The three weeks I’ve spent in Candidasa have been more fun that a barrel full of greased-up monkeys. Apart from the 25 hours spent cruising the clear, blue skies of Bali, my days and nights have been filled with heavy drinking, good eating, frantic dancing, mesmerising snorkelling, brutal violence and even a touch of romance (and I’m not just talking about the blossoming man-love between Hamster and Alan).
Candiasa is a truly incredible corner of the world, and it’s a place where I’ve experienced a lot of growth and change over the past year. High above the temples, jungles, beaches and monkeys, I finally felt that I was getting somewhere with my flying. Closer to the ground, I built friendships with people from around the world and from all sorts of backgrounds. From mad doctors to sex-obsessed musicians, and lesbian pilots to conspiracy theorists, Candi is a meeting place for all sorts of wonderful weirdos.
If you’re a fan of paragliding or diving, Candi is your idea of paradise, but it’s a wonderful destination for anyone who just wants to hang out and watch life go sliding on by. Just grab an icy cold Bintang, sit under a tree, and chill out. Have a wank if you want to, nobody will care. Buy a pair of sunglasses from street hawker Eric when he comes round, too – he’s trying to send three kids to private school, you know.
If you’ve been following my adventures over the past three years, you’ll know I have a tendency to fall for attractive European ladies and subsequently change my life plans in order to follow them to the ends of the Earth. I’m happy to say that it’s happened again, and I will be joining the lovely Lena in Moscow in a few weeks time. I’m a handsome bloke, but I’m definitely the ugmo in this relationship; I guess she’s just happy to meet someone who doesn’t wear imitation Adidas tracksuits and smash cinder blocks with his bare hands.
As for Alan and Hamster, they’ve finally succumbed to their burning lust for each other, and have become lovers. I wish they’d waited until I was out of the room to consumate their relationship, but I guess a few years of therapy and binge drinking will help me forget the sight of their aggressive romping. Honestly, it looked like two wombats fighting over a tennis ball. Last I heard, they’re moving to Newtown together to open yogurt shop. I wish them all the best, even if their brand of love is a violent one.
The water off Paje’s eastern coast is a bit like a Russian chick’s skirt; it looks brilliant, and any self-respecting bloke wants to see what’s underneath it. So today I grabbed my snorkel and went down below for a few hours. Oh, I’m talking about snorkelling, you sicko! And as you can see from these really, really, really great photos, I had a wonderful time in a place that looks like a computer screensaver.
I paid a dude a few bucks to take me out to the appropriately-named Blue Lagoon on his traditional fishing boat, and I felt like royalty as I lay back to relax while he struggled against the wind. By royalty I don’t mean that I felt like an inbred, just that it was nice to have someone do everything for me while I bludged around and looked out at the crystal clear water.
After docking, I dived into the ocean and was immediately overwhelmed by the amount of fish. Seriously, there were thousands of the bastards, and they weren’t shy. I swam right in the middle of a huge school and the fish kept bumping into me and trying to swim down my shorts. It jumped straight into my top five snorkelling experiences. If you’re a fan of aquatic magnificence, Paje is somewhere you really should check out.
There’s a massive array of fishes in all sorts of neon colours. Blue, red, green… alright, I guess you’re aware of the concept of colours. The water is incredibly clear, and splashig around off the coast of Zanzibar is an underwater encounter I will never forget (along with that time I porked a mermaid, of course).
Whilst I enjoyed myself, a fellow snorkeller didn’t have quite such a pleasurable morning. The wind picked up and my little sailor man beckoned me back to the boat, paddling it impressively against the awful conditions. As we chopped through the waves I could see some dunce swimming straight towards us, obviously on a collision course. I tried to shout out to him but he was underwater and couldn’t hear, and had no idea the boat was there until the side wing of it bounced off a wave and clonked down on top of his head. I laughed. So if you’ve got a family member who’s in Paje and isn’t answering their phone, uh, sorry.
