Tag Archives: Yasawa Islands

From Yasawa to Suva in about elenty billion hours

IMG_9025My final morning on Fiji’s Yasawa Islands was as wet as a fat girl with a bag of Doritos, so I sat around like a beached jellyfish until a big yellow boat came and took me back to the mainland. While I enjoyed my time there, the escape couldn’t come quick enough – the weather was a real bummer, and I was sick of being around the same people all the time. Halfway through a game of beach footy it rocked up, and I was out of there.

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If this is your dream holiday destination, start having better dreams

The three-hour ride back was uneventful, but that was only the start of my journey. I was booked in at a hotel in Suva, on the other side of the country, and had no transport booked for the trip. We got into Denerau Island just as it was getting dark, and everyone else soon disappeared to nearby hotels. I was left alone, and asked a random woman at a desk if she could help. She told me that, of all people, the captain of the boat I’d just been on was going to Suva, and I could tag along with him. I was saved!

I had to wait around Denerau for a while, and it’s a joke of a place. Western shops filled with fat white idiots, off on exotic holidays with every speck of exoticness squeezed out. It might’ve been Sydney or something, because it sure as hell didn’t represent anything Fijiian. I just don’t get the point of going on a holiday like that – why not save yourself the hassle and just stay at home with a beer in one hand and yourself in the other?

The Captain (who was named Fabriatore! Seriously, Fabriatore the Fijian boat captain!) and I took a chauffeured car off the island, but that was as luxurious as things got. The car drove us through the shit-sty that is Nadi, before dumping us in a dark alleyway full of very large black men. It felt like the opening scene of a dodgy gay porno, and I was genuinely scared as I got my bags and then packed them away in an ancient red minivan that looked like it could barely make it across the street, let alone across the country. Of course we had to wait around another half hour or so, and I was shitting myself every time a shadowy figure walked past. I’d put all my trust in a bloke who claimed to drive a boat, and now I was in a potentially very dangerous situation.

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Yo, where da palm trees?

The Captain handed me a curry wrap that I scoffed despite knowing it would probably see me painting the inside of my undies brown before long, then we got the call and piled into the minivan. I was relieved to be out of a dangerous situation – for about three seconds. The van had no suspension and appeared to be held together with stickytape and prayers, and there was twice as many people in it as could possibly be safe. We rattled and rolled for a few kilometres, until we stopped and three more people climbed in, including a handsome Indian man who sat on my lap.

His name was Vijay, and he wouldn’t shut up about the power of the mind and other bullshit like that. He was a harmless bloke, but if I wanted an Indian dude bouncing on my lap I would’ve gone to one of those special clubs on Oxford Street, so I was happy when he got off. Like, off the bus – I don’t mean he had an orgasm. Well, maybe he did, who knows.

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Vijay was both well-dressed, and dashingly handsome

Ten minutes down the road there was a loud bang and the van lurched violently to one side. The driver and the two blokes next to him got out, swapped over one of the wheels, and we were rattlin’ and rollin’ down the road again. We crept along some truly atrocious roads, then there was a loud crash as the van shat itself while trying to make it over a speed bump. The driver and his two mates – who, I assume, were only there to help fix the car whenever it died – got out, banged around for 15 minutes, and then we crept into the night. It was absolutely ridiculous, and terrifying, to be in such a shoddy vehicle, speeding through the rainy night.

After five hours of stupidity, we finally rolled into the beautiful city of Suva. Right, that’s a lie – you could replace the ‘v’ in Suva with a ‘w’ and have a pretty apt description of the place. After getting out in the middle of a swarm of the dodgiest dudes you’ve ever seen in your life, The Captain and I jumped in a taxi and headed off again.

“If you don’t want to stay in a hotel, you can sleep at my house tonight,” Fabriatore the smiling Fijian sea captain told me, and I just nodded. I’d heard that people on the islands are more than happy to offer a bed to strangers, but I didn’t want to put him out any further. When I checked into the hotel, said goodbye and thanked him for all his help, he seemed genuinely upset that I hadn’t taken him up on his offer. I hope that I didn’t offend or disrespect him, because I’m truly grateful for his help. Next time, Fab.

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The hotel’s delightful al fresco room

The reward for my nightmare trip was a room in what’s either a flop house or a crack den. The exotically-named City Private Hotel, is horrible – my room is decorated with peeling paint, rat shit and a pair of undies in the corner. I just looked out the window to see a child wandering through the hallways alone, covered in crap. I can hear someone getting punched in one of the other rooms, and two blokes rooting each other somewhere else. The curry wrap has finally kicked in, and a few minutes ago I sprayed the toilet with electric orange splatter, which probably doubled the value of the joint. Oh well, things are definitely looking up, because tomorrow things slow down as I head to the magical land of Tonga. Now it’s time to go to sleep, and I just hope a rat doesn’t shit in my mouth during the night.

IMG_9104I’ll be taking a break from posting stories of my 2013 adventure to Samoa, Fiji and Tonga, and for a good reason. I’m heading to Tasmania for a week and a half, so I’ll be blogging every day about my travels through Australia’s most inbred state! And tomorrow, I’ll be putting up a very special story about the time I went to jail. So join me as the Bauer World Tour takes me to Hobart!

