The Best Job in the World: How to Make a Living From Following Your Dreams

INTRODUCTION

Am I dreaming?

I covered my face with my hands and stifled a gasp, frozen to the spot by the shock of what had just happened. For a moment time stood still.

Then came the crush. Hands grasped me, arms wrapped around me, hugs forced the air from my chest. I struggled to stay upright as more people joined in and the sound in the room got louder. A throng of blue t-shirts surrounded me.

I took a deep breath and felt a kiss on my cheek that woke me from my stupor. I focused on the people around me. They were all grinning from ear to ear, jumping up and down, celebrating — and I was the centre of attention!

The other finalists cheered and showered me with congratulations, the sound of their voices merging into one. Slowly they separated and fell back into line as a microphone was thrust into my hand. I walked towards the lectern, lifting my gaze to the audience before me and outwards to the line of cameras at the back of the room. The media was watching.

How on earth did I get here? Twelve months ago I was covered in sweat and mud in equatorial Gabon rebuilding a broken bridge on my journey around Africa. Now here I was on Hamilton Island in front of the world's media, winner of ‘the best job in the world’.

After five months of hard campaigning I'd beaten 34 684 other contestants vying for the job of ‘Caretaker of the Islands of the Great Barrier Reef’. Behind me on the stage stood the 15 others who'd made it all the way through to the final.

I had no idea what the next few months would bring — apart from a change of country, a salary of $150 000 and a $3.5 million luxury villa to live in. With 2300 kilometres of coral reefs and more than 600 islands to explore there'd be travel, and lots of it.

‘Wow! Ladies and gentlemen, we've all been involved in a marketing campaign that has been an enormous worldwide success. To all of the candidates standing behind me … everyone is an absolute winner and I think we've had the most incredible three days of our lives — thank you!’

With my brief acceptance speech out of the way the media interviews began. I worked my way out into the bright spring sunshine, ready to face the paparazzi.

‘How does it feel to have won the best job in the world, Ben?’ one journalist asked.

‘It's absolutely crazy if I'm honest. I can't wait to get started,’ I replied, almost bursting with excitement.

‘How lucky do you feel right now, moving from the outhouse to the penthouse?’ she came back.

I worked through the question in my mind. How ‘lucky’ did I feel? Had luck really played any part in the last five months of hard work or the 10 years of expeditions, training and logistics before that?

The reason I was standing there giving that interview wasn't down to luck, but to the hard work I'd put into each and every one of the projects I'd been involved with. Taking a dream and turning it into reality was something I'd become used to doing, following the age-old adage that ‘the harder you work, the luckier you get’. So the ‘best job’ didn't just fall into my lap by chance; there was application and strategy involved at every stage of the process.

* * *

Over the years I've read many travel and adventure books written by inspiring people who've completed outrageous journeys around the planet. From driving a pink tuk-tuk across Africa to skateboarding across Australia to running a marathon on every continent in seven days — all of them have challenged the human spirit and confirmed the theory that life is there for the taking.

With this book I want to offer more than just a chronicle of my travels. There are writers who wrap their travel stories in beautiful words and conjure up breathtaking images of life on the road and their experiences along the way.

Unfortunately I don't have that kind of creative or artistic mind, and I often struggle to find ingenious words to summarise an escapade. But what I can share are the many lessons I've learned planning, executing and delivering successful projects in far-off corners of the world. Threaded through my stories of travel and adventure you will find the tools you need to turn your own ‘could-do’ journey into a ‘have-done’ adventure!

The Best Job in the World: How to make a living from following your dreams is my story, but it is also a guide that can help you make key decisions when planning your own journey or adventure. My hope is that it will inspire you to live your dream while also providing you with practical advice on how to get there — from turning an idea into a plan, to gaining sponsors and partners, to using digital and social media platforms to build an audience and tell your story.

CHAPTER 1

Finding my way

Despite the success I've enjoyed in my adult life, I always struggled in school. My first memory of it was sitting in a classroom in Bournes Green Infant School at age six wasting an entire morning working out whether ‘this morning’ should be written as one word or two.

It didn't get much better when I moved up to the junior school. I can't quite remember how at the age of eight I managed to send my teacher home in tears, but suffice to say Ms Murray didn't list me as one of her favourite pupils. My school report constantly referred to my inability to concentrate in class.

Back in 1985, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD) wasn't recognised. My hyperactivity as a child was blamed on excessive E-numbers in my food and drink. I clearly remember being forbidden to drink orange and lemon squash because they contained a dangerous combination of the additives E102 and E110.

