Tag Archives: Samoa

I Will Hunt Them Down Like Dogs

What do Stephen King, God, that chick who wrote Harry Potter and yours truly have in common? We’re all best-selling authors with millions of fans. Alright, I might be exaggerating a bit by putting myself in such elite company, but I have just released a new novel. It’s called I Will Hunt Them Down Like Dogs and it’s a revenge thriller set in a nightmarish vision of Samoa. It’s available on the Kindle store right now, but if you’d like to read the start of it to see what it’s like, scroll down. There aren’t a lot of jokes in it, but there’s sex and violence and all that good stuff, so I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.


Scumbag Johnny was one minute from dying on the piss-stained floor of a public toilet block on the outskirts of Newcastle. If a drunken teenager hadn’t stumbled in on his way home and seen Scumbag lying there with a needle in his arm and foam spilling from his mouth, it would’ve been the end.

If an ambulance wasn’t called, if he wasn’t taken to hospital, if a group of tired doctors hadn’t brought him back from the brink, Scumbag wouldn’t have embarked on adventure that took him across the ocean to a savage island. He wouldn’t have had a chance to see unimaginable violence and indescribable beauty. If Scumbag hadn’t made it, he wouldn’t be sitting opposite Sia Faumuina in a dingy, windowless room at the end of a long hall at the Barton Rehabilitation Clinic, with rusted water pipes banging outside like an unwelcome visitor.

Sia’s hulking frame took up most of the room, and his body odour took up most of the rest. It was a scorching day but they were locked inside, away from temptation, like animals.

It’s not like Scumbag needed much space anyway. His heavily-tattooed arms were thin and weak, his face pale and skeletal. The faded remains of his blue mohawk were slicked to his skull, where fur was starting to grow over home-made tatts, like weeds taking over a long-forgotten garden. He sighed and lay back on his rusty cot, looked up at the ceiling.

“So why do they call you Scumbag?” Sia’s voice snapped Scumbag out of his daze. They’d shared a room for six weeks and Sia hadn’t said a word for the first four, so his soft islander tone still came as a surprise. The big man cradled a bible in one thick arm and wore a smile on his face, and Scumbag couldn’t help thinking how different this man was from the wild-eyed monster he’d first met when they were brought here.

“Look at me, I am a scumbag,” he replied. “I’m a drug-addicted piece of shit, I’ve let down everybody I’ve ever known, been to jail…”

“I don’t mean that. We’re all scumbags, this is a drug rehab clinic, bro. But why is that your nickname? Where did it come from?”

“Well, you know I’m in a band. Well, was in a band.”

“You’ve mentioned it a time or two. They were called, ah, The Fucks, if I remember.”

“Right. The Fucks. Can’t forget the name, I’ve got it tattooed right above my heart. Well, growing up, all I ever wanted to be was a punk rock singer.” Scumbag sat up, then paused. Throughout his time at the clinic, as he shook and sweat and puked as his body struggled to come off the drugs, he’d resisted opening up. Part of it was his ingrained anti-authoritarian attitude. For someone with ‘Fuck the police’ inked on his neck, talking about feelings and all that bullshit to a counsellor doesn’t come easily. The other reason was that, without the safety blanket of drugs and alcohol, the past looked a whole lot darker. “You know, when I was a kid and stuff was bad at home, I could always put my headphones on and listen to music. I’d listen to a song, imagine being up there on stage, away from all my problems. Away from my parents, away from the kids at school who would beat the shit out of me. All I ever wanted to be was the lead singer of a punk rock band. And so one day I shaved my head and became Scumbag Johnny. I stopped letting people push me around and became to baddest fucking skinhead in town.”

“And what about that little boy? What happened to him?”
“That’s all you’re getting out of me today, Sia.”

“OK.” Sia opened the bible and started reading while the water pipes thumped around outside.

“So what about you?” Scumbag finally asked. “We get out of this shithole tomorrow. You look like you’re doing pretty well. Where are you going to go?”

“Back home. Back to Samoa. I’ve brought a lot of shame to my family, with my drug abuse and the time I’ve spent in jail. I came to Australia to earn money for my family, to make them proud, but all I created was a trail of destruction.” Scumbag could see a tear in the corner of Sia’s eye, but the big man didn’t let it fall. “It’s time to go back home and make things better. Go back and help with the family business, away from all the temptations of Australia.”

“Nice work if you can get it. Must be good to have people you can rely on.”

“It’s more than I deserve. And you?”

“Well, my band sure as hell doesn’t want me back. Not after the, ah, incident. I’ll land on my feet, I always do. But the idea of survival seems a whole lot harder without drugs to soften the edges.”

“You think you’ll relapse?”

“I have every time before. What can I say, I like drugs and they like me.”

“Even though they almost killed you?”

“We all have to go sometime, Sia. I can’t see myself eating my vegetables and saying my prayers and living to 100. And I’m tired, I’m always so damn tired.”

Sia looked down at his bible, flicked through a few pages, and read for a few minutes. Scumbag just sat there, looking into space, thinking of nothing. It had been a long time since he’d had good thoughts.

The big man put the bible down and leant forward. His cot squealed in pain as he did so, until his face was close to Scumbag’s. “Why don’t you come with me?”

“Come with you? Where?”

“To Samoa. You can stay with my family and help out with the business. Eat good food, enjoy the sun, and stay away from temptation.”

“Do I look like the sort of guy who enjoys the sun?” Scumbag held out his pale, inked arms, and Sia smiled.

