It’s OK to Travel with a Bathrobe #13: Push to Flush
Push to Flush
The days where we were happy in the Caribbean seemed ages ago once the owner of the boat arrived. I don’t know whether it’s a rich people disease, or if I was just plain unlucky. Never before had I come across a personality such as his. No respect, no manners, no culture whatsoever. Racist, sexist, classist… a bit more “ist” and you die.
He treated me as if I was there on vacation and he was paying me for it. He even said it to my face and got completely out of control when I, very smoothly, told him I was working all day long non-stop…he couldn’t take an answer at all, even when his attitude was as unfair and negative as could be. He accused me of all his defects and yelled at me for answering back like an old fashioned granddad. If it had been the Middle Ages, I bet he would have had my head cut off for such a crime…
The yacht owners usually think they are offering you a gift by letting you work on board. As if it wasn’t a job, as if it wasn’t a contract where he needs a hostess and you want to work as a hostess, like any other kind of job, money for work. But, for some reason, they tend to think they are doing you a favour and you should be grateful for it, for being allowed to work. Strange.
He liked to control everything and everyone around him to the point of making everyone do as he said, no room for freedom or relaxation, and that accounts for all passengers on board as well. As for them, I don’t know how they can choose to spend a holiday that way, they must have their reasons. Me, I’m patient, but my pride has a limit and he pushed me far beyond it. Nobody has to take so much shit from anyone, excuse my language, but my knowledge of English doesn’t leave any other word that explains it better.
Making my life impossible was his hobby, I couldn’t have lunch ready in time because they said 2 o’clock and they arrived at 1, and expected me to serve appetizers while I was struggling to cook for nine people and they had already come one hour earlier than agreed. He wanted something this way and five minutes later he wanted it differently and blamed me for not reading his mind, I guess.
A whole week of wanting to strangle him everyday and trying to keep calm despite his continuous misbehaviour towards me, his unexpected rushes of fury for no reason and his rude comments which I hate, and that disgusting way of treating all human beings around him like they know nothing…
Waiters were his favourite target, impolite as can be, complaining noisily in every single restaurant, sometimes because it took too much time, or they didn’t have something in stock…which shows his ignorance of other countries, Hey! This is the Caribbean, you should never, ever try to change a whole culture by making a fool out of yourself. Take it or leave it, don’t come if you can’t stand it, stay home. But, then again, this type of people don’t care about the places they visit, they just like to be seen by the other rich people and tell it back home, how great it was or how terrible, with a total lack of knowledge about what they are talking about, spitting out their opinions based in nothing. How souless.
But Mister, money doesn’t bring class, and you will always lack the class and the style and be forever a walking wallet with a squad of money lovers bitching behind your back.
So, as you can imagine, I decided to leave the boat but waited till the moment the guests were going back to Europe to see if he also wanted me to go, otherwise he would have never given me the plane ticket back home. The only thing I’ve gotten out of that miserable time on board. And the kids, Marta, Alex and the little daughter from the guests, Marina. They were great to talk to, great to hang out with.
When I arrived in Martinique, homeless and jobless at night in an unknown island, I couldn’t be happier. I was free again.