Mum and Dad struggled with my schooling, especially on the annual Parents’ Evening. I dreaded their first words when they got back. I would ask optimistically, ‘How did it go?’, hoping that one day they'd say, ‘You've been a model student, Ben. Well done’. It never happened. My sister Becky got enough brains for both of us, always topping the class and putting me to shame. She's been a source of inspiration all my life, but I felt that as the older sibling it should have been the other way around.

An education

One of my favourite subjects at school was geography. Learning about the world and what makes it tick provided fuel for my mind even at an early age. As soon as I opened my first National Geographic magazine with its yellow-framed cover, I was hooked. I remember folding out the map of an unknown country and poring over it, mesmerised by all the squiggly lines, trying to work out what the legend meant.

Seeing magnificent images of distant lands and strange-looking people only added to my fascination and curiosity. In my final year at Bournes Green, I crossed the path of a teacher named Mr Barton, a bald dictator who put the fear of God in me. If I acted up in class, he'd tower over my desk and stare intensely at me from behind his thick-rimmed glasses.

‘You, Ben Southall, will amount to absolutely nothing in life if you continue as you are’, he would bellow at me across the classroom. The memory still sends shivers down my spine.

As to my other favourite class, physical education, Mr Barton did have a few good words to say in my school report: ‘In PE, Ben is extremely enthusiastic and competitive.’

It may not have meant much at the time, but what I was introduced to by those two subjects — a love of travel and physical challenge — still shape my world and motivate me every day.

When I was 10 years old my father changed jobs, which took the family from the delights of Southend in Essex to rural Hampshire. Our house no longer fronted onto a main road but instead looked across a huge arable field with glorious views of rolling countryside.

The move brought a change of schools of course, and with it a change of teacher. Enter Mrs Wilson. I walked into my classroom at Ropley School for the first time, lost in a uniform I'd ‘grow into’, with my school kitbag slung over my shoulder, and sat next to the nearest boy, Dan Kieran, who looked friendly enough.

In the corridor outside I heard the raised voice of an angry teacher before a frightened looking girl hot-stepped through the door followed by Mrs Wilson, her hand clutching a slipper raised to head height, poised for the strike.

I sat motionless for the next five minutes, watching as Jessica received every centimetre of that size nine moccasin across her backside. I'd left the city behind and arrived bang in the middle of Victorian England, where corporal punishment was standard practice.

Mrs Wilson turned out to be the best teacher I've ever had. Her tough exterior quickly melted away as she took me under her wing. I learned more about life in one year at Ropley Church of England School than I had in the previous five at Thorpe Bay. A combination of tough love and an understanding of how to channel my hyperactivity gave me direction for the first time in my school life.

Stepping up to ‘big school’ at the age of 11 was another huge shock to my system. I no longer had to walk for five minutes to get to the school gates; instead, I faced a 10-minute journey in the other direction to wait for the scary school bus. My love of sport and outdoors really took off at Perins Community School, and nowhere more than on the Wednesday cross-country run. Come rain or shine, 30 unlucky souls would take to the tracks and trails around the town in a desperate race to get back to the warmth of the showers.

I loved every minute of it — splashing through the mud, crossing the ankle-deep River Arle and fighting my way through the bramble-lined footpaths of Hampshire. There was something exhilarating about throwing off the shackles of organised sport in the school yard, being let loose in the real world to take on the elements. It felt stimulating to explore even this small corner of the planet.

Sport was fast becoming my main creative outlet. I joined the hockey team at age 11, when Perins became the first school in the county to lay an astroturf pitch. It was 1988 and England had just won gold in men's hockey at the Seoul Olympics, so I rode the wave of enthusiasm all the way to my local club, Winchester. For 10 years I couldn't get enough of it, spending five evenings a week training and playing, representing my club, Winchester; my county, Hampshire; and Kingston University.

At the time, family holidays didn't offer much insight into my future love of travel. Year after year we'd pack up the car and drive for hours to the north of Scotland to spend two weeks gazing out of a rental cottage window at the driving rain.

Yet these holidays were also wonderful. Mum and Dad loved exploring and took us on all kinds of crazy adventures around the highlands and islands of west Scotland. Their love of the great outdoors was instilled in Becky and me from an early age.

Apart from a couple of long, challenging weeks spent on French exchange programs while at school, by age 16 the only foreign adventure I'd had was a two-week school cruise around the Mediterranean. Mum and Dad saved for two years to pay for the ticket that saw me join 30 other lucky kids to explore the wonders of Greece, Israel, Egypt and Turkey.