All up, it was a brilliant day in the sun, checking out one of the most wonderful places I’ve ever been lucky enough to explore. Zanzibar is a big tourist destination for Europeans and (rich) Africans, but isn’t really on the radar of most Australians. It should be. This island is a mix of the old, untouched Bali that so many people fondly remember, and the still-unspoilt Sri Lanka that a lot of people are just finding out about. In short, it’s as lovely as what’s under a Russian girl’s skirt… well, maybe not that lovely, but it comes close.
Everyone loves pigeons. They’re nature’s comedians and very popular with children and the elderly, so when I had a chance to go snorkelling at Pigeon Island, Sri Lanka, I grabbed it with both hands. The opportunity, not an actual pigeon, just to be clear.
I jumped on a boat full of happy-faced Asians (you can’t miss them on the main stretch of beach at Uppuveli) and headed out there. The snorkelling was good, if not completely awe-inspiring. Pigeon Island provides a decent number of fish – big blue ones, little yellow ones, and everything in between – and some nice coral as soon as you get away from the area where tourists have killed it all. The water is a bit churned up, so visibility isn’t great, but it’s certainly a good place to paddle around for a few hours.
There were plenty of jellyfish flopping around like idiots, and I even managed to get stung by some bizarre orange coral. I didn’t die, but I went close. It really was a very pleasant way to spend my last day in my adopted home of Uppuveli, and a trip to Pigeon island is highly recommended for anyone in the area.
I was feeling a little bit cheeky, so I decided to pull my shorts down and take a few photos with my bum out. Oi, don’t judge me, it’s a normal thing for a 33-year-old fella to do. Anyway, I was showing my bottom off and having a fantastic time when I turned around and saw a group of Sri Lankan children snorkelling nearby and shaking their heads in disgust. I went after them to explain what I was doing, but they turned around and swam off, and I felt that pursuing them any further would be asking for trouble.
I soon headed back to the beach, and as I neared the sand I noticed what can only be described as an angry mob huddled on the shore. They were shouting things out and punching the air with their fists, and as soon as one of them saw me he started pointing in my direction. I just assumed he was telling his mates there was a jellyfish in my general direction, so I strutted out of the water like a boss without paying him too much attention. Big mistake, baby.
As soon as I emerged a member of the mob – who were as angry and vocal as a group of first-year university students arguing the Brexit result – slapped the mask off my face, and the rest started jeering me and pushing me around. They thought I was a sex pest and I had only one option – run! I put my head down and plowed through the palm trees towards the boat, with the angry locals in hot pursuit. I could hear their footsteps and feel rocks and coconuts whizzing past my head, and I just kept on running like popular black man Usain Bolt.
When the captain of the boat saw me being chased by the gang he shouted for me to jump in the boat, and fired up the engine as I got closer. I was puffing and wheezing but managed to leap over the side, banging my ship badly and landing on top of a startled Asian woman. The captain spun the boat around and zipped us out of there, while coconuts and other shit hurtled into us thanks to the maniacs on the shore. I apologised to the Asian woman, but she responded with a passionate kiss, which would’ve been more romantic if her husband wasn’t watching on and cheering the whole thing.
When we made it back home the husband, Ian, asked me to have sex with his wife while he watched. I politely declined, but made plans to meet up with the wife later on when Ian was busy playing cards with some of his chums. All things considered, it was a good day.
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. TINKERBELL, MT DRUITT, NSW
ROW-ROW: 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.
WHAM, BAM, THANK YOU, CAM! UH, I MEAN RODRIGO
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! MR LOVE, AUCKLAND, NZ 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.
LOVE YOU LONG TIME
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. RARA, BALI, INDONESIA ROW-ROW: Fuck yes. But if you get a boner, I’m gunna flick your cock with a rubber band.
After my terrifying near-death experience, I wanted to spend my last full day in Tonga in a more relaxed way. And that’s exactly what I did, by heading out to the beach and doing as little as possible. Sure, by the end of the day I would have cheated death once again, but… well, it’s been a good day.
