils and you think you could sell this sort of product, contact Jon on 0181 671 7521. If, however, the most exciting thing you can think of to rub on your partner is Vicks, or you think that Ylang Ylang is the name of a Giant Panda, leave well alone!
n Maureen Hill is working temporarily at John Perry Travel, Blandford Forum