A guide's guide to being lost
In which I interview myself about my illustrious career as a tour guide.
The following interview – between Patrick Boxall and Patrick Boxall – took place on an unseasonably warm afternoon in the exquisite gardens of the Home for Lost Guides (HLG). A rehabilitation facility for those who have built a personality around being “there” rather than “here”, the HLG supports former tour guides suffering from PTSD linked to chaperoning groups of Australians around the world.
Contrary to their Instagram bios, the majority of these guides have caught feelings, not flights, and these feelings tend to be overwhelmingly depressive. As part of the rehabilitation process, residents agree to refrain from sharing fun facts and beginning sentences with “That reminds me of the time I was in…”.
Alright, Patrick. It’s time to give the people what they want.
Is it a fun fact? Oh god. It is, isn’t it? I don’t know where to begin. Have you heard about the origin of the croissant?
Wha–what?
So it’s not actually from France, right. What happe—
—Patrick, please. Nobody wants your fun facts. We want dirt. Debauchery. We want to hear about the drunkest passengers you’ve dealt with.
Right. It’s really not that interesting. Compared to the history of the croissant, at least. It actually reminds of the time I wa—
—please, Patrick. Stick to the question. The drunkest passenger you’ve ever dealt with.
Okay. The drunkest passenger I’ve dealt with. I mean, the guy was so drunk I thought he was dead. Totally unresponsive. I kind of wished he was, to be honest. Though he did call me pretty, which was nice. Right before he tried to punch me. Which was right before he passed out. You know what? Why don’t I tell you about a few of my favourite passengers instead?
Sure. But no fun facts.
No fun facts. I get it.
Thank you.
So I was working as a tour guide in Turkey. Managing two yachts sailing up and down the coast. This is a fact, though not a fun one. On Tuesdays we would anchor in a small cove and spend the night at a ramshackle bar on shore. Things had a way of getting out of hand there.
How so?
One week – as an example – a honeymooning wife held a stranger by starlight while her honeymooning husband held her drink by the bar.
Seems like an overly poetic way of saying someone had an affair.
No fun facts, no poetry – what’s left to live for?
Fine, I’ll allow it. That’s brutal though. The affair thing.
The worst part was they were both too proud to go home. They stayed on the boat for the rest of the week, as did the guy she cheated with. It was hot gossip across the Aegean. The hottest of gossip. But they’re not the people I want to tell you about.
Go on.
Like I said: ramshackle bar. Rotting floorboards varnished with Long Island Iced Tea. Lovely bartenders, though. And one week, one of these lovely bartenders handed something to a passenger of mine. He placed it in her palm and closed her hand around it. She walked away and found a friend and said something along the lines of: the bartender just gave me a pill. She wasn’t sure whether or not she should take it – whether or not it was safe, you know – so her friend suggested they have a half each. Following me?
I think so. To be honest, I’m not too familiar with The Drugs.
No, neither am I. But these two women agreed to split the pill. Or whatever it was. To minimise the risk of dying, obviously.
Obviously.
But before they could execute their plan, another passenger walked up and asked what they were doing. Initially, the two women didn’t want to tell her. They were worried she’d judge them or snitch. But they eventually opened up and explained what was going on.
Now this other woman, she was a little more sensible. A little less wasted. A paramedic, I think. She suggested they take a look at the pill. Maybe they could work out what it was.
They hadn’t looked at it?
No. And this back and forth had been going for half an hour by now. But the women were on board with the idea, so the one with the pill opened her hand. The big reveal. And guess what was inside?
Was it hardened human shit?
Good god. What’s wrong with you?
Sorry. Give me a hint.
It was brown.
I mean—
—it wasn’t human shit. Hardened or otherwise.
Okay, okay. I give up. What was in her hand?
An almond.
An almond?
An almond.
Like the nut?
Like the nut.
Wow. What did they say?
The paramedic said: it’s a fucking almond.
And the friend said: it’s a fucking almond.
