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Not knowing
anything about the travel industry, or around-the-world tickets,
we started off by getting an old atlas out of the local library,
and writing down a list of all the countries that appealed to
us. This ended up being somewhat longer than we had anticipated,
and when presented to a local travel agent we discovered that
a ticket tailor-made to our needs would break all of our banks.
The next plan was to pick up a cheap year return for Australia,
stopping off in several capital cities for a few months on the
way. After further consideration these ideas changed once more,
until it was decided that we would simply spend a year in Australia
as many young people do these days.
Throughout
this time of great dreams and pie-in-the-sky planning, a number
of things affecting my personal life were triggered off when I
was diagnosed as having a mild form of Epilepsy. The Epilepsy
I could cope with, but I reacted badly to the medication that
I was prescribed to control it. I quickly became irritable, tired,
and generally had a feeling that I couldn't cope with life. Unfortunately
for my education this coincided with my first year 'A' Level exams,
which I started to fail fantastically. I was thirty minutes into
a Theology exam (enough to send anyone around the bend), when
I decided that I'd had enough. I finished the sentence that I
was on, before writing 'Fish' several times. I then walked out
of the exam, college, and my formal education.
It was then
that I began an unrewarding job in my local Supermarket and also
I decided to move out of my parent's house. I ended up in the
smallest bedsit built in the entire Northern Hemisphere. I couldn't
quite fit on the bed, and I couldn't hang my legs off the ends
of the mattress as the walls got in the way. Needless to say,
I moved out of this mouse cage before five weeks had passed. It
was then that I moved into Stanhope Street with Jo. Our rented
house was quite large for just the two of us with no belongings,
but most of the space was taken up with crawling damp and high-running
emotions. Stephen, my brother who had recently returned from Ireland,
joined us for the last couple of months of the tenancy to help
pay the rent and cook the meals.
It hadn't
been long since we'd moved into the house of the living damp,
when I was offered a position as trainee manager of Wormelow Stores,
the rural shop near my parent's house where I'd worked part time
since 1991. This wasn't just another job. I was seventeen years
old, and it was presented as a career opportunity. Accepting the
five-year contract would result in me having to give up any ideas
I had about travel until I was at least twenty-two. Not knowing
what to do, I asked my friends and relatives what they thought.
Most did not react over-enthusiastically, but always reminded
me that it was a good career move if I wanted to work in retail.
As I didn't know what I wanted from life (except at that time
security), I accepted the job. Any plans of travelling to Australia
were promptly scrapped, and I tried to put the dreams out of my
head as I settled into my new routine.
Five months
later in April 1996, Emma, my recently divorced sister and myself
decided to take a holiday on the Greek Island of Crete. It was
a fantastic experience. We spent most of our two weeks abroad
in the southern fishing village of Paleohora: walking, talking,
arguing and drinking the local Raki being our favourite pastimes.
Another attraction for Emma was the ugly barman of our local restaurant,
'The Pelican'. With his help she was able to make a complete fool
of herself most evenings, much to my amusement. I however would
return to our tent alone, where the huge rats racing along the
overhead power cables would greet me.
Even though
we had been away for only two weeks I found it very difficult
to get back into the old UK routine. I realised for the first
time just how much I was being constrained by my job at the shop.
I didn't want to have to worry about the bags of frozen peas that
were going out of date at the end of the month, and it drove me
around the bend getting forty weather forecasts a day from the
local population. This job was no longer what I wanted, but I
felt honour bound to do it. My employers had trusted me with a
lot; if I were to leave I would be letting them and myself down.
Talking this over with my friends and family, I began to see that
I had to do what I wanted to do. It took about a week of persuasion
and a long phone call from Emma (who was feeling similar at WHSmith
in Gloucester) to finally make my mind up - I was going to break
another contract! As soon as my employers got back from their
fly & drive holiday in the U.S.A. I broke my news to them. Although
disappointed, they took it well and were very kind to me. I was
quickly released from my contract (which their dog had eaten in
any case) as their son agreed to take over management of the business.
It was the
beginning of summer, and I set myself a goal to save enough money
to enable me to leave the UK the following September. As a result
of my desperation to find decent short-term employment I broke
my record for quitting a contract: 5 hours in that petrol station
was enough to convince me that this was not for me! It was following
this that I got what turned out to be the most physically demanding
job I'd ever had. The interview was a mere formality; the interviewer
simply handed me a bunch of forms and left me to fill them in.
