Role play

We have been stranded here, on this godforsaken island since 9:30 this morning. As established in the rules, our resources are severely limited to one rope, a fishing harpoon, a small axe and a box of matches. And that was it. To make matters worse, a tsunami of epic magnitude was about to lash our shores. In other words, an excellent start to our stay here in paradise.

Roleplay

We have been stranded here, on this godforsaken island since 9:30 this morning. As established in the rules, our resources are severely limited to one rope, a fishing harpoon, a small axe and a box of matches. And that is it. To make matters worse, a tsunami of epic magnitude is about to lash our shores. In other words, an excellent start to our stay here in paradise.

When we first arrived, not forty minutes ago, we were required to get organised, to brainstormed on the whiteboard. And we came up all these fabulous ideas like fishing out on the reef, exploring the island top to bottom, looking for fresh water, building a shelter and starting a fire. All fine and dandy but now there was this tsunami to contend with and I, for one, was more than a bit worried. I did not express my doubts aloud because I don't want to lower the group moral. Had we not suffered enough adversity already? I am referring to our desperate journey from the sinking wreckage of the aeroplane, across five kilometres of shark-infested ocean, to drag ourselves over the razor sharp reef, arriving bedraggled and exhausted on this god-forsaken rock?

The irony is we'd all been heading to a tropical island anyway. A different one. An island with a four-star resort and air-conditioned shuttles waiting to pick us up at the airport. We had been high above the clouds, on our way to this holiday destination, well into second in-flight drink service, getting everyone well and truly lubricated and into the holiday mood when suddenly there was a loud bang! Followed by an equally sudden loss of altitude. Down we went, to ditch into the sea. Have you ever waterskied in a 747 travelling at 400 miles an hour across the ocean? It's quite a nail-biting experience. Then it was down the slides and onto the floatation devices. And suddenly the whole enterprise, our cheap package tourist lark, had turned into a harrowing survival scenario.

I'm definitely concerned about that cranberry bran muffin and the double latte I had earlier this morning down near the bus station. Not the best start to the day. I had hoped the large hit of sugar and caffeine would pole volt me into the afternoon, clearing the midweek hangover I'd dragged into work like a guilty shadow. I suspect that coffee is now beginning to churn up my bowels. Let's just say there is a mounting pressure down below, accompanied by a loud digestive squelching and rumbling. Which leads me to consider the very real and humiliating possibility of having to excuse myself in order to use the facilities. Something that will not go unnoticed. A quick slash and dash would be alight but a lengthy, sweaty download session in one of the stalls would be hard to miss in terms of the time spent away from the group and the possibility of a new rank odour adding to the booze vapours already seeping out of my pores.

The engineer, the teacher, the botanist, the movie star, the marine biologist, the priest and the Royal Marine.....to name but a few. These unhappy souls have all acquired quite a nasty case of dysentery from eating too many coconuts and bits of raw crab. I warned them against overindulgence, I said, seriously folks, go easy on those coconuts. I'm not sure how I know coconuts are a natural laxative but I do. Maybe I read it somewhere? Or did I learn it from that movie Castaway with Tom Hanks?

Christ, I am sweating. Bloated and sweating like a pig. When I asked to have the air conditioner turned up a few notches Carlos, the workshop leader called for everyone's attention and asked, "does anyone object to the AC being turned up?" And Janet from downstairs started rubbing her bare shoulders and complaining that she was already a bit chilled. Jesus Christ almighty, what is wrong with that woman? It about forty degrees in here. It's like a sauna. As I say, I can smell the fumes coming off me. Last night's beer is coming out one way or the other. My poor, abused carcass desperately needs refrigeration. Unless I'm mistaken, I just felt a plump bead of sweat roll lazily down the insides of my calf. Immediately followed by another one, rolling down between my shoulder blades. This is absolute torture.

Correct me if I'm wrong but Carlo, the workshop leader, also seems quite scattered this morning. What I'm saying is, I detect a fellow midweek reveller. It takes one to know one....isn't that what they say? Oh yes. Absolutely. I can tell by his loose demeanour and the fatigue underscoring his eyes that he went out last night and had more than a few beverages. The sly bastard. He informs us that usually, for these workshops, he brings along an audio recording of the Pacific Tradewinds gently rustling palm trees and the surf crashing on the shore to "get participants in the mood". Sometimes he even gets participants to wear blindfolds with this ambient audio playing softly in the background. As it is, all he has today is a shell which we are expected to pass around and hold up to our ears, listening intently for the distant ocean.

We have managed to build a hut out of thatched palm fronds and felled trees. It takes forever. We also constructed a kitchen area kitted out with a charcoal pit and a sink. We built the commode out back. The shelter itself resembled a Fijian longhouse and was built on the side of a cliff to provide protection against the elements. To date, we have sighted wild boars in the brush so eventually, once we have properly organised the hunting committee, we should have boar meat. And don't forget the mangoes and breadfruit. And when the boar meat becomes too audacious for our stomachs, we should have a bounty of edible sea life from the reef. "Hands up those who wish to volunteer as a Fishman?" On hearing this, I edge to the back of the group. I'm a bit paranoid about the hammerhead sharks that occasionally find their way into the lagoon. I'm all for the greater good but I don't fancy running into one these monsters and losing a foot or a hand in the process.

