It’s pants-on-head time again!


I woke up under a tree in the dirt, surrounded by Germans eating their breakfast. I had one thong on, my phone was thrown carelessly in the grass a few metres away, and my hair was full of sand. I had no idea how I got there, or why I’d decided to sleep on the ground about 40 metres from my bungalow. All I knew was that I got really, really pissed the night before.

Oh, and I tried to pick up another lesbian. Seriously, what’s the go there? I reckon I’d have no problem turning a girl from straight to lesbo, but what chick in her right mind is going to give up a steady diet of fish tacos for my beef burrito?


There we go. That’s my tree.

Back on topic, Gili Air is fantastic, even if I did spend the majority of my time there nursing a hangover that could kill a small army. The island is certainly more developed than Meno – instead of quiet dirt tracks through the bush, the circumference is dotted with restaurants and bungalows, but they are beautiful just the same. In parts, the intricate bamboo cottages set amongst the trees look like something out of a fantasy movie. Just taking a stroll around the island is to escape to another world.

Air is lacking the overdevelopment and drunken Aussie culture (ahem) that has ruined Kuta, and is a great place to just sit on your arse and… well, do fuck all else.

In saying that, it’s a bit of a one trick pony, and a couple of nights is all one needs here. Sure, there are good restaurants and bars, but that’s all there really is to it. Once you’re done with that, you’ve seen all this place has to offer.


It’s also not a ‘real’ place. As incredible as Gili Air is, it’s a tourist attraction. Staying there isn’t about becoming immersed in a different culture, it’s about being in a lovely place. That’s fine, but I find myself wanting more – to see culture and history. In that way, Air works better as a halfway-point between more authentic destinations.

There was also an annoying rooster out the back of my joint. I don’t know what the deal with chooks is here, but they don’t crow like the ones back home – every time they make a noise, it sounds like a pensioner with haemorrhoids trying to squeeze out a turd. It’s painful and annoying, and I had a grin on my face every time I bit into a chicken dinner, knowing I was eating a family member of that motherfucker.

I can also sympathise with my ex-girlfriends, who also suffered from a lack of sleep due to an annoying cock.


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