There’s a lot to do in Vava’u, including whale watching and diving, but it’s the off-season, and most of those options aren’t open to me. Toss in the fact that I’ve had to book everything at short notice due to getting here late, and I didn’t have much choice. I booked a taxi and had him take me to a deserted beach near Tu’anuku, and that’s where I spent the day.
Apart from a few deserted shacks around, the joint was deserted. Well, as far as people go, at least – a gaggle of well-fed boar were strutting around like they owned the place. I was feeling pretty hungry and thought one of them would taste pretty good between some hamburger buns, with a squirt of BBQ sauce, but I couldn’t catch any of them. Add hunting to the list of things I’m not very good (along with building things out of LEGO and getting it up after 12 beers).
I pulled out my snorkel (no, I’m not talking about my penis) and went for a splash, and what I saw out there was spectacular. Schools of fish sparkled around me like multicoloured stars, weird sea creatures danced in front of my eyes, and caves and coral stretched in every direction. The crystal clear water lapped up against palm trees, with no buildings to ruin the view, and if there’s a place that better fits the description of paradise, I’m yet to find it.
As I was paddling, I spun around and felt my blood freeze. About half-a-metre in front of me was a deadly box jellyfish, its tentacles hanging long and hooked. A sting by one of those bastards is usually fatal, even if first aid is administered immediately, and here I was a kilometre from shore, in a place where the closest thing to a hospital is a medical box with two Band-Aids and a half-sucked Panadol. I’m normally as brave as a gay Jew in an ISIS meeting, but let’s face it, I pretty much shat my boardies. I carefully kicked away from the big bastard, but as I swam away, I swear it was following me. Every time I looked around, it was looming in the blue like an evil plastic bag.
Once back on shore, I climbed a tree and headed back to Neiafu. I took a walk around the place, which is tiny and lovely, like a midget stripper. There are only a handful of streets in the whole town, and I walked them all, marvelling at the simple houses and wild gardens.When I got hungry, I enjoyed a delightful dinner of fish and chips, washed down with half-a-dozen glasses Popao, while overlooking the harbour.
Tonight was the first State of Origin match, and I was worried I’d miss my first Origin since, well, as long as I can remember. But then something magical happened. I got chatting to the bloke who washes the dishes at the restaurant, and he invited me back to drink kava with him and his buddies, and we could watch the game at the same time. I was a bit concerned after the events of last night, but I hopped in his car (like most in Tonga, it was missing windows, and my seat was held in place with electrical tape) and rocked off to a hut full of blokes.
They made me feel so welcome as we watched the game and drank brown water, as we swapped stories of our different lives. So many times on my adventures have I been overwhelmed by the kindness and generosity of strangers, who have gone out of their way to help me and make me feel comfortable. Being alone, without anyone to confide in, or anyone to have a simple conversation with, means that these interactions are so important. It was a wonderful way to end my time on the islands, and I was sad to say goodbye to my new friends. But, alas, I had to. I’ve got another date with Real Tonga tomorrow… and things promise to get ugly!
I 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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
I 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I 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.
Travelling can never be simple for me. If everything went to schedule I’d be catching a taxi to the airport, a plane back to Kuala Lumpur, another plane to Kota Bharu on Malaysia’s west coast, a taxi to a tiny little town called Kuala Besut, and then a boat out to the beautiful Perhentian Islands. But there was a possible problem between me and the final destination of my adventure – the time between landing in KL and jumping on the next flight was a slim 95 minutes and if anything went wrong there, I could say goodbye to a one of my three nights on the islands. Even Clementine Ford’s bedsprings aren’t under that much pressure.
I got my shit together and walked out of my room, and was shocked to see a huge pile of garbage opposite my door. As I walked past, fuck me, one of the bags moved! When I looked closer, it wasn’t a black plastic bag full of garbage at all, it was a black plastic bag full of sweaty, naked Cled. For some reason he was wearing the bag as a sort of one-piece suit and was hiding in amongst the rubbish, doing his best to not be seen.
“Cled, mate, what’s the deal with your clobber?” I asked, and he pretended like he’d just seen me.