And the woman said: oh look, an almond!
And then the three of them looked at the bartender. He waved and held up a giant jar of almonds, like, Do you want more?
That’s one of the stupidest things I’ve ever heard.
I don’t know, man. “Hardened human shit” was right up there.
Fair call. But why were they your favourite passengers?
Well, favourite is a stretch. I just found it funny, I guess. I still think about it often. Like, that’s what people turn into when they’re on holiday – someone who can’t tell an almond from a narcotic. How messed up do you have to be?
How did you end up in Turkey anyway?
Turkey was never the plan. I’d taken a gap year – my eleventh in a row – to live in Belfast with my mum’s family. I wanted to get a job at a pub and learn more about my grandparents, but no sane bar manager would hire a 30-year-old with no bar experience. And no sane bar manager would hire a 30-year-old who had become a regular fixture at the bar they were applying to work at. And no sane bar manager would hire a 30-year-old who, after draining four pints of Guinness, would tell everyone within earshot, including said bar manager, that THIS – waving my hand at whatever scene was unfolding in the bar that night – would make for a fantastic short story.
I mean, fuck.
Would you hire me?
Uh. No?
Exactly. I’d told people I was going to write a book, too.
Oh god. Why? Why do you always do this?
I would’ve read somewhere that announcing things to people is a way of holding oneself accountable. But I didn’t yet understand the importance of actually doing the thing once you’ve announced it. As it turns out, you wind up feeling like even more of a failure.
This book. What was it about?
I had a grand plan to walk the world’s great pilgrimage trails. Walks in the Christian, Buddhist and Islamic tradition. I wanted to write about the people, the history. The similarities and differences. I was reasonably confident it could be the catalyst for world peace. Small scale stuff, you know. Indie shit. I imagined linking up with the Dalai Lama, Pope and Grand Ayatollah on the book tour. Congratulations, they’d say. You’ve done it.
I’m guessing it didn’t happen?
Correct. Instead of uniting the world’s faiths, I ran out of money. Too much Guinness in the end. I did manage to write a book, but it wasn’t the book.
What was this book about?
A tour guide in Europe who loses his mind. I even submitted the manuscript to a publisher who was keen to read it.
What did the publisher say?
“It’s funny and I like the style you’re developing but what you’re aiming for is very niche and in a small and conservative market that does not add up to much potential in the trade.”
Bummer.
He suggested rewriting the novel. Try in a way that would work in the book trade, he said. So I rewrote it as a murder mystery. Then a romance. Then a thousand-page tome lamenting the failures of Gallipoli. I tried fantasy and sci-fi. A screenplay. An erotic thriller featuring the gratuitous use of the word throb. In a brief moment of madness, I began writing poetry.
Ugh.
I know. But look, it was for the best. The book needed a lot of work and I was not – am not – in the business of doing work. If I was, I wouldn’t be here masquerading as a writer.
Is there a chance you’re being overly harsh on yourself?
Perhaps. I suppose there are sections of the manuscript I’m proud of.
Would you be happy to share one of those sections? Keeping in mind this could be your moment to snag a potential publisher.
I guess so. Let me think. Okay. Here’s a section about Germany:
Whenever we crossed from the Netherlands into Germany, I had to tell my passengers to throw their drugs away. This is what I was told during training: do not let people bring drugs into Germany.
Do not.
Let people.
Bring drugs.
Into Germany.
I even highlighted it in my notes: Do not let people bring drugs into Germany.
I’d tell them all morning, and still, I’d have to tell them again as we approached the border. ‘You do not,’ I’d say, ‘want to be caught with drugs by the German police.’
One time, when we were half an hour from the border, I noticed two girls arguing at the back of the bus. They were flicking their hair, using exaggerated hand movements.
Were they flirting with me?
No, probably not.
I couldn’t remember either of their names, but the one with the brown hair raised her hand and asked, ‘Are they arseholes?’
‘What?’
‘I said, are they arseholes?’
