A
LONG
DAY IN
THE LIFE
Next time you go to Club Med, definitely try their white-chocolate
bread. But whatever you do, don't try shadowing a GO, because you
won't survive.
. Photographs by Chad
Windham.
It's been two days, and things have only gotten worse. My thighs
feel as if they were jackknifed full force by a Pro Bowl-bound
linebacker with rage in his eyes. My right shin is engulfed in a
case of debilitating shin splints, inflicting a throbbing
pain I
haven't felt since my 80-mile-a-week running days in high school
cross-country. And my abs feel like they took an unprovoked jab
from a rabid heavyweight. There is something terribly wrong about
the source of all this pain, though, since I participated in none
of the above activities. What I did was spend what I had thought
was going to be a lazy day in paradise working as a Club Med GO in
the Turks and Caicos Islands. I stand corrected.
GO stands for Gracious Organizer, a signature staff position at
every Club Med since the French all-inclusive vacation concept was
founded by a Belgian water
polo champion in 1950. Though what their
work responsibilities entail depends on the labor laws of any given
country, at Club Med Turkoise, most front-of-the-house employees
are GOs, with gigs like bartender, front-desk clerk, sports
instructor, manager of leisure activities, the usual - and in
addition to performing the tasks associated with these jobs, they
also socialize with the guests (so the girl who checked you in last
night may be sharing a Bahama Mama with you the next night). During
the day, most have secondary duties like organizing the water polo
matches and teaching guests how to sail. On average, a Club Med
employs about 120 GOs per property (or one GO for every five to
seven guests).
In years past, GOs had a reputation for being hosts of hedonism,
too, but when an article in
Jane earlier this decade
actually exposed a few as such, it proved too much for this
vacation giant once accused of exploiting the "poor and the weak"
in a song by Camper Van Beethoven. It was time for change.
There are new rules for the GOs (put in place in 2000) - like no
shots and no more Red Bull discounts - and Club Med has spent the
past few years slowly changing its tune, converting its bare-bones
villages in
the Bahamas, in the
Caribbean, and in
Mexico from
middle-of-the-road destination hotels to a more upscale lifestyle
concept fit for families. The $60 million renovation of its
Buccaneer's Creek property in
Martinique and the new $24 million
Cancún property are the company's new face. Total cost of
reputation makeover to its 80 resorts worldwide: an estimated $125
million per year between 2005 and 2008.
Given that my body currently feels somewhere between having been
run over by a freight train and having been drawn and quartered, I
would have preferred spending 24 hours as a GO in a Club Med of
yore - I mean, who couldn't handle losing a day drowning in
umbrella drinks, beautiful people, and bikinis (or Speedos, as the
case may be)? Instead, the new Club Med has done far more damage to
me than a few cocktails ever have, thanks to a GO named Brian
Tranbarger.
TRANBARGER IS THE consummate poster boy for
the new Club Med. Handsome and as sweet as guava, he's an
easy-on-the-eyes guy from Red Bluff,
California, with five years on
the Club Med time clock. It is impossible not to immediately like
him, and he is referred to as Mr. GO by some of his coworkers. Who
better to give me a taste of what a day in the life of a Club Med
GO is really like?
Our day begins as it does for many Americans trying to shed a few
pounds and keep the cholesterol at bay: with a little nine a.m.
power walk, which could easily be rebranded as simply a walk, as
there is virtually no power involved at all. Only Tranbarger, a
Kenyan businessman of Indian descent from
Vancouver, and I turn up.
We begin our morning stroll at a chitchat pace that leads us out of
the resort and down Grace Bay Road, the main drag through
Providenciales, the primary island of the six main Caicos Islands
(which, for those who are wondering, are geographically part of the
Bahamas but are a separate political entity).
Talk is centered on my multiethnic companion and on which clubs
around the world he has frequented - a common thread of
conversation at any Club Med. You see, the company prides itself on
repeat business, and the GOs are a very big draw. Guests sometimes
follow them from club to club, and there are websites dedicated to
their whereabouts around the world. I get the feeling that some
guests don't even care about the where of their vacation, only the
who. "It's a big cult," says Tranbarger. "We all love it. Once you
get into it, you stay."
