A Tribute to G

From Joburg to the Alps, this is what friendship at altitude really looks like.

Before the ski season started, Georgia and I had been friends for years, bonded over everything from break ups to the working world, and when the idea of doing a ski season came up, it was an immediate yes - from both of us. We were the only two South Africans in the company, which automatically made us each other’s emotional support humans, translators (turns out no one knows what “robot” means when you’re talking about a traffic light), and general cultural anchors.

We were assigned as co-chalet hosts for Roc Merlet - a beautiful 14-person chalet that looked like a Pinterest board but functioned more like a pressure cooker. Every morning we woke up before the sun, served up full English breakfasts to ski-booted guests, did a weekly welcome speech loaded with the same bad jokes, cleaned every square inch of that chalet until it sparkled, and still managed to plate up four-course dinners like it was an episode of Come Dine With Me: Alpine Edition. All while battling altitude fatigue, unidentifiable illnesses, a 24/7 hangover, and a dishwasher that definitely had a vendetta.

We shared everything: a room, cupboards, groceries, snacks, socks, and stories at the end of the day, when we were too tired to talk but somehow always found a way to laugh. She got me through every tough moment - whether it was a difficult guest, a homesick day, an allergic reaction to pineapple that almost took me out for good, or the fifth time that week I’d burned the porridge pot. She was the one constant in the chaos.

We even took it a step further. Every company has some form of end-of-season wedding tradition where two staff members are “voted” to get married. Our company decided they wanted a South African wedding, and since we were the token representatives, Georgia and I were selected - sorry, honoured - to tie the knot. On the piste. Outside the most popular après-ski bar in Val d’Isère. In full wedding dresses and suits. With a priest (read: a chalet host wearing a studded dog collar) officiating. It was freezing, it was ridiculous, it was wildly unhinged - and it was one of the best moments of the season. People threw flour instead of flowers. And I met George at the end of the drunken aisle while “Shake That” by Eminem played on the speaker.

But even without the faux wedding, the shared room, and the mutual immune system collapse, Georgia would still be the person I’d write this about. She was more than a friend - she was my mirror, my sounding board, my reminder that no matter how mad the day was, we could always laugh about it later. When I missed home, she felt like home. When I doubted myself, she reminded me why I was there. She made me braver, lighter, funnier, and more myself. I never had to explain myself around her. She just got it. And that’s rare.

There’s something very specific - and very special - about having a friend like Georgia in a setting like that. You don’t need to explain when you’re in a bad mood or why you’re quietly rage-cleaning the kitchen for the third time that day. You don’t have to ask for help, or apologise for crying over a broken salt shaker, or clarify that you need ten minutes of silence and a biscuit before you can be a functional human again. We just understood each other. In the chalet, we were a well-oiled machine: handing each other spatulas without looking, finishing each other’s sentences, tag-teaming the guests like it was muscle memory. And in our time off, it was the same - on the chairlift, at the pub, mid-après, mid-hangover. There was this constant, quiet, unspoken sense that we were in it together. Not just surviving it, but doing it properly.

And the truth is, that kind of friendship changes the way you move through a hard season. It reminds you that you’re not actually carrying the weight of everything on your own. That someone sees you at your most exhausted, most unfiltered, most ridiculous, and still chooses to sit beside you, day in and day out. It makes the hard moments bearable, the good ones better, and the in-between ones feel like they matter too. Because you’ve got someone who’s in it with you - not just physically, but emotionally. Someone who shows up, every single day, without needing to be asked.

Even after spending every waking (and sleeping) second together, on our final day, sitting on the airport transfer with 50 free seats around us… we still sat next to each other. Voluntarily. That says more than any blog post could.

So here’s to you, G. For being my partner in crime, my chalet wife, my fellow South African in a sea of Brits, and the reason I never once felt alone.