“To be honest, you look like you would burst into flames if you stepped into the sun, bro. But it would be good for you. A fresh start. I worry that if I leave you behind, that will be the end of you. And I consider you a friend.”

“Shit, big man, are we going to hug now?” Scumbag thought of his accommodation options when he got out. There was a halfway house back home in Gosford, where he could share a room with three lunatics and a thousand cockroaches. Maybe he could find a friend who would let him sleep on the lounge. Maybe. The options weren’t exactly tempting.

“Alright, fuck it, I’ll come with you. Lying on the sand and drinking from a coconut doesn’t sound all that bad. But if I end up marrying one of those weird ladyboy things they have out on the islands, I’m blaming you.”

“They’re called fa’afafine and they wouldn’t go for someone like you. They like a bit more meat on the bones, you know. I’ll give my parents a call, let them know to expect company.”


“And Johnny,” Sia said softly, enveloping Scumbag’s hand with own and shaking it warmly, “this is your one chance to make things better. Don’t fuck it up.”


If you’d like to read more, the full novel is available on the Kindle store.

More of the world’s worst advice

Bro, what’s cracking? I’m going well, thanks for asking. You write about all these cool places you’re always visiting, and most of them sound fucking fantastic. I’m unemployed and have a severe drug addiction, so I won’t be travelling anywhere for a while (I’m also out on parole, so the cunts at the cop shop don’t want me to), so reading about your adventures is about as close as I’m gunna get to going on a holiday. Anyway, I’d like to know, what’s the shittiest place you’ve ever been to? Thanks, and keep up the good work.
G’day Tinks, it’s great to hear from you. Too bad about the financial situation, but I’m sure you could knock off a servo or a primary school tuck shop if you want to head off on the trip of a lifetime.
As for your question, until recently I would’ve said Huddersfield, UK. It’s a cold, wet, grim shithole in the north of England, where dreams don’t die because they never exist in the first place. The footy team’s shit (sorry, Eorl Crabtree), the shops are run by surly Poles, and gangs of unpleasant youths roam the streets. Also, everyone’s ugly and look like they’ve just come from fucking their sister.
But that all changed when I went to Jaipur, India. What can I say about this nightmare of a city? It’s overrun with criminals (how I wasn’t robbed, I don’t know), the air is so polluted that just breathing is akin to smoking three packs of cigarettes, and the city’s historical sites have been left to rot. Animals shit in the streets, the drivers are fucking idiots, it’s noisy and smelly, and the locals (I only saw men, so maybe they’ve found a way to reproduce through frantic bum sex) look like they’ve had their faces set on fire with a blowtorch and trampled out by a Clydesdale. To make it worse, cunts who were eating pigeons tried to stab me. It’s impossible to feel safe there, and that shithole promises an awful travelling experience.
So, yeah, stay the fuck away from Jaipur. And Tinkerbell, feel free to steel a new TV for me.

Hey mate, it’s me Cameron Rodrigo. You don’t know me, but I’m a fun-loving 20-year-old with a few tattoos. Everyone loves them, and they go with my quirky, upbeat personality. Unfortunately, I was a bit high on red cordial and Snickers bars on the weekend, and I got a smiley face inked on my knob. Right there on the end, so when I take off my pants it looks like the bloody Bookworm has come out to play. When the sugar worse off and I settled down, I realised I’d made a mistake because 1) it looks really stupid and 2) my girlfriend will probably never come near me again. I’ve tried rubbing it off but, while it was a lot of fun, it didn’t work. What can I do?
RODRIGO (NOT CAMERON), NORAVILLE, NSW. WAIT, ACTUALLY, CAN YOU SAY I COME FROM SOMEWHERE ELSE?ROW-ROW: Hi Cam! Uh, I mean, Rodrigo. Is that a Brazilian name? You’ve really only got two options. You can cut the silly thing off; just grab a pair of scissors and go to town, then kick it into the sea and forget all about it. Your missus might wonder where your cock went, but you can simply tell her that you’ve been getting in touch with your feminine side, and have decided to become a woman. She’ll respect your courage and, if anything, it will strengthen your relationship. She’ll dump you, of course, and you’ll have a hell of a time getting another girlfriend without a willy, but it’s worth a shot.
The other is to convince her that your penis has become sentient, developed a face and is now capable of initiating meaningful conversations. This will involve learning ventriloquism, and developing a caring, sensitive personality for your little friend. Of course, this plan runs the risk of your girlfriend falling in love with your talking doodle, chating on you with it, and eventually running away with him. So you’ll be left broken-hearted, while your knob swans around on a tropical cruise with the love of your life. Again, being penis-less will leave you deeply depressed and unable to attract other women, probably leading to a life of heavy drug abuse and prostitution.
So, up to you. We’ll talk about it at work tomorrow never talk about it in person because I don’t know you.

What’s up, dude? I’ve been smashing this good sort for a while, and I’ve decided to take her on holidays for a week. After reading your blog (on the toilet, usually) I’ve decided to whisk her away to Samoa. Now, I’m planning to spend most of the time pounding her senseless, but I guess we’ll have to get out and see a few things, so can your list your three top recommendations for this place. That’s if the little lady can even walk after what I’ll do to her!
ROW-ROW: First up, you might want to have a look at the way you talk, because I can’t be 100 per cent sure whether you are having regular sex with this young lady, or enjoy beating the shit out of her. Use a more sensual phrase for sex like ‘driving the beef bus into tuna town.’ Right, on to your question, homie.
I can highly recommend the To Sua Ocean Trench, simply because you’ll never see anything else like it. You’ll descend beneath the earth into a tropical paradise, where you can chase fish in crystal clear water. It’s incredible.
You’ve gotta dive off Safotu, with Dive Savai’i. I’ve dived and snorkelled all over the world, and this place is better than anywhere else. There are so many fish and other forms of ocean life, and awe-inspiring wrecks to paddle around.
I’d also suggest spending a couple of nights at Lalomanu Beach, sleeping in a rustic fale on the sand. It’s a peaceful, perfect spot, with not much to do but relax and swim and fuck your missus. Be quiet when you do it, though, because those fales don’t have walls.
Most importantly, make sure you send me some nude photos of your lady, because she sounds like she’s a real goer.

