The day arrived when our summer destinations were to be revealed to us. We all waited nervously in the reception of the hotel to be called in by our bosses and told our fate. The meetings seemed to be lasting an average of ten minutes apiece. This was to be a crucial time for all us novice reps. Some had threatened that if they didn’t get what they wanted they would be heading home. There was quite a bit of tension in the room as we all waited. I didn’t see anybody cry, but plenty emerged from the room smiling.
Eventually it was my turn. I was called into the room by Fanny, the lady who was to be my boss for the season, my senior rep. Fanny was a cuddly kind of person. She was about five feet tall, with a kindly smiling face and a hefty frame – she was about fifteen stone – topped off with a neat blonde bob that gave her a motherly appearance. Not at all like the kind of person you would expect to be in charge of one of Europe’s leading hedonistic pleasure paradises. She sat down in a comfortable chair in front of me and went through various pleasantries about the last couple of weeks, asking me whether I had enjoyed the course and whether I was ready for the season ahead. I made all the right noises, but couldn’t help feeling that I was being built up for some bad news. Finally it came.
‘I want you in my team,’ Fanny told me.
‘I’m flattered,’ I replied. ‘Where?’
‘The El Greco. Portinatx.’
My face dropped. I felt like I had just been told that my passport had been confiscated.
‘You don’t look very pleased,’ Fanny observed.
‘Oh I am, don’t worry, it just needs time to sink in.’
I was numb. I had been dreaming of spending wild nights in San Antonio, fighting off the bikini-clad lovelies. Instead I was headed for Portinatx, which according to the reps who had worked here the year before was the second closest thing to a graveyard on the island. Still, at least it wasn’t San Miguel. I would have to make a point and find the person who was off there, to see how depressed they looked.
I wasn’t alone. Apparently there would be a big team in Portinatx. My first problem was that none of my friends would be there. Martin, Beth and Liz had all plumped for more fashionable destinations. My second problem was that I couldn’t pronounce the place. The ‘natx’ bit was a real tongue-twister. Most people seemed to plump for a version that came out as ‘Portinatch’, so that would do for me. I was Portinatx bound and that seemed to be that.
The vast majority of the reps seemed quite happy with their destinations as we gathered together for a drink that evening. There was a feeling of relief that we would soon all be on our way to our destinations and that our guests would shortly be arriving for the season ahead.
In hindsight, I believe that I had made a mistake a few days earlier when I had performed a welcome party speech at a training session in front of all our bosses, as we all had to do. I had wheeled out my mad version of the hillbilly hoe-down that I had perfected on several previous occasions. Fanny had been present at that meeting, and she later told me that on the strength of that performance she had earmarked me for her team. Still, I suppose it was a compliment. I made conversation with my team-mates in the area, and with people who had experience of working there, and soon I had reconciled myself to six months in Portinatx. It wouldn’t be that bad after all. It could be the happening place for the coming summer and it had to beat hanging around at home. And whatever happened, it would be a great experience. I was determined about that.
There was, however, a twist in the tail. I had phoned home with details of my new address in Portinatx and had packed my bags ready for the journey, when Fanny called in to the hotel for a meeting with me. There had been a change of plan. I wasn’t now going to Portinatx. My hotel wasn’t opening for the summer. I was quietly relieved. The company had decided that my talents would be better used in a sports complex. So they were going to send me to San Miguel. SAN MIGUEL! At this point I considered resigning. They had to be taking the piss. It felt like being imprisoned by the Iraqis, and then escaping to be caught by the Iranians. I remember sharing the news with my friends. Their eyes seemed to cloud over and lose focus. The idea of San Miguel for six months filled me with dread. Oh well, such is life. Fanny softened the blow by telling me that I would have to help out with bar crawls in San Antonio once a week and that the girl who had worked in San Miguel the year before had asked to go back. Surely, then, it couldn’t be that bad, could it? Anna, my new colleague, had not yet arrived in Ibiza, but I looked forward to meeting her.
We had one more act to perform before we left for our resorts. Throughout the two weeks we had been sampling the different trips that we would be selling once we got to our hotels. Every rep has to be able to sell. It’s a part of the job, and a very important one at that – no sales equals no commission. I think it’s great to be able to sample these days and nights out, and it was still a great novelty to me to get all your drinks for free and your food as well – what could be better?
I wasn’t the only one who thought this way. When you looked around at the end of some of these evenings, I reckon some of the reps would have had trouble remembering their own names, such was the amount of alcohol consumed. Those long, boozy nights also provided a good opportunity for us to get to know each other.
This, of course, is a ritual that the people who own these excursion venues have to go through every year. Goodness knows what they must be thinking when loads of fresh-faced new recruits descend upon them, full of enthusiasm and lots of nosy questions. It must be great entertainment for the locals. They all really push the boat out, because they know that if the reps have a good time then they are more likely to sell their excursion than someone else’s. The best-selling trip in a resort from year to year can depend upon how good the owners are at making their day with the reps successful. With that in mind, the whole team are treated like VIPs when they arrive at the venues. We had done all of these trips, bar one. That was to be the ‘Country Feast’. It promised to be a good evening, not least because it would be our last opportunity to socialise as a group.
The mood was very upbeat as we boarded the coaches for the little country farmhouse in the middle of the island for the evening. The farmhouse was owned by a couple from New Zealand, who treated us to an evening with Maori entertainment and food.
It was a great night and proved to be very popular throughout that season, so judging from that alone it must be a great success with holidaymakers. The food is cooked under the ground in a hungi oven and served to everyone after an explanation from the Kiwi owner, a very nice gentleman called Art. As far as I can remember, a Maori does a little dance and the entertainment begins – and ends, for that matter – with an Irish two-piece band called Sean and John. They are very good, but as far from the theme of New Zealand as you can get. Why anyone would come all the way to Ibiza to spend an evening in New Zealand while being entertained by an Irish duo is beyond me. Oh well. Suffice to say, it’s a great night out and, if you are ever in Ibiza, go along and see it, it’s really quite fun. (There I go, selling it again. Old habits die hard.)
Anyway, off we trundled to the Country Feast, all one hundred of us, for a romantic last evening together until who knew when. Our guide for the evening was