That supermarket warehouse contained some sad stories of people
getting stuck in a job, getting so involved in the mind-numbing
boredom of picking orders for stores nation-wide that they'd lost
all sight of any dreams they may have had. These men got by by
being angry and bitter. Thankfully our team was an exception to
this rule, apart from one fifty-year-old living with his
mum. There
were about seven of us, all under twenty-five, with our hopes
and dreams that we'd share with one another. The story that I
was planning to hitchhike to Australia quickly got around - I
was laughed at, but I believed in my dream.My passion for travel
had been kindled and there was no stopping me. Going to Australia
in the approaching autumn was no longer a feasible option for
I had very little money. In any case, the idea of working my way
around the world appealed to me immensely as I had recently bought
an inspirational book of that very name. The tenth edition has
become my personal Bible, without it I know that I would feel
lost.
I decided
to initially head for Switzerland. It was a safe country; fairly
close to the UK should I find that I had to return, and most of
all I had a network of relatives there, some of whom I knew reasonably
well. I set a departure date, and worked as many hours as possible
in order to save for the trip. At this point I had no idea how
long I would be away for - months or perhaps years? I stopped
all of my post and withdrew every penny from my bank account.
The second of September swiftly came around. That morning Jo's
mum dropped me off on the motorway with my ruc-sac and a sign
reading "Abroad". I'd said my goodbyes as if I would never see
anyone again - at that time I had no idea where I really end up.
I wasn't sad to be leaving the place and people that I had known
for most of my life. The challenge in front of me dominated my
thoughts
Reaching Folkestone
on the south coast of England was a little more difficult that
on previous trips. The real trouble started as I approached London's
orbital route, the notorious M25. Having been dropped on the wrong
side of it due to a misunderstanding by the driver of a cement
mixer, I walked for two hours in order to find a bridge. Three
lifts and several hours later I found myself on the wrong side
of London going around the M25 the wrong way. Eventually, however,
things sorted themselves out, and by late afternoon I was standing
in the very lay-by where, on my previous trip to France I realised
I'd forgotten my passport. No such mistake this time. It was now
7pm. I was exhausted following the ten-hour hitch and getting
a bit desperate as car after car passed me, despite the placard
I held which read 'FRANCE: £10?' Just as the streetlights began
to buzz a van screeched to a halt a couple of hundred metres past
me down the road, I grabbed my impossibly heavy rucksack and lurched
after them. "Ten Quid?" he asked, before opening the door of their
small van. I was to share the back with several crates of beer
that they had just bought in the duty free for a friend's wedding.
There was no chance of a lift further than the French Chunnel
terminal as they were simply returning on the next train. We cleared
customs with only a verbal warning that I shouldn't be hitching.
The journey was quick and smooth, a miracle of modern engineering!
On the other side they left me at a motorway toilet-stop; I spent
my first night abroad feeling alone and miserable, having to put
my tent up in a dark soggy bog in order that I wouldn't be seen
from the road. Thankfully it turned out to be near a large lorry
park, and the next morning I was up early, clutching my Union
Jacks on the slip road heading East towards Belgium. I figured
that it would be best to head for Switzerland this way, avoiding
the notorious hitcher trap known as Paris, but even so it was
a very difficult journey. To make matters worse the weather was
scorching. On the third day I was dropped off on the Brussels
ring road, and having stood for hours in the sun with no luck
I headed off down a small lane in search of water. I spent several
unearthly hours feeling very light-headed - in the end I had to
beg for water from an elderly couple using sign language. When
the lady saw me starting to drink from the garden hose she rushed
off, bringing back four bottles of chilled Perrier water. With
that I felt refreshed and headed south once again. Two days later
I reached Basle, a friendly city right on the border of France,
Germany and Switzerland.
For the following
three days I camped in the open conservatory of my relatives,
Hedi & Heinrich. Having stayed there during previous family holidays
in Switzerland I felt quite comfortable in pitching my tent there,
despite the fact that they were away on holiday. It was during
these three days when I communicated with virtually no one that
what I had done begun to sink in. I felt terribly homesick and
debated with myself as to whether I should return home that week.
