The Accidental Entrepreneur. Allis Janine
Чтение книги онлайн.
Читать онлайн книгу The Accidental Entrepreneur - Allis Janine страница 4
This all appeared to be a viable way to earn money, until my friend, who was now also my flatmate, revealed her dodgy side. She and an equally dodgy policeman decided she would purchase a receipt book off him. My flatmate then used the receipts to fraudulently claim reimbursement from the timeshare company. In addition to the scam, my flatmate used the money to buy drugs, thus leaving herself with no money to pay off the policeman for his part in the arrangement. My problem wasn't that I did anything wrong, it was that I was associated with her. I knew over a dozen English friends who were arrested and held without charge for simply being in the vicinity of a pub fight. (They had done their annual ‘boys booze up' in the mountains and a fight broke out in one of the pubs. The police instructed all taxis to take anyone in the area who wanted to go to Playa de las Américas – where we lived – directly to jail. One of the lads was only fifteen.) In a country where corruption exists, association often means guilt; I was in as much hot water as my flatmate. I was facing the same fate as her if she didn't come up with the money ‘owed' to the police.
The straw that broke the camel's back was when my flatmate asked me to leave the front door to our flat open because she had lost her key. I awoke at 2 am to find a six-foot-five security guard standing next to my bed complete with baton, handcuff and a gun. One of his hands was heading under my sheet and the other was undoing his pants. You never know how you're going to react in these situations. Strangely what went through my mind at that moment was not fear – it was pure fury! Who does he think he is? How dare he touch me! Oh my God, is that a gun? — these were the outraged thoughts that were running through my head. Making a split-second decision, I yelled, ‘GET OUT!' To my surprise, he did. I kept yelling and he backed away saying something in Spanish as I stood at the front door. I slammed the door shut, returned to bed and slept. Thinking back, I can't believe that was my reaction. If asked, I would have assumed that I would be a dribbling mess at such a frighteningly close call. However, the next morning the full extent of what might have happened sank in.
After that night, with only a few days until my flatmate's debts were due to be paid back to the police, I decided it was time to leave. It was an easy decision to make, especially because my fifteen English friends were still in jail with no chance of even seeing a judge. (They'd been there for three months by this stage.) This place was not a place where you wanted to get into trouble. My flatmate decided to come with me. After living in Tenerife for four months, we hitched a ride with friends on a catamaran heading for Portugal. Ten days later, we found ourselves in the Algarve in southern Portugal. I was funding both myself and my friend, who kept promising she would pay me back, but never did. In the Algarve we came across some fellow backpackers who had just returned from the south of France. They had been working on yachts for the rich and famous and their stories convinced me this seemed like the direction to head in, so I packed my bags and headed back to France, alone.
So, I'm in Antibes, France, with $40 to my name, no ticket home and $2000 in credit card debt. (I had cashed in my return airline ticket months ago.) Yet, interestingly, I wasn't the slightest bit concerned. Was it the arrogance of youth or perhaps that I knew I would figure it out? I'm not sure – but I do know, if it was today, I would be having heart palpitations. But in 1985, I just knew all would be fine.
The south of France was magical, complete with cobblestone lanes and old men playing boules in the parks. Restaurants and cafes spilt out onto the streets and dogs sat at tables like people, eating off china plates. The quays were full of large white palace-like boats. I was off on another adventure.
At the local pub, an Englishman informed me there was a job on a boat called the Deneb Star, based in Villefranche-sur-Mer, near the border with Italy and a 20-minute train ride from Antibes. After a couple of phone calls (from a pay phone), I got an interview. I was wearing the only nice outfit I had, which just happened to be a woollen jacket with a matching woollen mini skirt. It was summer and 30 °C. Unbeknown to me, the train that I hopped on was an express train to Italy (and remember – this was before the days of the EU). With no passport and no fluency in Italian, I had to convince the Italian border guards that I simply needed to get back across the border to my appointment. Many hand gestures later, I was back on the train and off to my interview.
I arrived in the beautiful village of Villefranche-sur-Mer. I had a moment of bliss, soaking up the surroundings; then I realised I had an hour's walk in my woollens around a massive castle to the quay where the boat was berthed. The bliss turned to big drops of sweat and throbbing feet. Miraculously, I arrived on time, dripping in sweat from head to toe, to meet the captain. I'm pretty sure he didn't offer me the job because he felt sorry for me in my ridiculous attire and with my red, sweaty face. I believe it just may have been the tiny, white porky pie that came blurting out of my mouth: ‘I have enormous yacht experience. I'm from Melbourne!' Suddenly, my money troubles were over. I now had accommodation, food and a job as head stewardess, all in one fell swoop. And after all, I was from Melbourne, and I had seen plenty of yachts.
The boat was 74 feet long. Think of a three-storey house with four bedrooms, a guest area and a further four bedrooms for crew. Now think of a cupboard – that's the cabin I shared with the other stewardess. The space in our cabin was about 1.5 × 2.5 metres and it was at the front of the yacht, so it was pointy in shape. It had a bunk bed about half the size of a normal single bed and the ceiling height was about 2 metres. And we had to share the tiniest wardrobe you have probably ever seen. Despite travelling in a cupboard, I was in heaven – I was on the French Riviera, cruising in a multimillion-dollar yacht. I had gone from dodging police, a potential rapist and a drug-addicted flatmate to floating in paradise.
Sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll
Six weeks after I started on the Deneb Star, David Bowie (yes, the David Bowie) bought the yacht. I was sailing the Mediterranean on the luxurious boat of a bona fide celebrity. Bowie was an amazing, down-to-earth, great bloke. He spent an enormous amount of time with the crew and we were very much part of his ‘gang'. He took us to parties and was generous with his time. We cruised with him and many other rich and famous people to such events as the Cannes Film Festival and Monaco Grand Prix, and across the Atlantic to the Caribbean. We even stayed in his Bali-inspired house on Mustique Island in the West Indies.
David travelled with an entourage that included his financial adviser, Bruce Dunbar, his son, Joe, Joe's nanny, David's girlfriend and a couple of others. Just to name-drop, here are a few passengers who came on board: Robin Williams, Mick Jagger, Eric Idle, Steve Martin and Michael Caine. This time in David's life was family time; there were actually no drunken parties, drugs or sex (although that doesn't include the fact that he sunbaked naked on the top of the yacht). There was, however, a lot of rock and roll. At the time, Bowie was starting a new band called Tin Machine, which meant a great deal of time was spent practising. During the day-to-day routine of life on the yacht, I would honestly forget that he was the David Bowie, although one day he was warming up with Space Oddity and my mouth just dropped. I then said out loud, to no-one in particular, ‘That is David Bowie!' (For the record, Bowie was a beautiful person who kept his feet on the ground. And if you want to know why Bowie has two differently coloured eyes, it's because he and his best friend were in a fight at school and the damaged eye was the result.)
Working on David's boat sounds glamorous, and at times it was, but it was also really hard work. We would have back-to-back charters for four months, which meant that you worked those months without a break. I needed to be available 24 hours a day and the job involved everything from cleaning silverware and the toilet to organising the helicopter to take guests out to dinner. While it was very glamorous to fall asleep in France and wake up in Monaco, the sea sickness was not. At times you wished someone would throw you overboard. And I won't go into the gory details regarding a very large man who managed to destroy the toilet, leaving whatever had just left his body all over the walls and roof – aargh, not glamorous.
Some