We head down the road a half mile or so before turning toward the
beach, part of Princess Alexandra National Park, for the final leg
of the stroll back to Club Med. The water is ridiculous, a calm and
pristine blue rolling slowly over cornmeal-soft sands. So far, this
is cake.
Then it's right to a quick breakfast, as we're due for water
aerobics at 11:15 a.m. Tranbarger is leading the charge. But first,
as his main gig is land-sports manager, he must fetch water for the
volleyball courts, see to it that the fitness center and weight
rooms are presentable, track down the billiard balls (which end up
in the pool, on the beach, in the bathrooms, and sometimes in the
buffet - goodness only knows), and otherwise make sure all
available
sports equipment is accounted for and ready to face
another day. Thus far, the work isn't too physical, but it's
sweltering outside. We're both dripping sweat by 10:45 a.m. - so
much for the SPF 30 - and I'm only shadowing him while he does all
the work. It's going to be a long day.
TRANBARGER, A GRADUATE of California State
University, Chico, started his professional life as a PE teacher
and football/track coach at Red Bluff High School in Northern
California. He loved it but knew he wanted to see more of the world
and get out of the daily grind. He had never heard of Club Med, but
a friend encouraged him to apply. Of course, he was an instant hit
and served time at clubs in Cancún and in Crested Butte, Colorado,
before landing at Club Med Turkoise in Turks and Caicos.
Given his athletic background, Tranbarger's gig as land-sports
manager was a no-brainer, but in addition to their primary
positions, GOs are also almost always required to perform onstage
in front of a live audience. An entertainer he was not. "I had
never really danced at all," he tells me of his life before Club
Med. "The first few times they grabbed me and threw me on the dance
floor, I was lost beyond belief. The first week, I really
considered ending my GO career just because of the embarrassment."
Times change.
TRANBARGER HITS THE mike to announce water
aerobics with all the enthusiasm of a
Las Vegas game-show host.
Women around the pool - just reopened today after two weeks of
renovation - flock to the water. Of course, a few guys join, as
well, including me. I have never had a remote interest in water
aerobics, but at this point, any excuse to cool off in the pool
need not be offered twice. Before I know it, I'm running in place
in the shallow end of the pool to the tune of bad '70s dance music
and praying that my girlfriend (who's checking her
e-mail nearby) doesn't happen to witness this less-than-masculine
moment in my life. We swoosh waves in, we swoosh waves out, and we
shake them all about. We pump our fists in the air and turn
ourselves around. That's what it's all about.
Yes, it was embarrassing. Yes, it was harder than I thought it
would be. Yes, I'm desperately hoping nobody captured it on video.
But, truth be told, as silly as it was, I kind of liked it. And I'm
starting to feel the love that so many Club Med addicts feel for
this place. It takes you out of your comfort zone. "One of the
reasons I stay with Club Med is that I get to do things I would
never get to do anywhere else," Tranbarger tells me later. Like
dance? "Yeah, especially the stage stuff."
Water aerobics sufficiently gets my blood flowing, but it doesn't
really tire me out too much. So it's no problem segueing straight
into coed water polo (the only break we take is to divide up the
silly skullcaps that we have to wear to differentiate between
teams). Water polo is also something that's absent from my normal
routine, but I'm quite familiar with the soccer/hockey/lacrosse
origin of the rules: Catch. Turn. Shoot. Got it.
What I wasn't banking on was the Club Med rule that states that the
men cannot touch the women at all, while the men are completely
fair game. So every time I catch the ball, a female guest - likely
from
Montreal, which seems to be where the majority of the visitors
here are from - nearly drowns me in a valiant effort to prevent me
from scoring. I quickly wise up, switch to the other side of the
pool, and proceed to surprise even myself with my superb skills. I
score about six of our 12 goals, and the GO in charge of water polo
- a fellow Californian - tells me I should quit my day job and
become a water polo GO (I'm mulling it over).