“Oh, this? Everyone’s wearing garbage bags this season,” he swanned, then blushed.
“That’s a load of crap, what’s the real story?”
“Alright, but keep this on the down-low. The girls,” and as he said this, he raised his hands, “wanted a bit of public sex. You know how kinky chicks can get. So I took them out and we had a saucy threesome in the lift.”
“Alright, and then what happened?”
“Well, my body may be beautiful and sensual and covered in a fine layer of fur, but it doesn’t have any pockets to put keys in, so I was locked out of my room.”
“So you decided to climb into a dirty garbage bag and sit in a pile of rubbish?”
“I figured the cleaners would be around at some point, and when they opened the door I could sneak in like nothing happened.”
“Oh yeah, there’s nothing as inconspicuous as an obese American climbing buck-naked out of a fucking garbage bag.”
“Glad you agree, buddy.”
“See ya, Cled.”
“Oh, you’re going? Have a safe trip.” With that, he stood up and a gentle breeze lifted the bottom of his bag dress, exposing the tiniest, hairiest little cock the world has ever been cursed with. He chucked out a hand, and I politely declined. Shit, I almost cut my hand off after touching him the first time, so I didn’t need to do it again.
I mate it to the airport alright, but or some absolutely batshit crazy reason the good people of Brunei don’t use scanners to check carry-on luggage before the flight. Instead, they had two or three little blokes who would open up ever pocket of every bag and rifle through it. And they were slower than a retarded turtle. The woman who checked my bag grabbed a pair of my undies and gave me a big smile, but I wasn’t in any mood for returning the grin, and it wasn’t just because of the skidmarks.
I made it onto the plane, took my seat and waited while the other passengers s l o w l y filed in. Our departure time came and went, and still people were climbing on. Ten minutes late… 15… 20. Finally, 22 minutes after we were supposed to have pissed off, the doors closed and we started moving off. Crap.
As you can guess, it wasn’t a particularly fun trip. For the next hour, I was on the edge of my sleep like a bloke with haemorrhoids. We landed, I pushed my way through the other passengers and sprinted the 2km to the baggage terminal, dodging fatties and diving past strollers and champions in wheelchairs. I cleared customs in seconds, got my bag without too much trouble, and blazed my way to the other side of the airport to check-in. Tick, tock, the clock counted down. With only minutes till check-in closed, I made it to the counter…where a dozen fat, useless pricks were flobbing around in front of me. To make it worse, another half-dozen chubsters pushed in front of me, claiming they were there with some prick in front of me. I told them to get fucked. Tick, tock, tick, tock.
The check-in time passed. I’d missed my flight. I wouldn’t make it to Kuala Besut in time for the last boat. I’d be stuck in a rubbish little town for the night rather than a beautiful island paradise. I might even get raped. And all because of the incompetence and selfishness of others.
And then an angel appeared. A spunky young chick walked over and asked if anyone desperately needed to check in, and then took me to an emergency counter. I handed over my details, and the girl smiled. Hoo-fucken-ray, I made it onto the plane just as it was about to taxi out! I didn’t get the spunky young chick’s name, but ya can’t win ’em all.
With that out of the way, the flight was relaxing, and before long I was in delightful Kota Bharu. I say it’s delightful, but I wouldn’t have a clue, because I jumped in a cab and pointed him towards the village of Besut, an hour south. As the towns and villages rolled past, I was obvious the eastern side of the island is very different from the west. Almost everybody was in traditional islamic dress and mosques decorated the skyline.
I’d heard that Kuala Besut was a boring little nothing place that was only worth staying at if you missed the last boat to the islands, and they weren’t wrong. I had a decent amount of time to kill there till I set sail, and after five minutes I was bored out of my skull. There’s one main road with a handful of shops, a couple of deserted side streets, a polluted beach and… that’s it. There wasn’t even an ATM, which was kind of shitty since I knew there wouldn’t be one on the Perhentians, and I barely had enough dosh in my wallet to pay for my accommodation and food. Shit.
