Tag Archives: bungalow

Another day for Cled and me in paradise

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After three-and-a-half weeks of drinking, spewing, exploring, embarrassing myself, falling over, down and into things, running from perverts and chasing women, here it is – my last full day of my holiday. Another glorious Malaysian sky greeted me as I made my way out of my hut at dawn, skipped across the golden sand and flopped into the azure ocean. And that’s largely how the day went. I truly had no desire to do anything other than just flop around, soaking in the magic of the Perhentian Islands.

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Holy shit, flying boats!

The only thing that interrupted a second day of snorkelling, sleeping, reading and generally bludging was a necessary trip to the other island – the BIG ISLAND, also known as Besar – to get some money out. It wasn’t much of a hassle really, and was quite a bit of fun. I returned to the fishing village, marveling again at their carefree lifestyle, then took a tiny boat across the two kilometres to the other island. The water here was truly wonderful – so bright and blue and clear that my brain had trouble registering that it was actually real.

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One, two, three… I dunno, I’m guessing there are eleventy-four fishies in this shot

Once on the island there wasn’t an ATM to speak of, but that didn’t really matter. The Big Island is the more tourist-friendly island, with more expensive resorts, but is still wonderfully quiet. There’s nothing that could be mistaken for a village, and little more than a string of tiny resorts looking out onto the beach. I got a beer and a couple of bags of chips and just sat down, staring goofily at the idyllic scene playing out in front of me.

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Good, Besar, best!

As I was checking my phone, I noticed that I had a friend request on the Facebook, and it was from Cled. Yes, Cled, the gluttonous, perverted Yank I met in Brunei, had somehow tracked me down on the information superhighway (how good is that term!) and wanted to catch up. His profile showed him naked bar for some tiny pink lingerie wrapped around his pudgy body, which made me feel sick. I added him, anyway.

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I haven’t seen a clam that big since I fucked ya sister!

Cled messaged me immediately, and it was a dick pic. Of course it was a dick pic. While I was gagging, a fat woman in a sarong waddled over, and as soon as she saw what was on the screen, she started screaming. “This sicko is watching gay porn on his phone!” she squawked, and a group of angry tourists stormed over and surrounded me, berating me for being a sex pest. I tried to explain what had happened, but they weren’t listening, and instead started throwing things at me.

They were treating me like Gary Glitter, and I knew it would only be a matter of time before the angry mob started stabbing me, so I ran away like a small child. I belted along the sand, dodging boats and sunbathers, while the maniacs screamed and acted like berks as they chased me. The little champion who had brought me over saw me coming and waved at me, then quickly started pushing his boat into the crystal clear water. “Get in, get in!” he wailed, and I dived into the dinghy just as it slid into the water. The angry mob howled with rage as I escaped, standing at the edge of the water and shaking their fists as I mooned them.

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The Great Escape

After watching the sun sink into the ocean one last time while sipping on a can of Tiger, I found a quiet restaurant overlooking the ocean and reflected on my trip while munching my curry. It’s been fun, exciting, scary, hard and inspirational. I’ve walked through the world’s biggest cities, sailed down pristine rivers, and sat on stunning beaches. And tomorrow, it all ends… but I’ve got a feeling there’s still some adventure left in this holiday.

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Come and get it, ladies!

I wrote this back in May, 2012, while sipping rum from a coconut.

Male-male-female threesomes are a pain in the arse

Last night, I was kept up by an epic combination of explosive diarrhea and brutal group sex – and, for a change, I wasn’t directly involved in either. No, I was just a tired, teary-eyed observer to the whole sorry mess.

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The scene of the crime

Alright, so some background on this one: the place I’m staying at here in Kuta is basically a series of connected bamboo bungalows, built in the traditional Lombokian style. They’re lovely and rustic, but to say that they have thin walls is to say Julia Gillard has a fat arse – it’s an understatement so huge that the person making the understatement should be slapped so hard their teeth fall out. The walls between the units are made of palm leaves (I assume) and are only a couple of millimetres thick. Because of that, you can hear everything. Everything.

If the person next door coughs, it’s like they’re right there with you. You can hear them moving in bed, or wanking (let’s make that they can hear me wanking). And, of course, you can hear every time someone goes to the toilet one metre from your head, with only a few blades of dead grass as a barrier. It’s an uncomfortable situation that makes staying here feel more like staying in a hostel.

Right, so last night I wanted to have an early one after my epic walk through hillbilly territory. Then I heard the door to the toilet of the bungalow to my left swing open, and three seconds later it was like someone had emptied a swimming pool into the brasco. And there was screaming, lots of screaming. The avalanche finally stopped, I finished gagging, and then closed my eyes again.

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This is also my orgasm face

And I could hear moaning coming from the bungalow to my right. A couple of South American chaps who are apparently allergic to shirts are staying in there, and from the sound of it they were rooting up a storm! But then I heard a third voice – one of a young spunk who was obviously the meat in that Colombian sandwich.

They were fucking going for it, too, pounding the shit out of here an arm’s distance from where I lay. I could even see them through the cracks in the palm fronds, and it was like watching a massive, deformed spider dancing.

And then the toilet door opened to my left again, and the bloke in there was shitting. And the Latino heartthrobs were fucking. And I was stuck in the middle of it, just wanting to go to sleep. I could hear Eduardo and Dustin (that’s a South American name, right?) high-fiving as they went for it, and the girl was either having the best time of her life, or the worst, I really couldn’t tell.

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At least I wasn’t biting the pillow, right?

I stuffed my head under my pillow and yelled out in terror as shit came from one direction and demented doinking from the other. The sound grew from both sides until it all came to a crashing crescendo. The Vomitron sounded like he’d finally succeeded in coughing up that lung, and the Latin lovers sounded like they blew their loads at the same time, probably while staring into each other’s eyes. I, meanwhile, decided to always book hotel rooms with fucking walls from now on.

And to make it worse, bizarre Islamic chantic is blasted through loud speakers all day here, and this warbling makes Meatloaf’s VFL performance sound like, well, a normal Meatloaf concert in comparison.

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Tell ’em the price, sun!

Despite that, I managed to get up early to watch a grouse sunrise, then spent the whole day doing nothing on the beach except swatting off beggars. Tomorrow I’m leaving the beach scene and heading to Jakarta, which is both the end of my Indonesian adventure and the start of my time exploring cities, rather than small, tourist-oriented villages. I’m really looking forward to it. To be honest, I’m bored of what Bali and Lombok have to offer. While I enjoy nothing better than stuffing around on the beach all day, when I’m overseas I like to explore, and cities are the best place to do that.

Plus, people in cities don’t usually build their walls out of fucking leaves.