‘Are who arseholes?’
‘The police.’
‘They’re police.’
‘Yeah, but are they, like, Nazis?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘The German police are not, like, Nazis.’
I thought about that sentence for a while. How I never imagined I would have to say it. But there I was, on a bus, explaining the German police were not, like, Nazis.
Yes.
What I was put on this earth to do.
A tap on my shoulder, a voice from behind – ‘Are you listening to me?’
I wasn’t.
And I wasn’t listening because I was thinking about Nazis. I was thinking about Hitler, to be specific. Captain Nazi. I was thinking about Hitler and wondering whether Hitler would want to have a beer with me.
Not that I would want to have a beer with Hitler, of course.
I didn’t doubt it would be interesting to have a chat with him, but I wouldn’t have gone out of my way. Still, I wanted Hitler to want to have a beer with me, if that makes sense.
Does it?
See, I was fired from my first guiding job. When I was nineteen. My boss called me into his office and said, ‘Look. You’re just not the kind of bloke I’d like to have a beer with.’
Ego: crushed.
Decided: to become the kind of guy everyone wants to have a beer with.
Everyone, anyone – even people I didn’t like.
Even Hitler.
I was sure we’d find something to talk about. Maybe how Hitler had been rejected from art school (twice). Or how – had he been accepted – he might’ve wound up a barista, like every other arts student. Or maybe we’d take a VW Beetle for a spin and Hitler would explain how he had designed it for the Germans as “The People’s Car”. Or confide he felt self-conscious about being crowned Time Magazine’s Person of the Year when he was, he would say, ‘Doing what anyone in my position would do.’
Perhaps he would shit-talk Stalin, who won the following year. What is life if not a popularity contest?
But yeah, the genocide wasn’t great. Though maybe we would dance around it for a while. ‘Everyone has a past,’ Hitler might say.
To summarise: probably not the kind of person I’d want to have a beer with.
Then again: neither am I sometimes.
Hitler? Really? Did you not hear me say this could be your moment?
Too soon?
Will it ever not be?
For the record, I don’t actually want to have a beer with Hitler. Should we cut this bit? I feel like we should cut it. Or move on. People won’t read it anyway, right? We’re fine. Totally fine. How about I tell you about the croissant? People love croissants! And I love people! Of all faiths and creeds. Except Hitler, obviously.
Back to the original question, then. How did you wind up in Turkey?
Right. So I was in Belfast and nobody wanted to give me a job. A friend messaged to say she had applied to be a tour guide in Europe, so I applied too. Fate, right? And I was quietly confident because I knew, on paper, that I’d make the perfect tour guide.
Why do you say that?
I’m a white male from a country that’s generally well regarded by other countries, which means the chances of me being assaulted or stopped at a border are slim and the chances of me being welcomed, listened to and treated as a human – a god, even – are relatively high.
Were there interviews?
Of course there were. They don’t let just anyone do this. We interviewed in London; around 25 of us, from memory. Mainly Australians. We’d all been given a topic to present on. Topics to be thoroughly researched and presented in an entertaining, informative manner in a way that showcased our individual personalities.
Did everyone deliver?
Tough to say. I remember a guy presenting before me and nailing it. He spoke about Ultra.
Ultra?
It’s a music festival in Croatia. The headline act is chlamydia. It lasts a week. The festival, not the chlamydia.
Chlamydia does too. With the right treatment, that is.
I don’t need to know about your personal life.
All I’m saying is we should normalise these discussions.
And all I’m saying is I don’t need to know.
Whatever. Why was this Ultra guy so good?
He spoke with confidence. He was animated and entertaining. Informative, too, in a way that seemed to showcase his individual personality. Really good, I thought, but not so good I wanted to go to Ultra Festival. Or get chlamydia.
Not a fan?
Of chlamydia? No. Though I’m starting to think you are.
Of music festivals.
Oh. Not EDM festivals, no. I remember wondering whether there were any nice folk festivals happening over the summer. In hindsight, this was the first sign I wasn’t the right person for the job.