The boat finally rocked up, I dragged my suitcase onto it, and we set out into the blue. And, as we drew close to the Perhentians, it was astonishingly beautiful. I’ve been to Thailand, Vietnam and Newcastle, but nothing could prepare me for the unspeakable glory of these islands. Rainforest-covered mountains climbed out of crystal-clear water before my eyes. Thousands of fish danced below me, while cute little huts hugged the beach, with just a smattering of suntanned visitors wandering along the sand or snorkeling. It was like a computer screensaver come to life, but I definitely wasn’t sitting at my desk.
The little boat dropped off a handful of people at different beaches, and then we puttered along to Petani Beach, which was perhaps the most wonderful of them all. At the eastern end a dozen bright red bungalows ran up the hill and disappeared into the forest. In the middle sat six tiny, rustic huts that looked like they’d been washed up in the last high tide – my accommodation. Not a person was to be seen, and it was exactly what I’d hoped it would be. It was, in a word, paradise.
The captain of the boat honked his horn and a little Malaysian dude came rushing out of one of the huts. He dived into a dinghy and came out to meet us, and I carefully stepped into his ride, making sure not to fall into the bright blue ocean beneath me.
He introduced himself as Ebu, and after a short but fun blast, I was dragging my can-filled suitcase along the most wonderful beach I’d ever seen.
I walked into a hut that looked like it must’ve been the front office, and was appalled to see a bloke choking the chicken in his living room. What, no, don’t have such a dirty mind! He wasn’t masturbating, he was actually choking a chicken so he could cook it for his dinner. After Ebu raced over to tell me I’d just wandered into some strangers house uninvited, he led me to my room and handed me a towel and a snorkel set. No key, but then a key wouldn’t be much use when my door didn’t have a lock on it.
Wasting no time, I changed into my boardies and raced the 15m to the beach, then dived into the water. It was wonderfully warm, and incredibly relaxing after a long day of travelling, but I wasn’t here to splash around like a downie in a bath, I was here to see some fish! And shit, did I see some fish! Just a few metres from the shore was a reef that was absolutely crawling with thousands upon thousands of the scaly little bastards. There were clown fish, blue fish… ah, red fish. I even saw a sea cucumber, but enough about my penis.
Life under the surface of the water was every bit as wondrous as the mountains and beaches that rose above it, but far, far busier. I spent over an hour just following fish around, taking photos and generally just floating around with a big, goofy look on my face. When I finally got out I relaxed on the beach, dividing my attention between my book and the spunky, bikini-clad babes spread out on the towels next to me. I got so turned on that I almost had to rub my sea cucumber.
With the sun setting, I had a cold shower and headed over to Petani Beach’s only restaurant, a wonderful little wooden shack that’s completely open to the beach and made entirely of driftwood. The sunset was astonishing, and after a seafood dinner I decided to see what the island offered in the way of nightlife.
There’s only two ways off Petani Beach at that time of night – a bush path to the east, and one to the west. Both were pitch black and scary-looking, but I took the one to the west and walked blindly through the gloom, with only my mobile phone for light. After an hour I found the main backpacker beach, which wasn’t exactly Surfers Paradise, but there were a few little bars that served the liquid medicine I required – beer, glorious fucken beer! And there were also girls, glorious fucken girls!
An hour later I was shitfaced and dancing like a fucktard on the beach, when one of the hot Germans from Petani walked up and started dancing with me.
“Hello,” she said in a voice that made me think she wanted to either suck my dick till my eyes exploded, or murder me. “My friend and I, we see you back at resort. You masturbate in water?”
“Uh, yeah,” I blushed.
“Were you thinking of us.”
“What were you thinking about us doing.”
“I was thinking about slamming you harder than a sledgehammer into the Berlin wall.” Smooth.
Good old-fashioned romance won the day, and the chick said we should probably get back to our shacks – and that her mate should come with us. Ooh la la, as the Germans say.