My school shirt was signed by a hundred friends when I walked out the gates of Perins for the last time. I'd scraped through my exams, just about getting the grades required to attend Alton College. Not that I particularly wanted to go; it was simply what everyone expected of me, so I toed the line and signed up for three A levels: Design Technology, Computer Science and Physics.

It didn't take me or my teacher, Dr Colley, long to realise I'm no mathematician. Physics and figures weren't my forte so I dropped the most mind-numbing subject to concentrate on my newfound loves of design and engineering.

Dad spent 40 years working as an engineer, so a hands-on approach to technology played a huge part in my childhood. I can remember few occasions when Dad had to call on the services of a tradie of any kind, always preferring to ‘have a tinker’ himself. Although this approach can result in a few unfinished projects, it also provides a wealth of knowledge and experience of how you can fix just about anything if you put your mind to it and keep your patience.

For two years I applied myself at Alton College with the help and guidance of two inspiring lecturers, Steve McCormack and Steve Goater, who provided their own style of tuition. Along with Dad, both helped me create my finest engineering project — a bright green half Volkswagen Beetle trailer. It matched the very 1990s snot-coloured car everyone knew me for at the time.

The expectation of university loomed large over me during those final few months at Alton. I'd had my fill of formal learning and more than anything wanted to get out into the real world, but I decided to risk it all with one final attempt at educating myself to a reasonable level. University, after all, is about proving you can apply yourself — for a fixed period of time. Apparently it's something employers find attractive. Many years before, Mr Barton had declared my chances weren't good. It's amazing how long such slights can stick with you.

The practical side of engineering was proving to be where my aptitude lay. I was good at pulling things apart and almost as good at putting them back together, bar a mystery screw or bolt here and there. I enrolled for a Bachelor of Science degree in Automotive Systems Engineering at Kingston University and spent my first year living in student digs, my first taste of what life was like living away from home.

It didn't last long, but not because I didn't enjoy it. I was playing more and more hockey for my Hampshire-based teams, picking up a stick almost every day. Back then I considered my commitments to my chosen sport more important than being part of university life. I look back now and wonder whether I'd have done a little better at university if I'd actually stayed there and given it my all.

The pressure was building from all sides during my final year at Kingston. My course was becoming more analytical, requiring total application, but I just wanted to play hockey down in Hampshire. Driving 50 miles a day up and down one of the UK's most congested roads probably didn't help my sanity.

One morning I cracked. I walked out to my car to start the long drive to London, but then stopped and broke down. I sat on the driveway with my head in my hands, sobbing uncontrollably. The massive pressure of my final year had become too much. I was convinced I was doomed to failure. Mum spotted me from inside the house and rushed out.

‘Ben, what on earth's wrong?’

‘I just don't know why I'm doing this course. I'm no good at it and I've no idea what I want to do after uni!’ I blubbered, tears rolling down my cheeks.

As usual, she was ready with good maternal advice: ‘If you can just get through the next couple of months, apply yourself as best you can and get any sort of grade, we'll be massively proud of you. Then you've got the entire summer to decide what you want to do.’ It was a reassuring and practical take on my mountain of a problem.

She made ‘getting through’ sound so easy, but I knew I had some serious work to do to have any chance of even scraping a second-class degree — a goal that had sounded so easy two years earlier.

I worked furiously hard over the next few weeks. The fact that it was the end of the hockey season helped, as it meant I could concentrate fully on the task without the distractions of my favourite sport. I became a social hermit for a month and applied myself like never before, revising for my exams and finally handing in a dissertation I was proud of. It took a massive effort of late nights to get there but at last I was free to breathe in the freedom of life after uni.

Mumm's the word

That summer proved to be a turning point in my life. With the shackles of education removed, I had to go out and find work. It didn't matter what it was — just something to fund the festival-packed lifestyle I wanted to lead over the next few months.

I fell on my feet.

An ex-girlfriend had been working for a public relations company called First Results that handled a number of high-profile accounts, including French Mumm Champagne. After we split up we'd remained good friends, and now she asked if I'd like to work with them at the exclusive Cowes Week sailing regatta on the Isle of Wight for a few weeks over the summer.

The offer sounded too good to be true. We'd get to drive brand-new sponsors’ cars, serve champagne on luxury super-yachts, socialise with the yachting fraternity and live life to the full — while getting paid handsomely for it.

Only a few weeks earlier I'd walked out of university not knowing where my future would take me. Now I'd been given a wonderful opportunity to enter the world of public relations, event management and hospitality. I knew I was a ‘people person’ and could start a conversation with anyone, but until I started the job I didn't know what an asset this would be in the ‘real world’.