We're out of the water by 12:20 p.m., and it's at this point that
I'm starting to need a break - as in the kind of siesta where I lie
on the beach for a few hours sipping some drink called a Rainbow
Rum Punch Ecstasy or something. Instead, I get lunch, which, I
suppose, is a sort of break but which requires a bit more effort
than I'm looking to exert at this moment. It would be remiss at
this point to not mention the
food, most notably the
white-chocolate bread. It's the most addictive culinary creation I
have ever eaten - and worth a trip to Club Med completely in and of
itself. I'm trying to convince the magazine to run the recipe as a
sidebar to this story, thereby relieving me of any future debts to
mankind.
After lunch, it's right to the
volleyball courts, where Tranbarger
and a few of the more volleyball-savvy GOs (employees tend to
become quite adept at a variety of sports) play for an hour, just
for fun. At three p.m., it's open volleyball for the rest of us.
Now volleyball doesn't involve a lot of movement, and the court is
relatively small, but it quickly begins to take its toll on me. I'm
out of breath, and, judging by my pathetic returns, clearly out of
my element. It should be noted here that I have never smoked and
that I run four to five days a week. I'm in excellent shape for a
33-year-old guy. Still, I'm dying. Of course, Tranbarger is
trucking along, smiling and spiking balls left and right.
Unbelievable.
At four p.m., I finally get a break, but Tranbarger must now
rehearse for the following night's show. Time it takes to
transition from volleyball court to stage: two minutes. The show,
named Utopia, is heavy on acrobatic circus moves, and Tranbarger
and three fellow GOs are practicing a sort of body tower that falls
somewhere between a game of Twister and the National Cheerleading
Championships. Still unleashing sweat from volleyball, I watch as
Tranbarger and the head circus GO,
Mac, support the weight of two
female GOs in this convoluted acrobatic contortion and think to
myself, He does everything.
A half hour later, we have to rush over to the
sailing area to
greet the return of the day's sailing armada - Tranbarger is in
charge of sailing too. He has a brief spat with the sound guy over
the choice of music (Tranbarger wants reggae, not Joan Jett and the
Blackhearts) and sends him off to round up some
Bob Marley. Once
the catamarans arrive, we break down the amp and roll its 100 or so
pounds back to the storage area and sprint off to
soccer, which we
are now late for. Since I happen to be wearing a Brazilian soccer
jersey, the guys are expecting big things from me. That could be a
problem.
We join the game midway through and make an immediate impact.
Without getting into international politics, let's just say that I
split two defenders from countries where soccer is much more loved
than in the
United States and put the ball in the goal. For a brief
moment, I feel like Ronaldinho (must be the jersey). Then, I crash.
My feet fall flat. My shin splints start acting up. My labored
breathing sounds like that of a smoker in a deprivation chamber. My
body is simply done. Tranbarger? Yeah, he's still going … and going
… and going, just like the Energizer battery.
By 6:20 p.m., we get a brief respite for a shower. As far as the
day goes, I have played more sports today than I have ever played
in a single day, and that includes field day in elementary school.
I hit the shower, but what I really need is a rehabilitation
center. We have about 50 minutes before we're due for cocktails to
celebrate the grand reopening of the pool. I'm so spent, the
thought of even lifting a fruity cocktail sounds like moving
mountains.
From there, it's all a blur. We go straight to dinner, which is
followed by the week's sports medal award ceremony and then by the
evening's show, the International Revue. Tranbarger plays an
African tribal dancer, an Egyptian pharaoh, a Swedish dancing
queen, and some sort of Frankie Goes to Hollywood male revue
dancer, and he excels at each of them. My only comment by this
point is unprintable here.
The show ends at 11 p.m., and we're now going on 14 hours. I'm deep
into the reserves of my personal power supply. But it's not time
for bed; it's time for even more rehearsal. And, no, I'm not
kidding. Tranbarger spends the next two hours rehearsing, while a
raging party is going on 50 yards away at the main bar. I struggle
to hold my eyes open.
At 1:30 a.m., he finally finishes. Time to call it a day? Of course
not; it's time for shots. Apparently, some rules were made to be
broken - as, I discovered, were (nearly) my bones.
to appease our writer, we finally agreed to print the recipe for
club med's white-
chocolate bread - but we couldn't promise him that it would relieve
his debt to mankind. then we tasted it for ourselves and realized
that kevin is now a free man.