One of the problems is the so-called 'doctor' is really a 22-year-old newly graduated medical student from Southern California who has limited practical experience. A frat boy with a stethoscope. Even if I could wrestle my hand out of the gaping maw of an attacking shark, neurosurgery would out of the question. Aside from his lack of experience, the doctor would be performing surgery using our incredibly limited first aid kit. In all likelihood, my reconnected hand would be little more use than a numb flipper hanging off the end of my wrist. I'd become the island gimp. This keeps me out of the water.

At night the mosquitoes, along with some other choice creepie-crawlies, come out in force. It turns out we built the longhouse a little too close to the mangrove swamp. The Royal Marine came up with the plan to keep the fire going all night, using green saplings to create dense smoke which is supposed to drive the mosquitoes away. And it does seem to work but it also means choking on acrid smoke in our sleep. I'm of the option we should just move the shelter to another side of the island. Problem solved, right? This leads to yet another exhaustive discussion about southern exposure and extreme weather patterns. Sometimes I do worry about the Royal Marine. He is far too tightly wound for my liking. You know the type: veins popping in his neck, rottweiler focus. A dog with a bone. Everything has to have this elevated intensity. It's so tiring. He seems to thrive on barking orders at everyone, on conflict. No doubt he has value in our current predicament but you have to muzzle that kind of personality otherwise things start to get too militaristic.

They call an island meeting (another one). Now there is a general discussion about whether we should focus our energies on building a giant bonfire, in order to be seen and rescued by passing ships or if we should face up to the reality that we will be here indefinitely and begin clearing a plot of land for agricultural purposes. Maybe we can do both? I don't say anything but...agricultural purposes? Seriously? What, pray tell, are we supposed to plant? More mangos and coconuts? They grow in abundance as it is. Along with the plantains. And seeing as how no one has any other type of seeds, it seems like an exercise in futility, if you ask me. These meetings, in which we are required to accommodate every single insipid mouse fart point of view are becoming very tiring. What's more, certain individuals on this island have begun to increase the number of daily meetings for the sake of hearing themselves talk. We have to sit there for hours on end at the large bamboo conference table listening to all this shite. Putting aside the basic requirements of survival, the social part of the game has become all together, a different kind of animal. A couple of weeks after our arrival and I've had it with the scientist who, although quite valuable because of his field of expertise, is a right pain in the ass. And the fucking ballerina is not much better. Clicks have formed. Lines have been drawn. Just like high school. I have been attempting to shag the movie star but the engineer beat me to it. Quite a disappointment, let me tell you. All that time I put in, strumming away on the camps handmade ukulele, serenading her under the moonlight, to no avail. The one consolation being, eventually, the movie star and the engineer would break up and come to hate each other. They would separate and not speak for years. The engineer had not factored in the movie star's predilection for having multiple marriages over the course of her life. Monogamy was not in her makeup. I had an affair with her. Sure. We used to meet over by the tidal pools. It was quite romantic. The poor woman was not cut out for island life. She dearly missed her fame. She would spend years lamenting the demise of her iPhone and the adoration of her fans.

Outside the window, five floors below, Sydney traffic surges towards the airport. A plane is taking off, the nose lifting up, the wheels leaving the smudged tarmac. This produces a delayed, muted rumble beyond the building's glass skin. The skies of Sydney are always full of planes. Back inside, the island, our island, has been poorly represented as a rough cartoon drawing on the whiteboard. A bump of land surrounded by little, serrated ocean waves with a single, drooping palm tree in the middle. Of course, this is only a representation, meant to help spur our imaginations. Obviously, on our island, there would be more than one palm tree. As described in the instructions, you can walk the perimeter of our island in about an hour. There is a waterfall. The mango swam I mentioned. Several beaches. A volcano. When logic comes into play, around coffee times, when the shoddy little fiction starts to break down....someone asks "why we haven't been rescued, after all, the crash site was a mere five kilometres to the south", Carlos introduces some bullshit about the island being shrouded in a mysterious fog and therefore, it has never been charted. Oooo....so mysterious. "What about satellite images?" chimes in some instigator sitting to my left. "Now you're just being counterproductive to our adventure", scolds Carlos. "The point is you are all stranded on this island and you have been assigned a role. And there are problems you need to solve as a team. So let's just go with it". Sure. 'Just go with it'. I shift in my chair and look at the clock. I have work to do. Where did they get this guy from? HR actually paid this man to come in and conduct this cut-rate team building exercise instead of taking us somewhere decent like, oh, I don't know, maybe out to a climbing wall facility and paying for lunch? Handgliding? Even just hiking would have been preferable. The point is, someone is ticking off boxes and getting a big old high five for keeping training costs down at the same time. The prink who runs this department is happy as Larry. The troops have been inspired (at least on paper) and he has come in under budget. Meanwhile, that pile of work back on my desk isn't getting any smaller. Normally what amounts to a five-day effort will now need to be compressed down into four frantic days. Brilliant. And yep, there is definitely something dynamic going on in my stomach. That double latte is going right through me like Liquid Plumber. I'm going to have to make a move soon. Or...now here is an idea: if I started laying out the groundwork now, fidgeting in my chair and making my discomfort clear to the others, could I not parle this bulging mid-morning turd into vague stomach troubles and leave early? Escape. No, no....you go on...I could imagine myself saying to the group, I'll take myself home and see you tomorrow. My thoughts are with you.