Things were looking great for the Row Show, and I would’ve had a great night if it wasn’t for that bloody hour-long walk through the darkness. My torch gave up halfway back, the moon wasn’t nearly strong enough to light our way, and it wasn’t long before Helga and Eva (or whatever their fucken names are) tripped over a root and slid down a muddy slope, ending up in the ocean at the bottom. I, of course, acted like a perfect gentleman and laughed my arse off, which obviously wasn’t the correct response, because when we got back they went into Ebu’s hut instead of mine.
Easily confused, those Germans.
I wrote this back in May, 2012. I wish it was still May, 2012.
I woke up bright and early, had a quick breakfast of cereal and tropical fruit, then boarded a gigantic bus for a day of sun and chasing fish around in the clear blue sea. I was late, of course, but after 29 years of that, why change?
We drove over to Langkawi’s ferry terminal, boarded a boat, and I ended up sitting next to Lenny, a very fat Pom wearing a Battlestar Galactica shirt with tomato sauce stains all down the front. He was a nice bloke, but he did admit one thing - he was here on a sex tour. He’d already been to Thailand and Cambodia, and was having sex with different prostitutes in each place. He even acted out a few of his ‘conquests’, leading me to suspect that the tomato sauce may not have been tomato sauce at all, and was actually the blood of some poor prostitute.
The boat arrived at a gorgeous island in the middle of the ocean, and even as I walked along the boardwalk to the beach, I could see all sorts of weird aquatic creatures splashing around beneath me. Excitement turned to disappointment, however, when I saw that the tour company had set up a dinky little roped-off area for us to swim in. The island itself was adorable, but they’d set aside an area about as big as a basketball court for us to snorkel in, and it had about six fish in it.
So, just as I had at the Great Wall, I broke out of jail and went exploring on my own, and it actually turned out to be a really good adventure. The further away from the ropes I got, the more coral and fish I saw. Angel fish, clown fish, gigantic blue fish, sea cucumbers (no, I’m not talking about my penis) and all sorts of other aquatic abominations fluttered around me. I made it to the other side of the island and it was like I was the only person on the planet. At one point, thousands of tiny silver fish raced in a circle around me, and it was truly magical. I even found a secluded little beach to explore!
I barely made it back in time for lunch, then set out to go even further around the island. There were even more fish of every description, and I had a grand time hovering around and taking photos of them. It was exactly what I had come for, and yet more proof that it’s never a good idea to stick to the rules.
After chasing a bright red fish for a good 10 minutes, I checked my camera and saw that it was 2:52, and the boat was pissing off at three. And I don’t think Malaysian tour operators really give a shit whether they leave someone behind or not.
With visions of being left on the island to be eaten by savages (and not in the good way), I cranked the engines and absolutely belted it back to the beach. Seriously, the Thorpedo would’ve been proud of me. I looked up to see the last tourist climbing from the pier onto the boat, but there was still 100 or so metres between me and the shore. I put my head down and zoomed along faster than Michael Phelps on speed and hit the beach, then raced along the jetty just as the boat was pulling out. One of the guides was yelling out, “You too late! We see you tomorrow!” but he didn’t know that, if need be, I’m also a world-beating long jumper. I launched myself off the end of the pier, cleared about seven metres of water, and came crashing down on top of a fat bloke on the deck of the boat. I’d made it, and from the look on the fat bloke’s face, I’d made his day, too.
On the way back I had another chat to Lenny, who asked if I was keen to “Go halvsies” with him in a hooker, and told him I’d have to give it a miss! Good bloke, that Lenny.
After getting dropped off, I had a short nap, snapped some photos of the sunset (and ‘accidentally’ managed to get some photos of a topless Malaysian sheila in there) and then had dinner at a beachside restaurant next to the one I’d visited the night before. You know, the one where the chef poisoned me for making a witty comment to his girlfriend, only for me to go back a few hours later and shit and spew all over their tables as revenge. As I tucked into my calamari rings and sipped on my cocktail, they stood a few metres away, shaking their fists and yelling at me in a language I couldn’t understand. I just raised my glass and blew them a loud raspberry, which made the chef take off his silly white hat, chuck it on the ground and step on it angrily.