What the Hell is in Your Backpack?

The general rule when packing for any form of vacation or trip is to look out what you initially think you will need; fail to get it into your suitcase or backpack without bursting the zip; get frustrated and angry; re-pack about half of what you initially looked out; break down and cry; then, go away and realise that you didn’t need everything you brought with you in the first place. It’s amazing how things that start out as being ‘essentials’ soon become redundant when space-saving tactics get deployed.

Despite this universal process, however, it still startles me what some people lug around with them from place to place. Some people I’ve met whilst on the road have genuinely been caught carrying around things less useful than the rocks at the bottom of a military commando’s Bergen during a training exercise. From wooden elephant carvings that they’ve picked up for a haggled bargain in Asia; to the entire cosmetics and allergies counter at a drug store; to the type of cultural clothing that should be illegal for anyone but a local to wear, I’ve narrowed it down to the Top 4 ‘most weird shit’ I’ve seen people travelling with that has led me to question, “what the hell is in your backpack?”

Iron

I once entered a hostel dorm in Toronto, Canada to find an English lad kneeling down and ironing a flannel shirt which he’d laid out across the dusty hardwood floor.

“I didn’t realise that the reception here had such useful amenities,” I said to him. “Why aren’t you using their ironing board as well, though? The ground is filthy. You’ll need to wash that shirt again before you put it on.”

“Oh no,” he said, “I didn’t get this from reception. It’s mine.”

“Very funny,” I said, giving him a pat on the shoulder.

“No, he’s being serious,” said his friend, lying on a bed in the corner and watching the spectacle.

“You carry a fucking iron about with you?” I laughed.

“What’s wrong with that?” he asked. Looking up at me.

“Where to start?” I retorted.

He frowned, clearly butthurt.

Fake Breast Implant

In March 2017, I spent one month in Auckland, New Zealand drafting my latest book. Lazing about in bed one morning after a pub crawl, I was startled when a foreign object fell from the bunk above me and landed with a thud down the gap between my mattress and the wall. I reached down and picked it up. It was a squishy, round, lump just small enough to fit in the clasped palm of one of my large hands. I initially thought that it might have been some sort of new-age alarm clock, it had fallen from someone’s bed after all, but ruling this out after further inspection I then guessed that it must have been a stress ball, albeit a rather large one.

“Did I drop something?” said the gay Greek teenager above me. He’d arrived a few day’s previous but I’d yet to converse with him.

“Yeah, man,” I said handing him the stress ball with a miffed look on my face. “Are you feeling under pressure at the moment?”

“What do you mean?” he replied in broken English.

“Well, that’s a stress ball, right?”

“No, it’s a fake breast implant,” he laughed. “A chicken fillet.”

“I’m sorry if this is a stupid question,” I said, puzzled, “but what the hell is that doing in your rucksack?”

“One of my friends works in a clinic and gave me it as a going away present,” he explained like it was the most logical things ever.

“Well, it’s very unfair that you get to fall asleep on a tittie every night when I don’t,” I laughed. “You’re not even attracted to them for Christ’s sake.”

Kettle

“Are you finished in the bathroom?” I asked the old Chinese guy who I was sharing a dorm room with during a trip to Fiji in February 2017.

“Give me a couple of minutes,” he replied. “I’m just waiting on my kettle to boil.”

“Sorry?” I said, thinking that something had got lost in translation. “Not the kitchen, the bathroom.”

“I know,” he said in a tone which made out that I was the moron. “There are no plug sockets next to my bed so I have to use the one next to the sink. It also means that I don’t risk spilling the hot water all over my stuff. I’ve had the kettle for a while and it’s got a few cracks in it.”

“You mean to say that you carry around a kettle with you everywhere you go?” I asked him as he set up a little table next to the side of his bed. “That’s dedication to ensuring that your coffee gets made just the way you like it every time.”

“Oh, no,” he said. “I don’t drink tea or coffee. It’s so that I can heat up my noodles. I have them every night.”

“Every night?” I quizzed, disgusted.

“Every night,” he confirmed, opening up his rucksack to reveal packets and packets of the instant pieces of shit that held the same nutritional values as sawdust. With that, the kettle clicked off and he went about preparing his dinner.

“”I’m done,” I laughed, locking the toilet door behind me, putting my arse cheeks on the seat and letting out a massive fart and shit combo. Bon appetite.