Hey, babby, it Rara. You still want make fuck? You still want big tit ladyboy? I suck you dick like vacuum cleaner. Look like real woman, big tit, long hair.
ROW-ROW: Fuck yes. But if you get a boner, I’m gunna flick your cock with a rubber band.

Nofo a, Tonga!

All good things have to come to an end. Bros broke up, Ship 2 Shore ended, and now my travels through the Pacific Islands are done and dusted. I woke up early to watch the sun rise over the waters of Vava’u, Tonga, then packed my bags and got out of there.

During the short taxi drive through the palm trees, I had time to think back on the weird and wonderful people I’ve met on this trip. Sleeping Beauty, who kept me up all night (for all the wrong reasons) in Apia. The Italian sheila in Lalomanu, who I would’ve liked to have kept me up all night. Ross and Maria, who took me into their home and fed me. Henry, the heavily-tattooed homo, who’s also one of the most fascinating men I’ve ever met. Jojo and the other boys in Fiji, who shared their kava with e and gave me a glimpse of what it’s like to live in extreme poverty. Captain Frabiatore, who invited me to his home and was hurt when I turned him down to spend the night in a roach-infested hell-hole (sorry, mate). Papiloa the renegade newspaper editor. The ladies from the Chinese restaurant, who took me on the town and got me so drunk I woke up on the floor. And the boys from last night, who welcomed me into their home and allowed me to watch the football with them.

Sure, the Pacific Islands are about beaches and snorkelling and sun and all that, but the true appeal is in the people, who are warm and wonderful, simple and quirky, honest and strong. If you’re going to come to Samoa or Tonga (or Fiji, really) and stay in a resort, you’re doing it wrong. There are so many lovely families here who would love to have you stay, and all for such a low price. It’s the hospitality that sets the Islands apart from anywhere else I’ve been.

As it turns out, Real Tonga did let me on the plane, and when I got back to Fuaʻamotu International Airport, I found that it was strangely empty. They only get about 15 flights in and out a week, and I was bit early, so I sat in the vacant airport, reading and listening to music. Eventually some other people rolled in, and before I knew it I was on the plane, ready to leave. I wish I had longer out here.

I was looking out the window at the swaying palm trees, preparing for takeoff, when the plane started to shake. I looked up to see a mountain of a man crashing down the aisle. He was at least 160kg, with rolls of fat slinging from side to side as he moved, and I closed my eyes and prayed that he wasn’t sitting next to me. God must’ve been in the toilet or something, because the big fella stopped next to me, checked his ticket, then gave me a huge smile. “Guess we’re plane buddies,” he chuckled, then squeezed in next to me.

VavaIMG_9735I was pushed up against the window as his blubber oozed into my seat, and I was about to hotfoot it over to the emergency door and escape back to paradise. How could I possibly sit next to this walking heart attack for the next five hours? I was getting crushed, like an abandoned baby in a garbage truck! And then the plane rattled and hummed, and we took to the air, and Tonga was nothing but a fading blotch in a big, blue sea.

And then everything got better.

“Hey, want some chicken?” asked the big fella, waving a delicious-looking drumstick in my face. “I’ve got plenty.” He opened up a bag and there was about 10kg of chicken in there, along with a variety of beautiful Tongan foods. I took a bite of the chicken and danced on my tongue, and we got stuck into it while guzzling beer and talking about football. Turns out Feleti is a great bloke and after a few hours, when the beer and chicken had worked its magic, I nestled into his fat rolls and went to sleep.

And that, my friends, is the story of my trip to Samoa, Fiji and Tonga.

Leaving Samoa

IMG_8739I could spend the rest of my life in Samoa, so it was with sadness that I left this pristine paradise for another jewel of the Pacific – Fiji. With a 10am ferry to catch on the other side of the island, I didn’t have time to enjoy the delights of Satuituti this morning. I loaded up the Rav and set out, and it seemed like everyone in Samoa was heading along to church in their best white clothes. It was stunning and strange at the time, seeing the whole country close down for one reason.

I’ve got a lovely bunch of coconuts (but enough about my testicles)

I didn’t have much time to dwell on it, though, because the drive turned out to be a lot further than I thought, and soon I was running out of time and a long way from my destination. I put my foot down and screamed through Savai’i, scaring chickens and pigs and dogs. I made it to the ferry with about 35 seconds to go, loaded the car on board, then plonked myself on the top deck for a nice sail back to the main island.

My ride on Lady Samoa was more enjoyable than my ride on Lady Gaga

Once on the other side, I had a few hours to kill before my flight, so I took a drive along some of the back roads and reflected on time in Samoa. It really is a beautiful country with warm-hearted people a laid-back atmosphere. Unlike other tropical paradises, like Thailand, it doesn’t have a dirty underbelly of sex and violence and exploitation, tourism hasn’t destroyed it, and it just feels genuine. It’s a friendly, awe-inspiring place that I’d be happy to call home.

