Tag Archives: Manta Ray Island Resort

Buster gets busted!

P1050106I was woken by an intense banging, but it wasn’t in my brain -– it mean a manta ray had been sighted off the shore and I could go swim with it! The sun was peeking through the clouds and, half drunk, I raced down to jump in a boat and see the big, dumb fish.

We went out a few hundred metres and dived into the crystal clear water, and there the big dickhead was, doing backflips underwater for some stupid reason. It was impressive, but the whole thing was representative of what I don’t like about staying in a Fijian resort -– we were herded on and off boats, and pointed in a direction to swim. For me, snorkelling is about exploring, but this was about being kicked in the head by clowns and chasing down some terrified fish.

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It’s Manta Ray Romano!

By the time we got back the sun was out in full force, so I headed down to the beach to get a few rays and have a perve. It was a good one, too, because– spunky backpackers were everywhere, bouncing around in their little bikinis. I had a great view until Buster plonked himself down next to me, with his fat gut flopping around like a jellyfish as he bashed away on his computer.

“”Hey ladies, ever had sex with a big shot Wall Street stockbroker?”” he asked, and suddenly the beach was empty except for me and him. I felt like kicking his computer into the water.

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This is how Buster sees himself… except he smokes blue vein cigars

Buster was an A-grade dick, but his line of thinking isn’t too far from that of the majority. Here we are, on a tropical island, and damn near every person just wants to talk about work. What I did, what they did, that sorta thing. I dunno, that goes against the purpose of being on holiday as far as I’m concerned.

The sun ducked back behind the clouds an hour or so later, so I spent the rest of the arvo exploring the island, walking along deserted beaches and checking out caves and forests. It’s a pretty place, but not really the tropical paradise I had envisioned. There are a few palms, but it feels a little too much like the beaches at home, and not nearly as good as Vietnam or Thailand.

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Beached as, bro

After another decent snorkel as the sun was going behind the hills, I had a few drinks and headed up to the restaurant for dinner. I got talking to a few good sorts, when who should sit down next to me? Fuckin’ Buster!

“”Trading shares and making money all day has given me quite and appetite,”” he said, before shovelling a couple of slices of pizza in his mouth. “It’s not easy maintaining a bad boy image and a seven-figure bank balance. Hey, did I mention I own a motor bike?” The girls left, and Buster went back to fucking around on his computer. The twat had to be taught a lesson.

When he got up for more food, I took the opportunity to have a bit of fun with his computer. I was just going to change his screen saver to a picture of two blokes kissing or something, but when I took a geek the screen was taken up by some sort of shares-trading program with all sorts of numbers on it. I wasted no time changing as many numbers as possible, and when an email popped up from a dude called Carl, I replied to it with, “”Go fuck yourself, Carl.””

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There’s a monkey in this photo – can you see it?

Buster sat down to eat another pile of crap food, and when he peeked at his computer his eyes almost popped out of his stupid head. ““But, but, but,”” was all he could say, then he freaked out, stood up and started spinning on the spot.

“”Who did this, who did this, who did this?”” he wept. “”Someone just cost me $100,000 and told my boss to go fuck himself!”

“”I dunno who did it,” I smirked, “but I heard a rumour that whoever did it also wanted to give you a wedgie.”” And with that, I reefed up his undies until they broke.

Buster was laughed out of the building, and I was hailed a hero because everyone else was also sick of the pompous doodle’s bullshit. With Buster gone, a good night was had by all.

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Sorry, Buster… yeah, sorry you’re a cunt!
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Why does it always rain on me? Is it because I masturbated too much when I was seventeen?

IMG_8975I was up at 6:30 and, unlike the morning after most alcohol-fused binges, I felt great. Shit, I need to skoll kava and dance with Fijiian men every night. The weather wasn’t feeling so beaut, though, and it was piddling down on the Yasawa Islands, Fij. I spent the first half of the day just bludging around like a drongo, reading and watching episodes of Californication. Fuck it, I’m on holidays, I can sit around wanking into half-eaten bags of chips if I want… uh, not that I actually did that. Promise.

At lunch, I was talking to a slightly slutty Pom chick, and impressing her with stories of spewing and stuff, when a goofy-lookin’ bloke with slicked back hair  and a button-up shirt sat down next to us and flipped open his laptop.

“”Unfortunately, the stockmarket doesn’t stop just because I’m on a tropical island,”” he gasped, then stuck out his hand. ““Hi, I’m Buster.”” Buster is a cunt.

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Buster looks a bit like this bloke… only less Asian

He wouldn’t shut up about shares and money and other crap that has no place on a beach holiday. I steered the conversation back to something vaguely interesting, but Buster kept swerving it back to the most boring shit you’ve ever heard. And he kept acting like he was my mate, making me look like the second-biggest turd in the room. The Pommy girl left in a huff, and I was stuck there with bloody Buster. After a particularly long spiel about being a maverick investor and a bit of a punk, which he proved by showing me a small tattoo of a pig on his butt cheek, I gave him the sound advice to invest in a fucking personality, and headed off for a snorkel.

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It never rains in the ocean

Despite the weather, it was nice out there. Lots of fish and some decent coral. Despite the grim skies, it was still bright and bubbly in the drink, and I couldn’t help wondering how glorious this place is when the weather’s fine. I splashed around for a good hour, then flopped back onto land to put a dent in the litre of vodka I’d smuggled from the mainland.

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Mouths open like a Kings Cross hooker

After dinner I was well sloshed, and we were all herded to the main bar for a traditional Fijian dancing demonstration. The music started, and then all the fellas we’d drunk with the night before came out dressed in grass skirts, prancing around. I don’t know how they feel about it, but I found it humiliating, and very uncomfortable to watch. It was like we were in a zoo, with these savages paraded in front of us for our amusement. Only they’re not savages, they’re normal dudes, born into unfortunate circumstance and forced to dance like monkeys for a rich white boss who was the only one making money. Yeah, I empathised with them.

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The Maccas is just out of shot

On the other hand, all the girls in the room were getting massive wide-ons, so the boys don’t have it so bad. Then Buster cornered some of the Fijiian fellas and started telling them what markets to invest in, and aggressively telling them that the only reason they had to wear grass skirts was that they’d missed the IT bubble or something.

“The stock market isn’t only for devil-may-care mavericks like myself, you know,” he espoused. “I didn’t make my first million by wiggling around in a grass skirt, nor did I make my second million by singing a strange ethnic song. It was bravery, skill and an impish grin that got me where I am today.”

I’d heard enough, so I took a half-full coconut, swaggered up to Buster and poured it down the front of his pants so it looked like he’d pissed himself.

“Did you make your third million by pissing yourself?” I asked, then gave one of the Fijians a high-five as the room erupted into laughter and Buster left in tears.

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Even when the weather’s crap, the view is great

The scene degenerated into a bunch of hippie backpackers talking about bullshit, which isn’t for me, so I retired to my balcony to listen to Billy Bob Thornton and get quietly sloshed. Jojo rocked up and we talked about the differences and similarities in our lives until he started having trouble understanding me. He said he wanted to move to Australia and play football, and I told him that one of the many women I had disappointed in the past had moved over from Fiji. I tried in vain to work out how to contact her on my phone, until I passed out.

Oh well, at least I tried.

IMG_8954I wrote this back in 2013, but don’t worry, I head out on a new adventure in just one week! I’ll be in Tasmania for a week and a half on the Bauer Media World Tour, and the place will never be the same again! Actually, it will, but that just sounds cool.