As usual though, mum and dad were on the other end of the phone
and gave me the confidence that I needed in order to continue.
The following morning the neighbours invited me around for breakfast,
which I thoroughly enjoyed, communicating using my appalling German.
Later that day I headed back into the city centre to pass the
time and also to get information on working in Switzerland. One
of the highlights of the day was visiting a public toilet by the
riverbank. Having inserted my fifty centimes (20p), the door to
the space age cubicle opened. Once inside, the door closed and
a fifteen-minute countdown began on the display panel. Traditional
alpine music emerged from the ceiling, and a motorised loo paper
holder dispensed sheet after sheet when required. It was so entertaining
that I was reluctant to leave, but the fear of being locked in
when the clock reached zero persuaded me that I should.
Hedi and Heinrich
finally returned, along with 'Auntie' Adelheid, my most active
and unstoppable Swiss relative. She's seventy-four, but blows
away any ideas one may have of a lady of that maturity. Skiing,
aerobics, not to mention visiting endless numbers of friends and
looking after her grandchildren -all of these are amongst her
long list of hobbies. She does it all with such enthusiasm, making
one feel quite exhausted just watching her! She is also very generous,
and it turned out that without her my trip might have been more
of a short holiday abroad rather than the eight months that it
was.
"Auntie Adelheid"
We headed
south towards her hometown of Biel, stopping off on the way to
meet her son, Beat, and his family. Once at our destination I
met Adelheid's other son, Peter, his wife Susie and their two
children Urs and Rolf. I was made to feel very welcome, and by
this time any feelings of homesickness had vanished.
Switzerland
is an expensive country, and I didn't have enough money to live
for an extended period. Having consulted Work
Your Way around the World, I left for Interlaken, a
tourist haven in the Bernese Oberland. I reached it fairly quickly
by hitching, and spent the night in the Americanised Balmer's
Hostel. There they advised that I go as high up in the mountains
as possible - there would be more of a chance of finding a job
there. On the maps that I had Grindelwald appeared to be a tiny
cluster of chalets on a steep mountain slope. I was very surprised
upon my arrival there to find the 'village' was a bustling, well-developed
ski resort. Having deposited my huge rucksack at the station I
began my search for work, knocking on every hotel door. Unfortunately
all, without exception, turned me away, either saying that they
needed no more staff or they were just looking for women. Totally
disillusioned I phoned home, telling my mother that all was lost
and I'd probably be returning the UK shortly.
However, during
that call I discovered that I was in the very place where my parents
had spent their honeymoon, and in fact my grandmother had holidayed
in the village too. Clinging onto the thought that the family
had a connection with the area I opted to spend the last £20 in
my pocket on the rack railway that disappeared into the clouds
above Grindelwald. It was a magical journey unlike any other I'd
experienced, the track winding its way up and up. The rain gave
way to snow, the wind picked up and I found myself steeping off
the train into a blizzard at Kleine Scheidegg. A few buildings,
a couple of ski lifts, and a railway station - that was it. My
first impression was of bleakness and isolation - what an accurate
first impression that was! Yet I also felt exhilaration in the
challenge between the elements and myself. Turning my thoughts
to more pressing matters I headed towards the huge hotel that
I could just make out one hundred metres away. I admired how it
stood strong in the gale, defying the elements despite its age.
Feeling very cold (it had been quite humid down in the valley)
I entered the reception thinking, 'Oh well, it's worth a try!'
- If I didn't get a job here I'd have to return to England. Two
old gentlemen and a lady, all of whom were past retirement age,
greeted me. Having introduced myself I asked if they had any jobs
going, and to my surprise, instead of a flat "No" the lady replied,
"What can you do?" Knowing that my trip depended on this and sensing
that she liked me, I replied in a happy, confidant tone, "Anything!"
Having told me that she approved of my proper English, (it wasn't
like "that terrible accent those Cockneys have"), she went on
to explain that yes, they did have a vacancy for a waiter, and
when could I start? I couldn't believe my luck, and was even happier
when she told me that I'd receive £800 a month pocket money, in
addition to full bed and board.
