Getaway

So, our company had its biannual getaway from Thursday to Sunday, which was… odd, to say the least.

For starters, the “conference facilities” of the venue consisted of a dining room from which they barred all other resort guests from entering while our desk-bound discussions were taking place (this also meant we were kicked out whenever the table had to be laid for dinner). There were no telephone lines (no 3G or cell phone reception), teleconference facilities or speedy printers in sight either.

The place was electric. On the day we arrived, a raging fire (a foreboding sign, in retrospect) was licking at the fence of the property. “All in control by the farmer next door” the managers promised. This fire raged for 2 days, and it got to the point where ash was falling out of the sky and into our hair, until a terrific bout of rain doused it. Unfortunately, this terrific bout of rain was accompanied by fearsome lightning, which struck the electricity lines and hence wiped out our only tenuous connection to the modern world. “Our farm is the highest in Mpumalanga” management cheerfully boasted. Mmm-hmmm. The next day, the generator was struck, so our laptops were left with 2-hour lifespans. (at this point I can inform you that I did not participate in any team-building events other than the first volleyball match, due to a deadline for a project on Monday. Getaway, or perhaps come along?). Somewhat mystifyingly, despite the torrential downpours, two of the surrounding hills were struck by lightning and their sparse vegetation managed to catch alight (quite a sight to behold, if you haven’t seen it happen before).

The managers (a husband-wife team) were of the temperament least suited to the hospitality industry. On arriving, they screeched at us for being an hour late, because this would set their “schedule” behind by an hour (heaven knows how difficult it is to delay a volleyball game by an hour) and smacked of our “poor team spirit”. By my and a colleague’s poor attendance of the teambuilding events, a culture of “non-commitment” was evident (hello? It’s Saturday evening and I’m working feverishly on a presentation. Not committed?)

The food was abysmally scarce. We’re talking nouvelle cuisine portions of standard, non-nouvelle cuisine foods. And they had an unnatural fondness for chicken and chips – rather disappointing considering we were in the land of trout fishing.

The barman was Congolese, with a barely working command of the English language, and even less command of bar tendering skills. “No, please don’t use the shot glass you just used for Sambuca to pour my Jamesons.” “I said a double. On the rocks. In a short glass.” “Can I please come around the bar and pour my own drink? No? Well then will you pour the drink I actually asked for, please?”

Creepiness is. The project I was so feverishly working on goes by the code name of an obscure spice. At lunch one day, some little kid comes up to me and demands to know my name. Upon enquiring what hers was, she tells me her name is the very same obscure spice’s name. “Haha. Very funny. Who told you to tell me that?” I demanded. Her pops overheard me and insisted it was her name. Frea-ky, twilight zone material.

I managed to escape the madness earlier than planned on Sunday morning, thanks to a colleague who wanted to leave before the butt-crack of dawn. As a consequence, I am still recovering from sleep-deprivation. Zzzz.