Survivor is anything but a romantic walk on a beach. It’s sweaty, hot, draining, bug-infested, exhausting, thirsty and often hungry work. I’m not pretending I was never fed, but when your brief is to spend every waking hour with the contestants and it’s ‘illegal†to eat, drink or ingest anything but water in front of them, you are stuck with a stomach-rumbling conundrum.
Don’t get me wrong. I loved working on the show. I wouldn’t have finished the third series of Survivor if I hadn’t, but there were days when I had to ask myself exactly how much of a sucker for punishment I was. And when I told my war stories afterwards, the word ‘sucker†easily replaced ‘martyrâ€.
‘After all,†people ask me, ‘who wouldn’t mind spending all day on a beach hanging out with the body beautiful set?†I always reply: ‘It’s a pity that I didn’t.â€
The joy of watching a reality show from the comfort of your lounge is that two days of baking in the sun is neatly packaged into an hour’s watching. Living the nightmare is entirely different. Four hours of sitting in the rain is exactly that — four hours. It’s rain and a nasty case of nappy rash. And don’t get me started on the bugs. I have mastered monologues about sand flies and mosquitoes and the interesting (and uncomfortable) places they manage to worm their way into.
It’s the memories of burned and aching shoulders (no, I never had an assistant, despite numerous offers from friends and colleagues), bug bites from head to toe, not to mention wearing cut-off stockings through the 100% humidity (nappy rash is an embarrassing reality), aching limbs and bad facial burns shaped around sunglasses which make me laugh at all the Survivor urban legends I’ve heard.
I love to hear stories from someone whose friend ‘has a cousin who knows a guy who lives next door to a girl who dated a cameraman who once worked on the showâ€. Naturally, the cameraman has told a story about contestants who actually live in hotels, brush their teeth, have a make-up artist and a body double. So the severe weight loss experienced by the contestants is, in fact, just an optical illusion achieved through clever lighting and trick photography. And the million rand prize therefore a well-disguised tax write-off.
If I had a rand for every person who asked me who will win Survivor I would have enough to place a substantial bet on who I think the winner might be. Sadly I don’t, and if I did, I doubt I would find a bookie. It’s a thought that kept me entertained during the long hours on set.
Not that I needed much entertainment. Despite what critics of reality television would have you believe, it is an amazing experience watching people who have been plucked from their comfort zones to survive without apparently essential aids to modern life. Then there are the tense group dynamics and continually changing interpersonal relationships.
I have found myself in countries I would never have visited, and discovered motivational reserves I never believed I had. It has inspired soul searching and personal discovery. Really, there is a little paradise in that hell. If that didn’t grab one, there were always romantic walks on the beach.