Surely work wasn't meant to be this much fun. My team was wonderful, filled with active, dynamic, social young people happy to put in the hours and proud of the product we were representing. It didn't matter that we worked 13-hour days; life was all about smiles and good times.

As the summer rolled on I was in my element, out in the open air, working hard and saving money too. My best mate Jay, fresh back from a year living in South Africa, got a job with us for the last few weeks, which made the daily ‘grind’ even more enjoyable. I'd missed him, so when he said he'd be heading back in a few months I felt a pang of jealousy. His travelling lifestyle was truly enviable.

‘What's stopping you from coming with me, Ben?’ Jay asked nonchalantly, making it sound easy.

‘Umm … I've got a job to find and a career to start. I can't go off gallivanting around the world … can I?’

‘Well if you don't go, you'll never know’, Jay replied smugly, walking away with a glint in his eye.

For a few days I didn't think about the proposition, until Mary, the owner of First Results, pulled me aside after another long day at work.

‘Ben, you've been brilliant this summer; we've really enjoyed having you around. You live the brand, use your common sense, have an eye for detail and always wear a smile.’

That of course felt really good to hear. It hadn't been a tough job, and I'd felt an affinity for it from the moment I started. Working hard and doing what came naturally to me seemed to be paying off.

Mary continued, ‘There's only a couple of weeks left until the end of your work here but I'd like to offer you another role, if you're up for it?’

I'd no idea where this was going, but I was intensely curious.

‘Sure, what are you thinking?’ I replied.

‘The Whitbread Round the World Yacht Race departs from Southampton in a few weeks’ time, and Mumm is one of the sponsors.’

I liked where this was heading. Mary was hinting there'd be more work in the world of sailing, which was wonderful as far as I was concerned. I was thrilled to learn that I wasn't quite done with this adventure.

‘I'd like you to be our Land Manager, responsible for all of our branding and stock, making sure the Mumm name is everywhere at the event.’

I struggled to contain my excitement, doing my level best to affect an air of professional detachment. She continued.

‘Then when the yachts have gone, I want you to head to Cape Town to prepare for their arrival, again making sure Mumm is clearly visible in any media activity.’

‘Cape Town? As in South Africa?’ I blurted out. I responded immediately, ‘Mary, I'd love to do it. And I'll make sure everything happens just as you want it to.’

And just like that I'd committed to an adventure to a country I knew nothing about. Of course I could have no idea how much that one moment would shape the next 10 years of my life. I was off to Deepest Darkest Africa.

It began in Africa

With a week to go until I boarded the plane I met up with Jay to talk through the final details of his trip. He was heading back to his old haunt, Port Edward in Kwa-Zulu Natal on the east coast of South Africa to ‘relax’ and do nothing more than travel up and down the coast looking for surf with our mutual friend Alan.

Through good luck and good timing our trips would coincide in a few weeks’ time. I was heading to Cape Town on the opposite side of the country to work for a month and then would head east and join him for three months of travel together.

A huge map of the country was spread out on the table before us. I learned pretty quickly that distances in Africa are measured in days of travel, not hours as in the UK.

‘So I can catch a bus all the way from here to you, then?’ I said tracing my finger along the coastline.

‘Sure, there's a hop-on, hop-off coach service called the Baz Bus, but it'll take you a few days, and that's if you stay on board all day. You'd be better to take a week or so, stop off at some of the beautiful places along the way and actually see some of the country.’

Jay was talking like a hardened traveller now, and he had good reason to, having spent the best part of the last year living in the country. I was a little more sceptical, though. This was my first independent overseas trip so the idea of catching a bus through ‘one of the most dangerous countries in the world’ wasn't immediately appealing. I just wanted to get to Port Edward, and the measured safety of my best friend's company, as quickly as possible.

It's amazing how much you build up a perception of a place you've never been to based on what you read in the news. It's not until you hit the ground and experience life there for yourself that you can truly judge how ‘dangerous’ a place can be.

After years of travelling through Africa since, I've learned to take sensationalised news headlines and government travel warnings with a pinch of salt. Yes, of course it's good to be cautious, but it's quite often the country whose people have been persecuted the most by their governments and the international media who have the most to give. You can get yourself in trouble in any city in the world, no matter how peaceful, if you go out looking for it.

* * *

The taxi ride from the airport to the city was an eye-opener. Huge advertising hoardings lined the road. Behind them rundown shacks held up by corrugated iron sheets stretched off into the distance; life here looked rough and tough. Were people really walking down the sides of the main motorway? Surely the police wouldn't allow that? They certainly wouldn't in England.