Large Childhood Teddy Bear

“Have you seen this?” I said to the French guy sprawled out on the opposing bunk in our cramped four-person dorm, picking up the giant teddy bear lying on the sheets of the bed above mine. “Who the hell has enough room to lug this stuffed thing around with them? It must belong to a teenager who is on their first trip away from home."

Like clockwork, the door to the room then opened and a brunette Russian girl in her mid-twenties came in.

“Is this yours I said?” caught red-handed holding her prized possession.

“It is,” she replied. “Would you care to put Lisa back where you found her.”

“Sorry,” I guiltily responded, putting the teddy bear back down with the delicacy of how one would handle a newborn baby. “Can I ask why you have brought it travelling, though? Has it been passed down in your family from mother to daughter, perhaps? Or does it carry a lot of sentimental value for other reasons?”

“Not at all,” she said, dumping her bag and turning to leave. “I just like to cuddle with it at night.”

“I didn’t realise that we were sharing a room with a virgin,” laughed the French guy as she closed the door behind her.

Get Drunk on a Vineyard Tour (Bucket List #146)

Waiheke Island, New Zealand • February 2017 • Length of Read: 10 Minutes

I awoke to find myself covered in itchy mosquito bites. Tara had warned me about how bad they were, with the scars on her skin to prove it, but in our drunken states, Nene, Possum, and I had stupidly forgotten to shut the windows of our dorm room at Hekerua Lodge before crashing out for the night. Whilst my two Dutch girls got changed I applied some cream to the bites and then gave Justin a call to see if we were still on for the vineyard tour that morning; intrigued as to whether he would remember the drunken promise that he’d made to us in the Sandbar the prior night. At the time it had seemed almost too good to be true.

“Crobs,” he answered in a high-pitched ring. “I’ve just picked up my second group and am on my way to get you. Are you still good to go?”

“Of course,” I said, laughing back down the phone. “I was just calling to see if you were actually going to show up or whether it was going to be like a typical date where I’m left twiddling my thumbs at the bar, alone.”

“I’ll be at the bus stop where we agreed to meet in about twenty minutes,” sang his voice through the speaker. “If you guys could be ready and waiting for then it would be much appreciated. There are two others from your accommodation also booked on the trip so look out for them as well.”

“Will do,” I said, before hanging up the phone. “Chop, chop, girls. We’ve got a lift to catch.”

In visiting Waiheke, I was filling an obligation and promise that I’d made to my friend Tara. In 2015, the island that is situated a forty-minute ferry journey north of Auckland was voted as the fifth best destination in the world to visit by Lonely Planet; primarily due to its extensive array of vineyards, golden beaches, and restaurants. Tara had lived on the island for four months at Hekerua Lodge and had worked at one of these vineyards. What better a place to tick off bucket list number 146 then? And on a sweltering New Zealand summer day.

We’d arrived on the island paradise the previous night, but wandering into town to find something to eat after checking in, we instead found ourselves ordering up a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc at the Sandbar, a lovely open-aired establishment that overlooked the marina bay and beach. Here, we got chatting to the bubbly fellow sitting at the table next to us, and in doing so became acquainted with the one and only Justin Moore.

He wore a flowery Hawaiian shirt which was fully unbuttoned to reveal a sweat-soaked grey t-shirt underneath. His short, receding, hairline had left his forehead a little sunburnt-red and his voice was a little camp. A namesake of the famous country music singer, Justin Moore was about forty-five years of age and had a zestful energy for life that was simply infectious. From behind his prescription designer sunglasses, he informed us that he was born on Waiheke, moved away for a number of years to pursue work opportunities in Japan and the United States, and had then returned to the island a few years previous to live a quieter life.

“I now operate a small business called Waiheke Tour running barbeque, vineyard, and beach tours of the island,” he said. From his slurred speech it was clear that Justin had also had his fair share of vino for the evening.

“Really?” said Possum, attempting to show a fistful of nachos into his mouth from across the table. Hunger had finally taken over and we’d ordered a plate to share between the three of us. “We were planning on doing a vineyard tour tomorrow but haven’t booked anything yet,” she continued, sounding more steaming than a James Watt designed engine. I’m not going to go as far as saying that Possum and Nene are alcoholics, but if they ever met Jesus then the first thing they’d ask was for him to turn all water supplies into wine taps.