Yet you got it. Your presentation must’ve gone well.
I’d argue otherwise. My topic was Joan of Arc and I chose to open with a timely joke, which is always a risk. I walked to the front and said something like: that Ultra Festival sounds great and all, but I’m here to talk about Joan of Arc and her favourite festival was Burning Man.
Not bad.
Not bad, but not great. And there are only so many opportunities to inject humour into a story about a young woman being torched alive. Still, I made it to the one-on-one interviews.
What were those like?
Intimidating. I was led to a windowless room and asked hypothetical questions.
What kind of questions?
What would you do if somebody missed the bus? What would you do if somebody turned up to the bus on drugs?
I said I’d leave them behind, of course. And if somebody turned up on drugs, I’d leave them behind having confiscated and distributed the rest of the drugs. They also asked what I would do if I was at a bar in Croatia and I needed to get a drunk passenger back to the boat.
And?
Obvious, isn’t it?
I’d drag the passenger’s limp body along the cobblestones. Ring an antique bell as I parade the body in front of the locals lining the streets. ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED? Then, with the help of another passenger, I’d kick the lifeless sack of shit into the Adriatic Sea. We’d be overwhelmed with adrenaline as the body sinks deeper. Return to the bar as an inseparable couple, forever bound through a most unspeakable act. Maybe we’d kiss, too. Maybe we’d fall in love. Maybe everything would change forever.
Really?
No. Instead I said, Aren’t there operational procedures to follow? This seemed to please them.
And the training came next, right?
Correct. After a few weeks of self-directed study (read: unpaid study), we met in London to begin a month-long training trip (read: unpaid training trip) around the continent. We visited every country and city we’d be guiding through and spent the long bus rides practicing presentations, or spiels, as they were known. At any point, you could be called upon to give a spiel on the history and culture of Germany, for example, or the must-see attractions of Bratislava. Fortunately the latter required a relatively short spiel.
In the evenings, we were told to experience the nightlife despite the training being unpaid and none of us having money. I remember drinking a lot of cheap beer in dark parks. We were occasionally treated to a night out so we could experience what our passengers would experience, but the free booze and karaoke was more a test of our wits than a gesture of good will. The bosses wanted to see if we could find our way back to the hostel after ten standard drinks and five tuneless renditions of Wagon Wheel.
I can’t imagine working in an environment where drinking on the job is encouraged.
It wasn’t exactly encouraged. The big boss flew to Budapest towards the end of our training and took us through the company’s policies and code of conduct. He warned us about alcohol consumption, among other things.
The perks of the job, essentially.
Indeed. The company’s position was clear: we were not to partake. He didn’t drink himself, apparently. Gave it up years ago and never looked back. He told us he wasn’t there to preach, but that the whole sobriety thing was worth looking into.
Did anyone look into it?
Good one.
So you trained in Europe but ended up in Turkey – how did that come about?
Towards the end of the training trip, we were asked where we’d like to work, and whether there was any extra training we’d be keen on doing. I wasn’t bothered so long as I didn’t get sent to Croatia to work on the sail boats.
Why?
I took a Croatia Sail trip in my early twenties. I know what happens on them. I saw people come close to drowning. People punched and robbed. People teabagged while they slept.
Teabagged?
Google it.
Okay.
Actually, don’t. Please don’t. All I’m saying is there was no way I was working the boats in Croatia. So my boss asked if I would mind going to Turkey instead. There was a sailing tour along the coast and the company was having issues with the local crew. They wanted somebody to head over and keep an eye on things. I was told it had a reputation for being more relaxed than Croatia.
But why you?
The boss thought I was independent because I liked spending time alone – yet another sign I wasn’t the right person for the job. I was told I would be the only employee in Turkey, though help was but a text message away. That said, I had questions. Like whether I could legally work in Turkey. That felt important.
And could you?