If I look like I’m sad to be leaving Samoa, it’s because I am

After handing back the Rav, I boarded plane and 90 minutes and seven beers later I was in not-so-beautiful Nadi, Fiji. As my courtesy bus rolled through barbed wire-lined lanes, I realised I wasn’t in Apia anymore. The Sandlewood Lodge, my accommodation for the evening, is a dump, with bars on the windows and a warning to leave as many lights on as possible to scare off rapists. It couldn’t have been more different than downtown Apia, where my accommodation didn’t even have a door, and the intruders are pleasant.

Don’t worry, I’m that storm won’t affect me at all…

I was as hungry as Matt Preston gets between breakfast and brunch, so I strolled into Nadi to grab something to eat. Before I even made it out of my street, a very larger person in a mini skirt said she wanted to suck my cock. I thanked it for the offer, but suggested that if it really wanted a cock there was probably a perfectly good one between its legs.

IMG_8801The streets I walked were full of poverty and misery, scammers and drunks, but I eventually sourced some cheap beer and a pizza. I was hungry, so I ordered the large – and it was big enough for Julie Gillard to use as a sled next time she hits the slopes, with only a bit of her arse hanging over the side. I got home and scoffed it, but was barely able to make a in the bloody thingg. I wrapped up some for later, but there was so much that I might as well have poked a hole in a few slices and fucked them. They don’t go soft on the servings in Fiji.

Alright, I’ll fuck it

With an early start the next morning – I’m heading out to the Yasawa Islands – and nothing but violence and AIDS outside the door, I went to bed early, with a quiet prayer to the baby Jebus to ensure that I wouldn’t get stabbed in the face while I slept. Well, I left the lights on, so that should scare all the bad guys off.

There’s nowhere safer than a large Samoan man’s knee

IMG_8593I was worried about my portly admirer coming back for more action, so I decided to move on from Tanu Beach. After a quick snorkel and a wander through the village, I stopped off at Henry’s place to say goodbye. We ended up chatting for an hour so, with the topics ranging from the women at his retirement village constantly begging him for sex, to his opinions on the breasts of Samoan women, to Henry’s distaste for pineapples. He’s a weird dude, but one thing can’t be argued – unlike most people, he is truly a free man. He does and thinks what he wants, and feels no need to buy into all the bullshit society tries to feed him. The world would be a better place if there were more tattooed freaks like Henry.

Plenty of places to build a treehouse

With the car packed, I headed west, through the jungle. My first stop was for a canopy walk, an attraction that seems to pop up in every guide to Savaii. It should also appear in every guide for people looking to die in the most brutal way possible, because the whole thing is incredibly dangerous. After a short walk into the middle of the jungle, I climbed a massive tower, and was faced with a bridge through the trees that was basically a bunch of ladders tied together. That was it. Not wanting to waste my $10 entry fee, I did a little wee in my shorts and headed across. Every step caused the shoddily-made contraption to shudder and groan and almost fall apart, and I was stoked to make it back to the ground without having to fall there.

If you look closely, you can see me absolutely shitting myself

It was a beaut experience, though, and the view from the top of the tower was magical. This land is still so primitive and unspoilt, and it truly is a joy to simply take the time to enjoy it.

The second stop was at a local rugby union game. It doesn’t matter where in the world it’s played, union is still a stop-start-stand-around-for-five-minutes piece of shit. The penalties and line-outs were endless, but so were the hits. The boys were smacking the crap out of each other, and I couldn’t help wondering why they were playing kick ‘n’ clap when they’d be so much better suited to a proper game. The potential is there for rugby league to take Samoa by storm, if only a little bit of effort is put in.

Run it at me, bro!

I started off watching the game from a quiet spot up one end, but after a few minutes a very large gentleman sauntered over and said hello. At first I thought he was going to rip my arms off – he could’ve done it without breaking a sweat – but then he introduced himself as Albert, offered me a glass of juice and asked if I wanted to watch the game with him. Not wanting to say no to such a frightening gentleman, I followed him to a group of comfortable-looking chairs under a large umbrella, but was confused to see that all the chairs were occupied.

It still looks better than Brookvale Oval

Ken pointed to one of his huge, brown knees and said, “You sit here.” Now, I don’t often sit on men who I’ve just met, but he had bought me a drink, so I figured it was safe. And that’s how I watched the rest of the match, held in the warm embrace of a large Samoan man and preparing myself to run if I felt even the slightest hint of a boner poking into my back.

Once the game was over, I hugged Albert goodbye and left. His English wasn’t good, but my best guess is that he’s the chief of the village, and it was a great honour for me to ride his knee for an hour or so. I’ll have to use that line on a lady sometime.

it’s just a little bit quieter than Bondi Beach

From there I kept rolling round the underside of Savai’i, before making it to Satuituti Beach Fales in the Latearvo. It’s a gorgeous place; right on the water, peaceful and incredibly cheap. My fale is a bit weird – really big, with four beds inside, making it feel like some sort of third world hospital. There are no hefty Samoan women attempting to mouth rape me, though, which is a real relief.

It looks like a hospital, so I was self-medicating with beer

I had a good snorkel, a great feed, and then settled back with a beer and some music while the elderly couple in the next shack played naked Twister all night. I kept waiting for an invitation to join them, but it never came, so I just played pocket Boggle by myself and went to sleep while the waves lapped at my fale.

And that’s how my final night in Samoa panned out. Next stop – Fiji!