“I just so happen to have three spare seats on my wine tour tomorrow, actually,” said Justin, munching down the chips and salsa that Possum had shoved into his pie hole. “We visit three different vineyards and then I cook up a massive barbeque of succulent steaks, juicy sausages, and grilled veggies for everyone. Are you interested?”

And that is how we found ourselves standing at the bus stop the following morning, Possum regaling the tale of how we came to be in such a position to the British couple that Justin had been referring to on the phone. Nathan was a London city boy and Jenny a Northern Irish girl from just outside of Belfast.

The honking of a horn diverted our attention down the road. Rounding the corner, the vehicle that had caused the commotion came into view. Behind the wheel of the beat-up minivan was the man himself, waving so furiously at us with a gaping smile that I was genuinely concerned he was about to lose control of his Anna; so named due to the personalised registration plate stapled to the front grill.

“All aboard,” yelled Justin gleefully, opening up the electric folding side-door.

“Morning,” we cried as we climbed up the steps and shuffled to the five empty seats at the rear, addressing him like a church congregation responding to their minister.

Already onboard was a middle-aged Scottish couple from Queens Park, three Canadians, and three Kiwis. It transpired that the twenty-something Kiwi guy and similarly aged Canadian girl were engaged to be married on Waiheke in one year’ time and that both sets of parents had come together for a holiday, to get to know their future extended family better, and to have talks with the venue where they’d be tying the knot; one of the twenty-five vineyards that littered the island at the time of writing.

If they were still together in twelve months’ time, that is. Even on the short journey to our first of three stops, Batch Winery, I could tell that the incessant questioning from the mother of the bride was pissing off the groom; her status as a control freak having clearly already been stamped on proceedings.

The bride herself was a very attractive girl in a bright white sundress; her jet-black hair falling down her back and coming to rest over the two giant angel wings tattooed across her shoulder blades and spine. I immediately wondered where her devil horns were hidden. This allure both tantalised and fascinated me in equal parts, taking over my thoughts as we rolled into the Batch car park. This term has a double-meaning in New Zealand, being used to describe a holiday home or beach house as well as the quantity of wine produced each time a harvesting and fermentation process is run.

The highest vineyard on the island, we were led by Batch’s Dutch sommelier to a lone tree atop the hill where the on-site restaurant was situated; a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree panorama opening up before us. There was not a cloud in the sky and although this meant I’d had to douse myself in sunscreen that morning, the clear weather meant that we could also make out the spire of Auckland’s Sky Tower as we took shade under the solitary pine. Beneath its branches were two casks, a selection of branded glasses organised neatly on top of one and four different bottles of wine perched on the other.

“This vineyard is the newest on the island,” said the Dutch guy, pouring the first bottle. “It’s owned by a Canadian family and opened for business two years’ ago. They are actually here holidaying at the moment, so be on your best behaviour,” he joked. “Our first batch of wines for retail are expected to be ready in about one year from now.”

“We’re Canadian,” announced the mother of the bride, “and it would be really nice to meet them.”

“I think they're a bit busy for that, unfortunately,” squinted the sommelier, shutting her down in the politest way possible. I’m sure the last thing that the savvy millionaire owners wished to do whilst enjoying some downtime in their own batch was to brush shoulders with overzealous guests; fellow countrymen and women, or not.

I took a sip of the drink that I’d been handed. Despite the large quantities of alcohol that I consume on a far-too-regular basis, I’m no wine expert. I couldn’t tell the difference between a Chilean Malbec and a Cabernet from Mendoza if they both bit me on the same arse cheek. What I will say, however, is that as my eyes took in the scenery from behind the prescription lenses of my sunglasses, I couldn’t help but feel that the views cast over the island were a lot more breath-taking than the wine swirling around my palate. I swallowed it anyway. Hair of the dog.

Peacock Sky was the name of our second stop, confusing considering that the logo for the vineyard stamped on the entrance gate was that of a butterfly; a farfalle. A small marquee had been erected in the garden, with the place settings indicating that we’d not only be getting a sample of five different wines, but also a posh nibble to go with each. Apparently, the couple that owned this particular establishment were wannabe-chefs as well as wine enthusiasts.

I took a space next to the Scottish couple and got chatting to them about life at home. I love meeting fellow Scots on the road, as you can immediately cut through all the wishy-washy bullshit conversations that are far-too-frequent between travellers and get straight to the good stuff. The man was the type of character who I imagined spent a large portion of each weekend sinking pints down his local pub whilst watching the footy, and it was apparent that his wife had brought him on this wine tour as a form of societal education as much as to have a relaxing drink.