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Buster gets busted!

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

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

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It’s Manta Ray Romano!

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

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

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

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

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

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Beached as, bro

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Sorry, Buster… yeah, sorry you’re a cunt!

Why does it always rain on me? Is it because I masturbated too much when I was seventeen?

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

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

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

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Buster looks a bit like this bloke… only less Asian

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

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It never rains in the ocean

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

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Mouths open like a Kings Cross hooker

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

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The Maccas is just out of shot

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh well, at least I tried.

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

Kava Chameleon

IMG_8906Everyone knows that Fiji is always sunny and beautiful, so I was shocked and appalled to wake up in the middle of a cyclone, with rain and wind smashing the fuck out of everything around me. Ah well, it would have to be nice and sunny out on the islands, right?

After gobbling some leftover pizza and stashing the rest in my bag, I jumped in a little Indian bloke’s cab for a ride through the storm to Port Denerau, situated on the holiday island of Denerau. Calling it an island is a stretch – it’s separated from the mainland by a short bridge and a boom gate, to prevent any of the fat tourists who populate it from ever having to come face-to-face with any of the people who, you know, actually live in Fiji. I had a boat to catch, and I made it onboard only a minute or so before it left I live my life like Indiana Jones, always escaping under the closing door of a tomb at the last second.

IMG_8871The boat ride out to the far-flung Yasawa Islands is supposed to be beautiful, but for me and the other people going out that day it was nothing short of terrifying. The rain was coming down so hard that I couldn’t see more than 50m to any side, and it was as if we were all on a boat taking us to the next life. Every now and then a mountain would slide into view, before being replaced by a wall of white once more. It was as far from the photos of the islands I had seen as Wayne Swan is from a person with a basic grasp of economics.

IMG_8875After three hours we pulled up at Baluya Island, where I’ll be staying at the Manta Ray island Resort for the next three days. It was in there somewhere, under all that rain, and when I hit the sand I was impressed by the set-up. Wooden bars stand by the water, and the hill that reaches for the sky behind them is laced with delightful wooden bungalows. It would’ve looked perfect if not for the weather.

I wasn’t quite as impressed with our introduction to the island, though. While the woman who welcomed us was lovely, the whole thing gave me flashbacks to school camp, which is the opposite of what I want on a holiday. I spend my whole life being told what to do, when and how, so learning that drums would beat when it was time to eat filled me with a slow-creeping dread.

IMG_8892Lunch was served straight away, and again it was like school camp. The restaurant looks out over the misty beach, and is filled with long, wooden benches. I fell in with a couple of blokes from Sydney, Ryan and Simon (hey, that almost rhymes!), and we all decided that the only way to deal with such foul weather was to drink the day away.

I’d pictured myself snorkelling and lying on the beach, instead I spent the next eight hours drinking Fiji Bitter (which, according to my brother, is actually Victoria Bitter. But he also tells people he has a six-inch penis, while I’ve been reliably informed that it’s actually four-and-a-half and tastes like Doritos) and perving on backpackers, who were wearing far too much clothing due to the weather. Fuck.

IMG_8944I’d been wanting to get stuck into the kava while overseas, so I was stoked when the bloke who ran most of the activities, Solo, came over and asked if we wanted to have some with the boys that night. Of course we did! We headed away from the glossy facade of Manta Ray, and ended up on the dark western side of the island. Here everything wasn’t so glossy. We ducked into the shed where the boys at the resort live, and it was sad what they had compared to what was given to the guests. Their room was as big as mine, but nine dudes shared it. They slept in beds with thin mattresses. One fella slept on the floor. When we got there they were sitting on the floor, cross-legged, waiting for the kava.

I was already pretty sloshed, but lapped thirstily when the bowl was passed to me. It tasted like what it was, dirty water, and did nothing at first. But the boys were good company, and the conversation started rolling as more and more kava was passed around.

vlcsnap-2015-09-14-09h10m59s830I became incredibly relaxed, without losing control of any of my faculties like I do when I drink. Time slowed down and ceased to mean anything. I got talking to the young bloke next to me, Jojo. I don’t know if it was the kava or what, but we really got on, despite the societal, economic or racial boundaries.

He’d grown up on the island, and had been at Manta Ray for the same amount of time I’ve been at The Picture, and was sick of his work as I was of mine. He’d actually been fired a few years ago, after some German bird like the look of him and asked him to meet her in the dorm later that night. Jojo went along, of course, and porked her rotten. Unfortunately the kraut had been a virgin, and Jojo hung like a horse, and he pretty much split her in half. The next morning the German chick’s bed looked like a murder scene, and Jojo was gawnski.

He was working security that night back at the bar, so I headed back with him to see if there were any Germans who I could maim in a similar way. There weren’t so we lay back, both completely relaxed and barely able to speak.

When I got back to my hut and checked my phone, there was a frantic email from my mother, who obviously assumed I had been stabbed in the brain or something, due to me not having contacted her in over a day. It probaby took me an hour to tap out a 10-word reply, then I dozed off for one of the best sleeps of my life.

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