Some Work, All Play At Club Med Career As A ‘Gentile Organisateur’ Involves One Simple Goal: Make The Guests Smile

“Life as it should be” is what Club Med’s brochure says. But there’s so much hype surrounding this chain of 100 resorts around the world that it’s hard to know what to think.

Some facilities cater to families, some to couples, but the prevailing reputation is that Club Med is to hedonists what “Romper Room” is to 5-year-olds — a Utopian sanctuary where sports like co-ed naked Twister are actually played, and you get a free liposuction if you can’t fit into your Speedo.

I decided to get at the truth the best way possible: by working at one of the resorts.

Club Med in Bali (a mix of family, couples and singles) was covered with blindingly green grass and manicured gardens in full bloom, bordered by a sprawling white beach on one side and a golf course on the other; if this wasn’t paradise, it was close. I guessed there wouldn’t be a large selection of jobs available, so I prepared for the worst when I rode up on my rented moped for an unscheduled meeting with the manager, called the Chef du Village.

Chef du Village: “Can you be zee anstructor uv arrowbicks?”

Me: “It’s been a while since I last taught aerobics. If possible, I’d prefer something else.” (My aerobics experience entailed taking one class where I was the token male in the back of the room, completely out of sync with everyone else.)

Chef du Village: “Wee also need ah Dis Jokey. Can you do zis?”

Me: “Sure. I’m familiar with audioelectronics” (although I can’t manage anything more complex than a Walkman).

I was hired to work as a DJ au pair G.O. The G.O. part stands for Gentile Organisateur, Club Med’s version of the camp counselor. The “au pair” meant they didn’t pay me anything, but I got a free room, excellent food and full use of the facilities when I wasn’t working. It also meant I didn’t have to sign the standard six-month contract so I could leave at will without repercussions.

I got my DJ training from an Australian who was planning to leave. He supervised while I learned the complex workings of the strobe light (push the red button) and the disco ball (push the white button) and looking cool (hold the DJ headphones so they cover only one ear). The problem was, I didn’t recognize the names on more than a few albums since I generally don’t buy dance music; I just listen to it when I’m out dancing. The Australian put all the current hits in one box so I couldn’t go wrong.

My other task was making sure the guests were happy. I worked with a French improvisational actor. We were like police on Prozac, an international task force of happiness. We’d meet in the costume room at 10:15 a.m. and again at 2:30 p.m. every day to put on some goofball outfit (we had a massive wardrobe at our disposal and a full-time costume maker), then accost the guests with dumb pranks for half an hour.

In the first two weeks, I dressed up as Rambo, Indiana Jones, Wonder Woman, a baby, a caveman, a French cook, a pre-revolutionary French princess, part of a Chinese New Year dragon, a Musketeer, a ballerina, a French nurse, a mummy, etc. (The idea being that I should try to get a refund for my college education.)

It was amazing what we could get away with - things that just wouldn’t fly in the real world. We’d walk around the pool and throw in anyone who looked grumpy. We’d dress up as doctors and smear red make-up on the unsuspecting faces of guests we “examined” on the golf course. We’d dress as cavemen and run around gently thumping the bottoms of sunbathing guests with our Styrofoam clubs. As bizarre as this sounds, it was what we were supposed to do - and apparently the guests were enjoying it. For about $200 a day, they’d better.

I got the felling each Club Med was like a little embassy, and not just because of its international staff and guests. Club Med’s policies on nudity, drinking and sexual promiscuity can be substantially different from the countries where each resort is located. There seemed to be a quid pro quo with the local governments. Club Med pays their taxes and hires locals to clean the rooms and mow the lawn. In return, Club Med is granted “diplomatic immunity.”

Club Med’s drinking policy was pretty loose. In fact, we were encouraged to drink on the job. The Chef du Village even provided us with a monthly allotment of “bar beads,” the unique Club Med monetary system where four white plastic beads equal one orange bead, two orange equal one yellow, and four yellow means you don’t realize you just spent $8 for a Dixie Cup of beer.

After three weeks, I was convinced I’d found the best job on the planet. After four weeks, the routine was beginning to wear on me. After doing the traditional Club Med line dances, say, 50 times, they began to feel as dopey as they look. Even secretly painting the toenails of guests from under the buffet table while they dished up - my favorite prank - got old.

Conversation with my surrogate family of G.O.s never got any deeper than a Club Med brochure.

Discussing current events simply wasn’t appropriate in a place that wouldn’t be affected by anything short of all-out nuclear war. The G.O.s were a very accepting group of people, but I attributed this to the fact that most of them seemed to be escaping something, from an old relationship to the rat race. Club Med is like the French Foreign Legion for the pacifist with good social skills.

I’m still convinced my job was one of the best on earth - in the rightsized doses. Like eating ice cream sundaes: the first and the second ones taste great, the third is still pretty good, but after number 12, your stomach hurts, you realize you have no substance in your diet and you’ve gained five pounds.

It was difficult to quit at the end of the fifth week. The food was still outstanding, the “village” still felt like it had been cut out of a brochure, and my biggest decision was still whether to go windsurfing, sea kayaking or golfing after lunch. But when I began feeling trapped in the Biosphere of Happiness I helped create for guests - like a prisoner of Utopia who’s run out of Chapstick for his perma-smile - I knew it was time to move on.

MEMO: This sidebar appeared with the story: IF YOU GO Club Med Reservations and catalog: 1-800-CLUB-MED, or clubmed.com/ on the internet. Want to be a G.O. at Club Med? Call (561) 337-6660, or visit cooljobs.com/clubmed/index.htm on the net.