No. But I was told I’d be more of a ‘rep’. Until there was an accident, of course. After which I was informed I was more of an ‘independent contractor’ than a ‘rep’ or ‘employee’ or ‘anyone associated with us in any way, shape or form’.
Sounds legit.
Very. So I spent two or three weeks working on the buses in Europe before being flown to Turkey. When I arrived, I was taken to meet the crew I’d be working with.
Were they excited to see you?
Er, no. They’d been operating without oversight and very much enjoying it. The main issue, I’d been told, was that they weren’t sticking to the advertised itinerary. The captain would decide where he wanted to go and the passengers had no choice. The crew didn’t speak particularly good English, so the passengers, for the most part, had no idea where they were or what they were seeing. And I’m not saying their experience improved once I came on board. But with me they at least knew their complaints were understood before being ignored.
Were there many complaints?
So many. Most of which were completely justified. Take the cabins, for example. The bunk beds had a single on top and a double on the bottom. Depending on numbers, I had to put a stranger in the top bunk and a couple in the bottom. Or three strangers would have to work it out between them. The lack of air conditioning turned out to be a real blessing because most people chose to sleep on the deck instead of in their cabins.
No AC in summer? Brutal.
Well, the AC did work, but the owner was too cheap to run it. And though I was under strict instructions to communicate that the AC didn’t work at the start of the week, we’d sometimes return to the boat after an excursion to find the captain had turned it on. Everyone would then be upset with me for lying. There was an ever-present threat of mutiny. A sense of impending doom.
What was your relationship with the crew like?
It was generally good, I guess? But sometimes strained. I mean, one time I caught the captain masturbating in my cabin. That was uncomfortable.
Jesus. How did you know he was masturbating?
I walked through the door and he had his pants at his ankles, his hands at his helm. When he saw me he screamed: I AM NOT MASTURBATING. This is how I knew he was masturbating.
I’m impressed by your deductive abilities.
Thanks man. And look, it was his cabin too. All four of us – the captain, the chef, the deckhand and myself – shared a tiny cabin. And he was away from his girlfriend. Away from home. The crew spent six months a year on the water.
How about your passengers? What were they like?
Good. Great. Sometimes not so good, but mainly, yeah, good. They were always losing shoes though. Like, every week I’d have fully grown adults ask me where their shoes were. When did you last see them? I’d ask. Four days ago, they’d say.
And you wrote about these experiences in your failed book?
Failed?
Sorry. In your work-in-progress?
I tried to, yes, but it felt like a waste of time. I’d spend pages building a scene and making stuff up in order to say something so simple. Like, I remember two friends having an argument because one was sad about the other being skinny. It made me sad too and all I wanted to say was this: two friends fell out because was one too skinny, the other too sad. But who needs to read a chapter of bullshit to hear that? Though I think it might work as an Instagram poem.
Like:
too often I think of
two friends who fell out
because one was too skinny
the other too sad.
Do you want my opinion or my support?
Support.
It’s a great poem.
Thank you.
What do you think those passengers would say if they read the book?
Something like, Take me out of your stupid fucking book, I imagine.
To be fair, they’d probably be distracted by the section about you loving Hitler.
Stop it. I don’t love Hitler.
Or the whole chlamydia thing.
That was a joke, too. Comedic effect! God. You’re making me anxious. My mother will read this.
Were there any other memorable moments from Turkey?
Sure. Plenty.
Any stressful times?
Of course there were. Too many to count. I worked 70 days straight on the boat with an hour off each week to do paperwork. No privacy, minimal sleep. Looking after two yachts with eight crew members and up to 40 passengers. We had an inflatable Zodiac to travel between the two, but the crew weren’t always willing to drive me, so I’d be forced to swim between the boats to tell people what the plan for the day was. I carried a waterproof bag around my neck with a change of clothes and toiletries so I could alternate where I spent the night and make sure everyone was okay and having a good time. It was exhausting.
A mutual friend of ours told me about an incident involving a taser. Can you elaborate?