Going down in Samoa

IMG_8468I wanted to do something for the first time and, since that chick from The Big Bang Theory hasn’t be answering my emails, I decided on scuba diving. A happy-go-lucky Austrian named Olaf, from Dive Savai’i, picked me up at 8am, and in no time I was being strapped to a scuba tank.

I look pretty hungover here

After a short practice run in shallow water, we scrambled into a boat and headed a few kilometres into the crystal clear water, before dropping anchor. It was beautiful out there, with the emerald mountains looming large over the azure ocean. A few minutes later I flopped off the boat, put my mouthpiece in place and started making the long descent underwater.

It’s a boat! A fucking boat!

It was freaky at first, and my instincts told me to swim back to the safety of the surface. But I kept swimming down into the blue, towards swarms of colourful fish, and after a few minutes I wasn’t even thinking about my breathing anymore. An intense feeling of freedom washed over me as I swam this way and that, chasing fish and gazing in wonder at the beautiful coral. I zoomed through a cave and came face-to-face with a giant sea turtle. It was utterly brilliant.

Under the sea, Under the sea, Darling it’s better, Down where it’s wetter, Take it from me!

That first dive lasted an hour but really, time didn’t mean anything down there. I just enjoyed the weightlessness, the great view and the serenity. Of course, it didn’t hurt that my instructor was a spunky 18-year-old New Zealander. I thought about showing her my sea cucumber, but decided that being slapped senseless while 12 metres below the surface didn’t sound fun at all.

We eventually resurfaced, and I took a few moments to readjust to life above the waves. Lunch was paw-paw and some sort of weird Samoan donuts, served with good conversation from the diving instructors and the young Kiwi couple who were also out there with us. I tried to put the moves on the Kiwi instructor, but she found my jokes about as funny as a urinary tract infection. And I’m telling ya, urinary tract infections aren’t fun at all.

T.U.R.T.L.E. power!

Our second dive took us down the the wreck of the Juno, a boat that sank back in… some year. I dunno, if you care that much then look it up on the interwebs. It was even better than the first site, with more turtles, fish and bizarre colour-changing coral. I took some time out just to relax at the bottom of the ocean, enjoying the atmosphere.

Yep, that’ll do

And before I knew it my day of diving was over, and Olaf was dropping me back at Tanu Beach. After a nice little bludge on the sand, I hopped in the Rav and took off to check out the nearby lava fields. Basically, a volcano erupted back in the early 1900s and the lava wiped out heaps of Savai’i. I stopped off and had a peek at a church that was smashed to bits by the lava, helped all the way by a handsome Samoan lady who must’ve taken a shine to me, bacause she didn’t leave my side for the whole 15 minutes I was there. Must’ve been the fact I hadn’t changed my clothes for four days.

Sorry, God, your house is stuffed!

The rest of the day and night was a lazy blur of beer, honey-flavoured chips, great food, Samoan kiddies dancing, and a chat with Henry. Who needs to actually take drugs, when you’ve got Henry? At the end of a night, one of the local ladies asked if I could give her a lift home. I was eight beers in but thought it would be rude to say no, so I picked up my keys and off we went. If I thought driving during the day was tough, the night was even worse. There were pigs, dogs, cows, horses and drunk blokes everywhere, and it took me 20 minutes to make the 2km trip. The fat woman was licking her lips the whole way, and I was nervous – she either wanted to eat me or suck me off, and either way I wasn’t keen on ending up in her mouth.

Sucking them back quicker than George Michael in a sausage factory

She told me to pull into a driveway, and a bunch of massive Samoan fellas were standing there grinning.

“Now, I’ll give you payment for the trip, taxi driver,” she said, and the blokes roared with approval. I tried to fight back but was overpowered by the woman, who outweighed me by a good 40kg. She was gunna blow me whether I wanted it or not, and her mates were chanting what I assume is the Samoan equivalent of ‘mouth rape’.

Two of the tough guys who laughed at me

My pants were yanked off and she was moving in for the kill. With tears running down my cheeks, I slammed the Rav into reverse and rolled backwards. It took the woman by surprise, and she was tossed from the passenger seat with a thud. I didn’t stop, burning away into the night while the Samoans chased after me.

I ran over a chicken on the way home, and eventually stepped out of the Rav without my trousers on, then crawled into my fale for a sleep that was prickled by dreams of being sucked off by Fui Fui Moi Moi’s fatter, uglier sister. Inexplicably, I woke up with a boner.

Yep, that’s her

I’m a Savai’i-ver!

P1050046Last night, I had the best sleep of my life. Alright, second best, after that time I tried heroin. I woke up to brilliant sunshine and swaying palm trees, then matched it with a giant breakfast of cereal, fruit, eggs and toast. I can tell you, the morning after my experience with heroin wasn’t anywhere near as pleasant.

With storm clouds on the horizon, I grabbed my snorkel – no, that’s not a euphemism, bloody hell, grow up! -– and hit the bay out the front of Le Valasi’s. And it was an incredible swim! A lot of fish, some delightful coral, and I even saw a turtle bludging around! The best bit was the giant clams, which Ross planted out there a few years back. I knew they were out there somewhere, but it still took me an hour to find them. I must be retarded because they’re absolutely huge and there’s about 50 of them, so they were as easy to miss as an elephant in a preschool.

The less said about this the better

I spent ages taking photos of the clams, then poking sticks into their open mouths so they would snap shut. I almost pissed myself with fright a few times when one would latch onto my fin. Then, with the rain beating down and my hands looking like prunes, I paddled in to pack up my stuff and move on with my adventure. Savaia is a wonderful village and my hosts were great, so I felt a genuine sadness as I drove away.

