FUN IN THE SUN WITH INTERSLUM by Alan Crawford "I don`t quite know where it is", said the lady in the travel office, "but it`s called S`illot". We were booking a holiday at short notice, and this vacancy had turned up after hours of telephoning. We paid the money and arrived at Gatwick with hand luggage that had overflowed from our suitcases. "Are you smoking?" enquired the Danair receptionist. "Not at the moment", I replied, but realised she was referring to the aircraft seating. It was a mere formality as later we discovered that everyone smoked throughout the length of the cabin. "I have two seats for you with a window view, in Row 21" she added. We boarded the plane, and as we walked down the cabin I counted the rows - seventeen, eighteen, nineteen - then the toilets. "Surely they are not reserved for us?" asked my husband. "Don`t worry, dearie", reassured the stewardess, "someone`s made a boo boo, forgetting that this is a short BAC 1-11". I thought she meant that our nationalised aircraft company was economising, but she explained that a larger version with five more rows of seats was sometimes used. "We`ll sort it out when the others are seated", she said. We miserably watched the fortunate late bookers seating themselves, but eventually several seats appeared vacant. "Sit where you like" said the stewardess. This was too much for one stout lady standing with us. "Let me off the plane", she shrieked. ""I`ll catch the next one. Nobody's going to separate me from my husband after thirty years of married life!" Peace was finally restored and soon after eating a polystyrene cheese flan we landed at Palma at 3.00 a.m. Hundreds of us milled around in the entrance hall but ex-army sergeants disguised as Interslum couriers rounded us up into groups with a speed unequalled in sheepdog trials. The tone of voice varied with the hotel category. "Hotel Costabomb, sir? Would you please stand over there?" "Budget holiday? You lot into that corner and don`t go away until I`ve finished with the others!" Most had disappeared into coaches - even the budgeteers. Six of us bound for S`illot began to think that after all it didn`t exist. "I`ve a taxi for you~, said a sergeant. "Hop in". "What, all of us?" I asked. Two seats were folded down inside the ancient car, luggage was thrown onto the roof rack and we left the airport for the mountain road and S`illot. It started to rain, and from the gear changing necessary to surmount the huge bumps in the road it was obvious the taxi was overloaded. I noticed that when the driver switched on the windscreen wipers the headlamps went out. His overswing on each mountain bend became wider till we started to collect almond tree leaves on our door handles. Suddenly a front tyre burst and we stopped. The driver got out and inspected, then poked his wet head through the window and said "Kaput!". The rain poured down and it was black as pitch except for lightning flashes. It appeared he was about to get inside and wait for dawn, but British resourcefulness came to the fore. One of our companions in adversity, Jim, told his wife to unpack their umbrella and reluctantly the driver changed the wheel. After avoiding several cows sleeping on the road we arrived safely at S'illot at 5.00 a.m. We pulled up in front of an imposing hotel. "Nice", said my husband, but he spoke too soon. The night porter picked up our bags without a word, gesturing for us to follow. Jim and his wife came too, carrying their own luggage. We walked through the rain until we reached a narrow doorway between two shops. The porter climbed up three flights of stairs at a cracking pace, leaving us gasping for breath on each landing. A three-ply door was thrown open and we were in our room. It contained a built-in wardrobe with two small drawers, a shower room with a broken lavatory seat, two stools and two wire mattress beds. "Nothing we can do about it now, love", said my husband. "Let's get some sleep". We slept fitfully, remembering the instruction that no breakfast was served after ten o`clock. We awoke at 9.45 and dressed frantically for our walk to the hotel. Outside the sun was shining and with a little gymnastics we could see a small piece of blue sea. When we reached the dining room we stood open-mouthed in astonishment. A vast room like an army canteen stretched before us, with two queues of people, plates in hand, shuffling past trays of bread and small dishes of a green jelly-like substance. We joined the shorter queue and collected our rations. For dinner we ladled a thin soup into bowls and selected the main course from trays containing cold uncooked cauliflower or cold beans, unidentified meat in strange shapes, curious little fish which were biological impossibilities, being fleshless under their batter coating, and other items that defied culinary description. Small boys in red jackets scurried between the tightly packed tables carrying bottles. These had been ordered from ex-sergeant Foreign Legion Gonzales who strutted around menacingly. A child at the next table expressed his disgust with the food by emptying his plate onto the floor. Nobody moved and the repulsive mess remained there throughout the meal. At the end of the allotted meal time the lights were extinguished and the air conditioner shut off, to encourage us to move outside quickly. After three days in the hostel we could stand no more and demanded an interview with the hotel manager. We complained about the plumbing, the beds and the stairs. Our pleas did not fall on deaf ears for we were moved into a hotel room over the foyer with a pleasant bathroom and balcony. We even had a telephone and a television set, neither of which worked, but they looked impressive. We went to bed hoping that the 4 a.m. dustcart, which had regularly woken us in the hostel, would at least go round the back of the hotel. Poor optimistic fools! At 1.30 a.m. a crowd of Swedes in steel-capped skiing boots played leapfrog for an hour in the corridor with loud shouts of "Ooyah!" Then seven coaches started arriving outside the hotel, carrying fresh victims. Dawn broke, and we dropped into an uneasy sleep. With the coming of the monsoon rains, the weather worsened. Jim and Pat, our friends, had remained in the hostel and built dams of towels around the balcony door to keep the rain out. One day a party of English people arrived at the hotel after travelling for twenty-four hours due to a plane fault. They were tired and hungry. "Into the annexe!" commanded the desk clerk, with Gonzales at his side. "Never!" shouted a tall young man. "We paid for a hotel and here we stay until we get one. Unite and we cannot be defeated!" I expected them to burst into "We shall not be moved", but the protest was restricted to arguments with the reception staff who seemed to have conveniently forgotten all their English. "Fetch the manager!" called the Shop Steward. No manager. "Fetch the police!" No police. He picked up a large glass ashtray and held it over the glass-topped counter. "If I drop this will you fetch the police?" An old cockney lady who spoke Spanish dissuaded him, and informed the receptionist about his unmarried father and mother. Still no action. "We camp here in the foyer tonight", cried the young man, and proceeded to remove his shirt. An old gentleman in a white jacket came out of the office, listened to the shouting, then disappeared and returned with a Spanish imitation of The Hulk. This monster, flanked with Sergeant Gonzales, moved among the party and the more timid of them asked for their annexe keys. We did not see the Shop Steward after that, and feared the worst, but later discovered he had been moved to a hotel on the other side of the island, where he was happily organising the English into revolt. We fell into the routine of frequenting a local café where a passable egg and chips could be obtained, and were nonplussed to find that Sergeant Gonzales owned this café and served us without the slightest sign of recognition. On our departure day, we had to vacate our room by midday and wait until 1.00 a.m. for our transport to Palma. We located the Danair ground staff and were allocated seats in Row 24 on the aircraft, only to discover on boarding that Row 24 was occupied by cartons of duty-free goods. "Sit in Row 23", chirped the stewardess. Almost immediately the rightful owners of Row 23 arrived, so we were told to sit in Row 22, and so throughout the length of the plane. We ended up sitting amidst the duty-free cartons. So ended our unforgettable holiday in Majorca. 1500 words