But I wasn't in England. I'd flown 11 hours due south, passing over the world's second-largest continent before touching down on the south-western tip of Africa's most ‘civilised’ country — according to some people, anyway. From what I'd seen so far I couldn't agree.

It took me a couple of days to get my bearings and find my confidence. Working in the tourist-safe surroundings of the V&A Waterfront meant I didn't get to explore the city proper and was protected from the real world by over-zealous security guards and the fanfare of the Round the World Roadshow.

My walk home to the hotel in Green Point was the closest I got to the darker side of the Kaapstad, the Afrikaans name for the city. As a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed innocent I assumed the advances I was getting from slightly underdressed girls along Main Road were spontaneous, until one of my workmates pointed out I'd need to pay for their company.

I witnessed death first-hand on that walk. Not from a gunshot or knife attack as you might expect from a country with one of the highest murder rates in the world, but when a drunk guy walked into the path of oncoming traffic. I'll never forget his body cartwheeling over the roof of the car as it screeched to a halt.

Cape Town was a complete education for me, a young traveller still wet behind the ears. The most popular international tourist destination in Africa delivered everything I expected and so much more — from the iconic view of Table Mountain with its wispy tablecloth, to the wonder of penguins on the sands of Boulders Beach, to the foreboding isolation of Mandela's cell on Robben Island.

Working for Mumm Champagne was wonderful. Until now my work experience had been only with fellow Brits. This role threw me in at the deep end, and I met people not only from South Africa but, with 10 international sailing teams in the city, from all around the globe.

I was invited to social events and on dinner dates, which fuelled my desire to visit the countries I was hearing so much about. By surrounding myself with well-travelled, intelligent people I was opening my mind to places I'd never even thought of visiting. Suddenly my bucket list of ‘must visit’ places stretched wider than the UK.

Over the course of a fortnight I watched all 10 yachts cross the finish line after racing each other for nearly a month from Southampton. Part of my role was to jump on board at the first opportunity to hand each skipper two magnums of celebratory champagne. The real skill lay in jumping off just as quickly to avoid being showered in sticky bubbles.

Crossing the line in second place was Merit, skippered by the New Zealander Grant Dalton. The yacht arrived in the dead of night to the sounds of Chumbawamba's ‘Tubthumping’. I could have no idea I'd bump into the same boat at Hamilton Island Race Week 12 years later!

With the event over it was time for me to leave Cape Town and start the journey east to meet Jay and Alan. I'd been working for an English company and being paid in British pounds, which had earned me plenty of money to stay on for a few months. With no job waiting for me back home I was free to travel for as long as my heart desired, or until my money ran out.

The trip in the Baz Bus along the Garden Route was spectacular, crossing deep gorges opening up to coastal vistas, watching fixated as this new world passed by. The further we travelled outside the towns and cities, the more it felt like Africa. Small rondavels dotted the rolling hills many miles from any electricity or running water.

I took my time as Jay had recommended, stopping off at backpacker hostels on the way, and a week later rolled into the sleepy coastal town of Port Edward. In the car park outside the KFC a red VW Beetle (Rosy) sat waiting.

Alan wandered over with a fat smile on his face, hugged me, grabbed my bag and carried it back to the car. Poking my head through the open door, there was Jay with an equally broad smile.

‘Welcome to Port Edward, bru.’

It was time to relax.

The drive to the beach took us down the sleepy main street of Port Edward. Tractors hauled fishing boats back up the hill after a morning on the ocean. Big-bellied Afrikaners stood around chewing the fat. Young surfer kids argued over whose turn it was on the skateboard they had to share. Life seemed relaxed and easygoing.

As we turned onto the beachfront road I gaped with amazement at the vista that opened up before us. The dark blue ocean stretched out to the horizon, glistening under the intense African sun. To the north a long sandy beach hemmed in by rocky points shimmered under a misty veil thrown up by the powerful Indian Ocean swell.

Jay stopped the car facing the ocean as a huge plume of spray was thrown high into the sky directly in front of us.

‘That's why it's called Splash Rock!’ Jay declared. ‘What do you think Ben, can you understand now why I love this place so much?’

"It's just wonderful … I think I'll survive here!’

For the next two months I wound down from the stress of university life, happy to just be. Our days were anything but tough. We'd walk or drive to a beach searching for a surfable wave, relax at our beach shack reading books from the comfort of a hammock and socialise with the locals at The Webb, the pub where we spent many hours watching England get thumped in the cricket and rugby.

We had sunrise sessions watching monster swells pound the shore, but I never really grasped surfing, which I put down to a complete lack of balance.

Our presence in a town as small as Port Edward didn't go unnoticed. Our little house became a hive of