And so that
was that. I was told that my work permit would arrive at the address
I gave in about a fortnight. Having phoned home with the news,
I returned to Adelheid's apartment feeling jubilant; all I had
to do was wait for the permit to arrive.In the end it was a month
before it appeared in the post box. During this time I lived with
my aunt who was very generous in looking after me. However, it
was difficult for us both, and despite the effort that she put
into keeping me entertained I think that we were both glad when
I could finally return to the mountain. And so it was, that on
Monday, the fourteenth of October 1996, I started work at the
Scheidegg Hotel. My first shock came when I was shown my room.
It was situated in a kind of three-storey cow shed; I had thought
that the bedsit in Hereford was small, but then, I hadn't seen
this 2.5m x 2.5m cupboard. The door couldn't be opened properly
as it would come up against the wardrobe, and the actual clear
floor space was limited to a strip, 45cm wide by my bed. Still,
I was determined to throw off my old hang-ups, and accepted it
with a laugh. The first person to introduce themselves was Alex,
a tall and seemingly self-confident Portuguese guy, a year or
two older than myself. He was friendly, and soon started to explain
to me how to relate to his colleagues (most of whom were also
Portuguese). I also learnt that we really were isolated - once
that six o'clock train had gone, there was no way you could get
away from Scheidegg, (although we were later to prove this wrong...).
The first
few weeks passed slowly. With the bad weather of autumn we had
little work. The hotel was closed to overnight guests, and the
number of Japanese tourists lunching with us on their way to or
from the Jungfraujoch 'Top Of Europe' was limited - eventually,
in early December, most of us were allowed to have a week off.
During this time, as I got to know the other Scheideggers, I kept
myself entertained by writing many letters to friends and relatives.
I also started to read once more, something I'd wanted to do for
years but never made the time for. Now, I had all the time in
the world. There was always something to do, even if it was just
hand washing my socks and shirts in the pig trough provided. I
soon got to know the owner, Frau von Almen, who had given me the
job. It turned out that some of my friends didn't even know her
name, and just called her 'The Old Woman'. The seventy-four year
old was not popular, being renowned for her absurd rules and customs
(such as hiding the handle for the hot water tap, it was far too
expensive to use hot water for washing up), all of which were
surely designed just to make our lives more difficult. Generally,
if you saw Frau von Almen ahead of you, you turned around and
ran the other way. She also kept two decrepit Alsatians, who always
insisted in lying in doorways in order that they got trodden on,
and terrorising every guest that walked in. They were far more
welcome than she was however, as we could shout at them to tell
them to shut up.
To compliment
our Swiss boss, we had an irate, middle aged, Italian manager.
He wasn't too keen on listening to us, but preferred to pump his
amazingly high stress levels even higher by screaming wildly in
rapid Italian. Over the eight months he did improve as he got
to know us, and on some occasions he was even pleasant towards
us. Thankfully our headwaiter, Jaime, was much more human, not
so much of a Scheideggerous (although his twelve years up the
mountain had clearly taken their toll). Born in Portugal and schooled
in America, he wasn't as blinkered as the other members of management
and was always willing to have a laugh. Generally he was cool,
and at times a few of us would have left if it weren't for him.
In November
the first snows fell. Alex, Sito (or 'Alfy' as we called him)
and myself got on fairly well, keeping together as a group. Alfy
was a kind-hearted Spaniard. Ten months younger than myself, he
was always generous and after a little (or a lot) of persuasion,
he would nearly always agree to accompany me in some activity
or other, like go and have a hot chocolate in the Bahnhof Buffet.
However, if he had some shirts to wash or iron then there was
no way I could tear him away. Communication was not a problem
as the majority of my colleagues spoke English or German - I could
always use one or the other. There was an exception to this rule:
DiDi. DiDi was a political refugee from Algeria. He was a great
character, so laid back one couldn't help but feel relaxed in
his company. He got by by using a language unique to him, which
everyone seemed to understand. It was based on French and English,
but had bits of German and Italian thrown in, not to mention words
that he created as he went along. He developed catch phrases that
we all found hilarious, and they rapidly spread around the hotel
until they were in general usage. In all, there were about forty
of us at the Scheidegg. The majority of these were Portuguese,
but there were also Germans, Italians, Alf the Spaniard, Didi
the Algerian, Austrians and Swiss, and of course, myself.
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