Carlo the workshop coordinator reaches into his little box of challenge cards like an angry primitive god who isn't going to be happy unless he is constantly disrupting our equilibrium and we continue on with the role-play activity. Whenever we have overcome one problem and it feels like our situation on the island may have stabilised, Carlo would pull out another one of these bloody cards. He smiles as he reads the next challenge, forcing us to branch off on some new implausible narrative tangent. I say implausible because really....could this many things really go wrong on one little island?

So far the members of our group have succumbed to dysentery, typhoid, sexually transmitted diseases, two cannibal attacks from the neighbouring island, the tsunami I mentioned, the volcano, pirates, venomous snakes and general bouts of insanity. Eliminated members of the group must move to another table in the corner, a kind of afterlife station, where they wait for us to conclude the current round. Gentlemen and lady ghosts dressed in office wear, checking their phones, tapping their fingers. The newly departed sitting in black ergonomic roller chairs. I'm not quite sure how this elaborate game is meant to inspire us. Fair play to Carlos for coming up with the idea in the first place however fucking shoddy it is. Basically, it's a hybrid of the popular television show Survivor with a touch of Lost played out using a Dungeons and Dragons dice rolling, storytelling format. And the thing that gets me is this guy Carlos must make a fair bit of money occupying us for the entire day with all this silliness. Then again maybe he comes cheap? Anyway, professional development is now a thriving industry. This is Carlos's full-time job (I asked him this morning....before we started). I should really get off my ass and come up with something like this. I should be taking advantage.

I am still alive on this terrible little island but for how much longer? Each time a new challenge card is introduced into play, there is another fatality and we must decide who is the most expendable member of the group. cruel Darwinism in action. As I said, I don't really understand how this helps us as a team in the workplace but there you go. After the third hurricane hit, the Royal Marine and the engineer began work on an underground shelter but that got flooded. The priest has abandoned the Christian faith and has become a self-styled shaman living in the mangrove swamp. The flight attendant, who's sub-skill set on the profile cards included 'expert fisherman' murdered someone in an ownership dispute over a goat so we had to build a jail out of bamboo and decide if we should implement the death penalty. More meetings. While all this is going on, I have been angling to have sexual relationships and eventually children with the school teacher. She is game and certainly had a solid childbearing physique. I have been attempting to broker a deal with her, saying look darling, I may not be the man of your dreams (and to be perfectly honest, I am not, as they say, 'hot for teacher') but I think we should look into this union. I think we could work something out. Reproduction is, after all, a central concern of human life, correct? Maybe we will start a new colony. If we can get the crazy movie star to pump out a few kiddies with someone, we might be in with a chance. What I am saying is, if we provide enough genetic variety, maybe, fifty years from now when a Japanese corporation shows up to develop this place into a golf course, they won't find our decedents to be a tribe of drooling inbred halfwits running around in grass skirts.

Dear god, I think I have officially gone past a point of no return with this potboiler that has been brewing away all morning. I should have acted sooner. I am going to have to hit the workplace facilities soon. Oh man, there is no way I could make it home even if I left now. I'd be laying pipe on the bus, somewhere along the Paramatta road, the way things are going.

The new challenge card dictates that we decide to build an escape raft out of some smashed up palm trees. The volcano has been acting up, spewing black smoke, rumbling and generally threatening to blow. The geologist has been up to the rim and suspects we are due for a cataclysmic explosion of lava and fiery death. Marvellous. Fantastic! I stand on the beach, hand in hand with the school teacher (we are old now and have three children. The movie star decided long ago not to come to the party and kept her ovaries to herself, despite the Botanist best efforts to woo her). I tell my common-law wife, the teacher, that I will not leave the island. I will not risk life and limb on the reef and exposure to the element on the high seas. No way. Besides, the geologist has been drunk on palm wine since we arrived so you can't really trust his judgement. True to form, the Marine is striding around behind us, shouting orders at everyone, overseeing the construction of the new escape raft and the provision gathering team. We can make it, says the teacher, her rich brown eyes locked into mine.

"Don't you understand?" I say, the ocean water sluicing around our ankles, pulling the sand out from beneath our toes, "don't you get it? Our God is a malevolent one. There is nothing out there but death", I say, pointing towards the horizon. From up on the mountain the Shaman blows his conch shell horn producing a long, baleful note that resonates out across the island. "There is no 'I' in team", shouts my wife, as they all shove off, the raft moving out to encounter the first massive breaker. At that moment I feel the ground begin to rumble once again as something, a horrible internal pressure continues to build down in the bowls of the earth. In the corner the room, the bored ghosts of our departed colleagues moan as we get ready to break for lunch.