The taser thing? Yeah, that happened. But I want to make it clear that nobody was actually tased in the end.
Noted. So what happened?
I remember it being a busy week. Two boats going out. And on one of those boats was a couple I became slightly, ah, terrified of. At one point the boyfriend told me he was prone to what sounded like rage blackouts. He said once he saw red, nobody could drag him out of it.
Good holiday vibes.
This man was enormous. But he was a bit of a sweetheart too, you know? He must’ve spent an hour telling me about the photo albums he makes. After he and his partner return from a trip, he sorts through the pictures on his phone, takes them to Kmart, prints out his favourites and chooses the perfect album to display them in.
An age-old question, isn’t it? Whether it’s possible to hold two conflicting truths?
Are you asking me whether it’s possible to be a hopeless romantic whilst courting the urge to stun a stranger with 50,000 volts?
More or less.
Look – I don’t know. But what I do know is I actually got on with them. Kept my distance, sure, but enjoyed their company for the most part. The same can’t be said of some of the other passengers. Like I said, there were two boats operating that week, so I spent half my time hanging out with a different group. And while I was gone, the couple were apparently threatening to tase people.
Excuse me?
Yeah. There was a group of women, most of whom were travelling solo, I think, and they came up to me maybe halfway through the trip and told me this couple was threatening to tase them.
Surely not.
I couldn’t believe it either. The couple didn’t seem overly violent. A little violent, perhaps, though in an adorable way. But the women insisted they’d seen the taser. They said that after a few drinks, the couple could become a little, shall we say, aggressive.
What did you do?
I asked the couple, as casually as I could, if they had a taser.
How did that go down?
Not well. They demanded to know who had been spreading rumours, but I played it cool. I said I’d overheard talk that there might be a taser on board and the Turkish coast guard wouldn’t be happy if they checked the boat while we were in port. I contacted my boss, too. Gave him a call and said I had a weird question for him.
What did he say when you told him?
“That’s a new one.”
Helpful.
I asked him what I should do. Do I search for the taser? Call the police? Abandon ship and get the next plane out of Turkey?
And?
He said we couldn’t do anything until someone got tased.
Again, helpful. What did you tell the women?
That I couldn’t do anything unless one of them got tased.
How did they take it?
Well, nobody was willing to take one for the team, if that’s what you’re asking. But they were okay with it, I guess. And nobody got tased in the end.
The other guides – did they have similar experiences? You must’ve shared stories throughout the season.
There were plenty of messed up stories; stuff like passengers beating up guides, or losing body parts, or going missing. But my favourite stories were more bizarre than messed up. Like, one guide had a passenger who got wasted at an ice bar in Stockholm and stole an ice glass. As in a glass made of ice, which began to melt as soon as he was outside. He put it in a paper bag and tried to carry it into the restaurant as a little puddle.
Another, in Italy, was woken in the middle of the night by three passengers. They were crying because there was a rumbling noise echoing around the bay and they thought it was Vesuvius erupting. None of them had signal to call their mums to say goodbye. The guide tried to reassure them by saying not to worry, the poisonous gas would have already killed us if it was Vesuvius, but this didn’t have the desired effect. It took over half an hour to calm them and get them back to bed. The noise turned out to be fireworks.
It begs the question: why would anyone want to be a guide?
I don’t know. It’s a life of low pay and high stress. But by the end of it, I realised people didn’t really need a guide. What they needed was a friend, as cliché as it sounds. And I actually cared about these people. God knows why. I enjoyed hearing about their plans and their problems. It brings me great joy opening Instagram and seeing what their lives are like now. Some of them have met partners, had babies. Even the guy who tried to punch me. If nothing else, it reminds me there’s hope in this world. For everyone. I like to lie awake at night and imagine his child’s tiny fists beating my body to a pulp. I like to imagine the baby’s cold stare as it tells me, shitfaced on milk, that I’m too pretty to know how hard life can be. You know what?
What?
It kind of reminds of this time I wa—