I’m crying on the inside

I was heading towards the Manafuse Wharf, on the west coast of Upolu, where I would take a ferry to Samoa’s other island, Savai’i. Although bigger than Upolu, it has only a fraction the population, and most people reckon it’s a lot wilder and less developed. Seeing as the biggest building in Upolu is the local pay phone box, that’s saying something.

The trip to the wharf was pretty, but difficult. The road took me up a steep mountain, giving me a mind-melting view back towards Lalomanu, providing a chance to reflect on the past two days. Unfortunately, the Rav didn’t enjoy the drive nearly as much as I did, and a few times I thought it was going to roll into the abyss below. Erm, it didn’t, though, and I eventually made it to the wharf.

Beautiful one day, fucked the next

Which is when a cyclone decided to roll in. My time in Samoa had been punctuated by constant weather changes, but this was something else. One minute I was parked in the line to board the crowded ferry, the next it was absolutely belting down and I was unsure whether I’d even get to Savai’i. And even if I got on the ferry, what were the chances of it crossing islands without sinking?

I’m sure this is safe…

After a major delay we were led onto the rickety vessel, and soon I was surrounded by Samoans and their dogs and pigs and chickens. It was quite a sight, and things got even weirder when we took off and the boat was rocked by massive waves and started tipping in every direction. A few of the locals were chundering, one poor bastard fell off the side and had to be rescued, and a chicken got thrown into the side of a car and killed. Somehow, I managed to keep my lunch down.

Once on Savai’i, it was a quick run up to Manase, at the top of the island. The big island is a lot easier to traverse, with– less people and dogs to dodge, but there are plenty of pigs. The beaches go on forever, with the villages few and far between. When I got to Tanu Beach Fales, it was nice, too, even though I arrived around sunset and it was almost deserted. Despite having accommodation for, I dunno, 200, I was one of only four people called to the dinner table.


Two of the others were a young German couple, and the other was an elderly gentleman with a full-face tattoo. At first I thought he might try to stab and eat me, but I soon realised that Henry is a lovely old bloke with a few stories to tell. Unsurprisingly, he’s a tattooist. He had a successful ink studio in LA for years and scribbled on Pamela Anderson and… well, Henry’s dabbled in the drugs from time to time so he can’t remember who else he’s worked with.

The one and only HENRY!

He also told me his partner was a former Miss Universe, which impressed me greatly and led to me talking about how much I’d like to do sex with Jennifer Hawkins. He had to stop me because I’d misheard him –- his partner is a former MISTER Universe called Steve, a musclehead who has apparently gone mad on steroids.

Henry spends half the year in Palm Springs, California and the other half at Tanu Beach, where he possessed nothing more than two t-shirts and the ability to sit in the same spot for hours at a time, amused by whatever it was that was going on inside his mind. And from the look of him, what goes on inside Henry’s head is fantastic.

The entertainment for the night was provided by some of the local children, who danced traditional dances while we ate. On a side note, who new that the Macarena was a tradional Samoan dance?

Let’s twist like we did last Samoa!

I’m now sitting in my fale drinking a beer, looking out over an ocean painted silver by a full moon. I’m going scuba diving in the morning, so I guess I’d better get some sleep. Yeah, I may not be getting chased around by weirdos, or shitting myself on trains, but I could get used to this life.

Getting stoned in Samoa isn’t as fun as it sounds


Despite quaffing only 12 beers the night before, I woke up with a hangover that could kill a Somali pirate. But it’s hard to complain when the view from your fale looks straight onto the beach – and all for the bargain price of $20 a night! My headache was sorted out with a snorkel, though (and no, that’s not a euphemism for wanking). Today’s swim was better than yesterday’s, with more fish and better coral. The current was rubbish, though, and I was almost sucked to my death (actually, that doesn’t sound too bad at all).

After a big breakfast I said goodbye to my new-found friends (their names still escape me), and trundled off to the other side of the island, with a stop-off at Tu Sua Ocean Trench.

Reminds me of some of the girls I’ve met off Tinder

It’s basically a big hole in the ground, filled with sea water and with a long ladder leading down to it. I climbed deep down below the surface of the Earth, and found myself in another world. Fish danced through the azure water as I splashed around, so far from everyday problems. I spent an hour or so down there, just floating around and enjoying life.

There’s also some grouse gardens surrounding the trench, making for a very pleasant afternoon. Sure, it would’ve been better if the rain would’ve fucked off for a while, but it’s still a place I will remember fondly for many years.

Driving through Samoa is serious business

And then the epic journey really began. It was only about 60km to my accommodation, which I figured would take about an hour, but I had no idea. Unlike yesterday’s drive, which was fun and spectacular, this trip to the other end of the island was slow, tedious, aggravating and a bit scary. This was true hillbilly country. Wild dogs attacked my car. Small children ran out of their huts to throw stones at me as I drove past. One of the rocks cracked my windscreen and barely managed to keep the car on the track as I escaped the bloodthirsty mob. I was worried that the Rav 4 would finally give in, and I’d end up being butt-raped and then eaten by a fat Samoan.

The epic south coast of Upolu

Just when I thought I was in the clear, a bolt of lightning hit about 20m from my car, causing me to slide off the road and into a tree. The whole world went white for a moment, and I didn’t know where I was. It took me a while to find my bearings, and when I recovered from the shock of the accident, I discovered I was in a ditch, in the middle of the jungle, and very much alone.

Now I’m not a palm reader, but…

Rav 4’s, whilst ugly, are obviously well-built, and I was able to get back onto the road and keep going. With no map or phone, I missed my fale about three times, until a chick ran out, waving her arms to flag me down. By then it was dark, I was cranky, and I was dismayed to see that Le Valasi’s Beach Fales, in the tiny village of Savaia, looked half-built. I was in a rubbish mood.

“Uh, can I get a room with a roof, please?”

But all that changed as soon as I was called for dinner. Ross and Maria, the owners, are wonderful, as were the three other guests who sat in the living room with us eating spaghetti. They were teachers from New Zealand, in Samoa organising a school trip and looking for ways to help out the local students. They were so full of ideas on ow to help the poverty-stricken kids, and it was a real inspiration. Something so minor to us could be a huge ting to those kids – but fuck it, I’ll forget all about that the second I get back home. We all do.

I also discovered that the whole village had recently been smashed by a storm, which had torn Le Valasi’s apart, and that the owners had spent the last 24 hours frantically trying to rebuild my fale so that I’d have somewhere to sleep. Now that’s service!

(I’d also like to point out that, as of 2015, Le Valasi’s is completely rebuilt and looking lovely, so check it out!)

Bewdiful Savaia

I stayed up talking to Ross and Maria until almost midnight. Fuck, this all sounds so tame compared to my swashbuckling adventures through Asia. But that’s how this place is. Let’s just say I fought a robot before hitting the hay, right?

There’s room for a pretty lady! There’s no room for her clothes, though

My pilgrimage to the beach of ghosts


Waking up in Samoa is like waking up in the distant past. Despite spending the night a five minute walk from the centre of the capital, I stumbled out of my fale to the sounds of insects and birds, with palm trees swaying and the pool sparkling. The air was fresh, the weather was warm, and I was happy. I was tired after my troubled night, so I rolled over to the pool to eat my breakfast. Sleeping Beauty joined me five minutes later, and he looked like he’d just crawled out of a bin. He was an Aussie bloke with bloodshot eyes, a pencil neck, a bald head, no shoulders and a big nose – and an open wound on his forehead.

“I had the weirdest dream that some cunt was throwing rocks at me,” he mused.

“That’s funny,” I replied. “I had a dream that I was throwing rocks at some cunt who wouldn’t stop fucking snoring.”

He decided to eat his toast in his fale.

Who needs a Ferrari when you’ve got a Rav?

I wasted no time getting out of Apia, and by 10am I was blasting along the freeway towards the village of Lalomanu, on the east coast of Upolu. Alright, that’s a load of shit – I was slowly winding my way along a pothole-filled lane in a car that would struggle to beat a midget in a sprint. But I didn’t care, because the scenery was absolutely beautiful. That’s a load of shit, too, because the word beautiful simply doesn’t do justice to this majestic land.

This is Eugene Cumberbund. Hello, Eugene Cumberbund!

I rolled through gorgeous villages, along breathtaking coastlines, past dense rainforests, and up steep mountains. It was a kick-arse drive, with the highlight being a steep descent into the mouth of a dormant volcano. Even in a Rav 4, it was as much fun as a bloke could have in a car with his shorts on.

No man is an island, but this island is an island

After stopping plenty of times for more photos, I finally rolled into the beachside village of Lalomanu bit after midday. There’s not much to the joint – a few shacks, half-a-dozen churches, and finally a stretch of sand with a few fales on it. The lack of development is at once surprising and completely lovely. I pulled in to find that Taufua Beach Fales would be a great place to spend the night. The sun was shining, the water was crystal-clear, and I had a hut right on the water. Shit, there are worse ways to spend a Tuesday.

Bloody bewdiful!

I picked up a beer, dumped my stuff in my fale, and lay down in the sun to check out the female talent. And it wasn’t bad at all! There wasn’t a lot of variety, but the quality was such that I soon had to put down my Kindle and go for a swim to cool off. The water was lovely, but the snorkeling was more sad than anything. The reef was dead, and populated by only a handful of small fish, a reminder of the devastating tsunami of 2009.

Yeah, the tsunami. As idyllic as Lalomanu is, there’s also a cloud of sadness that hangs over this place. It looks pretty now, but just a few years ago the village lay in ruins, the remains of the tourists fales were spread across the sand, and the bodies of the lay piled up. Many people from this small and tight-knit village were killed, and the disaster touched everyone. With steep cliffs surrounding Lalomanu, there was nowhere to run. The people have moved on with their lives, the resort has been rebuilt, and the area is slowly regaining its beauty. But sitting on the sand, looking out at the eternal ocean, the ghosts still haunt the place.

Also bloody bewdiful!

Still, I had fun, and paddled around like a retard in a bathtub for and hour before heading in for more beer. And more beer and more beer and more beer. Dinner rolled around and everybody at the resort – around 10 of us – were placed at a single long table and stuffed full of prawns, salad, fruit, rice and other beaut stuff. The others were all pretty cool, and I made friends with an Aussie bloke and his Czech missus, while trying to work out a way to make sure the Italian bird opposite me ended up in my fale. In the end I asked her if she wanted to eat my meatballs and she left. The humour must’ve been lost in translation.

I rounded out the night with a long walk along the beach, drenched in moonlight and contemplating life and other crap. I just find it hard to justify being at work, and all the bullshit that goes with it, when I could be on a beach somewhere drinking beer. It doesn’t make sense.

Bloody hell, I always come up with my best thoughts when I’m pissed – someone pass me another Vailima!

I’ve slept in worse places (bins, for example)


Rowan the Samoan

IMG_8011Samoa, hey? Twenty-seven degrees at five in the morning, which is slightly more comfortable than the 11 degrees Sydney was enjoying when I flew out five hours earlier. I could definitely get used to this over the next three weeks, as I prance around the Pacific on a holiday that will also take in Fiji and Tonga. After picking up my bags I headed out of Faleolo International Airport and into the darkness to pick up my rental car. Despite specifically asking for something that wasn’t a piece of shit, I was taken to a Rav 4.

Alright, so the car wasn’t in bad condition, but it’s hard to look like a cool dude when you’re driving around in something that looks like it belongs in a toy box.

Sunrise over Upolu

I’ve got history with this particular flavour of not-quite-supercar. Years ago I porked a chick on the Gold Coast and afterwards she was too sick to drive home –- either because the cask of goon she’d downed, or because of the experience of having had my penis inside her – and I had to driver her home in her Poor-Wheel-Drive. That day I hit a dog, had to catch a bus home and ended up with an itch in my shorts, so I hoped this experience would be somewhat better.

More sunrise over Upolu

I fired the beast up and headed into the rising sun, and even though it was earlier than a virgin’s ejaculation, the Samoans were out and about. Kids were waiting for school buses. Dudes were walking around with coconuts in their hands. Women were dancing by the side of the road. And all of it was set against the backdrop of a golden sun peeking out from behind the curtain of a thunder storm.

It was a nice, half-hour drive from the airport, across the island of Upolu, to the capital, Apia. Villages dotted the entire trip, and rarely a kilometre would pass without a giant church leering at me from the side of the road. I know this is a religious country but fuck, but it’s stunning to see these massive monuments standing by the side of the road like giant tombstones. It’s weird to see people living in huts, right next to an intricately-decorated church the size of a football field.

If there’s one thing the Christians know how to do, it’s build churches

After finally making my way into the city of Apia – which consists of about four streets -– I rolled into the hills and into my first place of residence, the Samoan Outrigger Resort. It’s a lovely place with beautifully-manicured gardens, a decent pool, and a traditional fale (basically, a hut) that they let me pass out in three hours before my proper check-in time. Despite the oppressive heat, it would be my last decent sleep at that place.

Who needs walls and a roof that doesn’t leak when the accommodation is this cool?

After waking up, I had a dip and then went out to explore Apia. While small, it has a good feel to it. I picked up a packet of chips and some sort of horrible energy drink, and scoffed them while walking along the harbour. Almost everyone said hello to me and, unlike in Asia, that didn’t mean they wanted to rip me off or stab me in the face. They were just being nice, a concept foreign to most people in developed countries.

I watched kids playing footy, took photos, and wandered down the few streets of the city. I headed out of town and along the waterfront, marveling at how the sound of birds drowns out the sound of cars in this tropical paradise. There’s not much to see or do in Apia, and that’s perfectly fine. I enjoyed just sitting under a palm tree, looking out at the endless ocean, alone on an island in the middle of nowhere.

Fishing at the end of the world

After a quick swim and change at my fale –- a good thing, since my clothes stunk worse than a hooker’s hoochie –- I headed out for a beer and a feed… and ended up with a Big Mac and few warm Vailima beers, since pretty much everything here is closed by 9pm. Ah well, the chips were big enough to ensure that I will probably die of a heart attack before my 31st birthday, so I got something out of it.

Sunset over Upolu

I had dreams of going for a walking and ending up with a Polynesian princess and they remained that – dreams. The joint was empty. Apia really is a village in the middle of the sea, and if you’re looking to party, this isn’t the place. Woe is Row.

The walk back was pretty scary. I’d read about Samoa’s dog problem, and seen a few wandering around, but walking along dark streets alone was a different thing entirely. The flea-bitten fuckwits were all over me, barking and snarling and trying to bite me. It was the biggest collection of bitches wanting to kill me since the last meeting of my ex-girlfriends.

Half dog, half rabies

But I made it home with all my limbs, and lay back in my open-air hut for a good night’s sleep… except dogs were fighting and barking and rootin, keeping me awake. When they finally shut up I started drifting off to the sound of bugs and birds… and ten minutes later some absolute fuckwit wandered into the next fale and started snoring his head off. It sounded like he was strangling a gibbon in there.

Finally, fed up and half-mad from not having slept for almost two days, I grabbed a handful of rocks and chucked ’em, at Sleeping Beauty. After peppering his body for five minutes I finally hit him in the head and he shut up. I worried for a moment that I may have killed him, but the guilt lasted about five seconds until I fell asleep…

Drop me an email if you’d like to buy those undies

…… and was woken at 3:30am up by one of the chicks from the resort telling me that some other dude was gunna jump in the fale with me. I looked over and saw an obese Samoan bloke wearing nothing but a pair of underpants and a smile, ready to jump in bed with me.

I told them to fuck off, and that I had AIDS, and te bl9oke trundled off to molest someone else.

I woke up shortly after dawn, needing to piss and not willing to put my clothes back on (who would be if they looked this good), so I trotted down to the communal toilets with my doodle out. Just then a big Samoan fella walked out of the main house, took a look at me and said, ““Cold morning, eh, bro?””

It was 29 degrees.

Bonus photo of attractive dancing Samoan people

I travelled to Samoa, Fiji and Tonga back in May, 2013. I didn’t publish my tales from the Pacific back then, so here they are… so crack a bottle of Vailima, open a tin of corned beef and enjoy!