“What flavours are you getting through?” asked the Frenchman running the session, directing his question towards my compatriot.

“Alcohol,” he bluntly responded, knocking it back in one large gulp like he was a goldfish swimming in a tank. The stare from his wife at that moment could have burnt a hole in the back of his head, but he was having too good a time to care. We were all beginning to get a little tipsy, especially myself who hadn’t had anything to eat since that shared plate of nachos the night before.

“Oh my God,” squealed the mother of the bride as she took a bite into the tiny square of chocolate brownie that had been placed in front of us. “Yummy.”

I took one look across the table, locked eyes with Nathan, and we both burst into sniggered laughter; the wine acting as a catalyst.

“It’s so creamy,” she then moaned as tears rolled down my face.

“I feel like I’ve just learned what that lady sounds like when she comes,” I whispered to Nathan as we strolled back to the bus, feeling rather jolly.

“Get that image out of my head right now,” he squirmed.

Our third and final stop was where Justin Moore had promised to cook us our barbeque lunch, and despite the hors d’oeuvres served at the previous venue, I was still absolutely ravenous. Whilst Justin fired up the gas, we were treated to a lesson in the art of making a good wine by the owner of Dellows Waiheke, Bill Dellows. A fascinating thing I learned is that in order to maintain balance in the wine, extracts of either eggs, fish, or clay need to be added at the clarification step of the process.

“Are you telling me that wine is not vegan-friendly then?” asked the mother of the bride, sounding appalled.

“You can’t usually tell from the ingredients on the label exactly what was used to clarify it, so it is advised if you are vegan to not drink wine at all, yes,” answered Bill in his softly-spoken accent. His white, Santa Claus, beard indicated that he was tipping retirement age and his demeanour was that of a person who had seen it all when it came to wine, whisky, and spirits.

“I know that some of the cheaper goon sacks, for example, contain up to forty percent fish oil,” I added; Nathan nodding his head in agreement.

“What’s a goon sack,” she asked, annoyed that she didn’t know.

“It’s the boxed wine that you get from liquor stores in Australia,” I informed her. Who knew that something I’d learnt from passing out drunk on a beach one night whilst on a 4x4 trip to Fraser Island would have come in handy at a wealthy vineyard. That’s what I call a tertiary style of education right there. “They make really useful pillows,” I smiled.

“Oh no,” she gasped. “I can’t wait to go home and tell all of my friends. This could be disastrous for some of them.”

“I feel sorry for the people that have to call her their friend,” I mouthed to Nene as the smell of Justin’s cooking drew us onto the patio outside; our awesome day-drinking session brought to a close with an absolute epic spread for lunch that got wolfed down. Justin Moore – what a legend.

Links:

https://www.facebook.com/waiheketour/

A Professional's Guide to Flashpacking: Part II

Labuan Bajo, Flores, Indonesia • March 2017 • Length of Read: 3 Minutes

Having successfully flashpacked my way around New Zealand and the South Pacific, scoffing in the faces of those travel wankers more frugal than Ebenezer Scrooge, I found myself on the island of Bali in Indonesia. My connecting flight from Australia had been delayed, and by the time I got the arrival stamp in my passport I’d been awake for twenty hours, with another four having been lost to time zones. Strolling through the arrivals gate, hordes of taxi drivers surrounded me like bees in a hive, like paparazzi around a Hollywood A-lister; each offering the ‘best price’ to wherever my heart’s desire wished to go. Too tired to haggle, I accepted the first price quoted to me and followed the bewildered driver to his car. Those who get into lengthy barter transactions just to save an extra £0.30 really need to have a look at how they are spending their most important resource: their time

“Do you want to go and see some dragons?” I asked Fraser, taking a sip of export Corona. Local beer in Asia is a lot cheaper than that shipped in, but the taste just doesn’t agree with me sometimes. I could drink Bintang all night and rather than feel drunk my stomach will just bloat up until I look like a pregnant woman. We were sat in the lounge area of our hostel watching a Canadian guy making a bowl of pre-packed super noodles. Why someone would come to Indonesia and cook for themselves is beyond me. South East Asian cuisine is some of the most diverse and tastiest in the world and if bought from one of the myriad street stalls is so cheap that it will make you feel like you’re shoplifting.

“Dragons?” queried my fellow Scot. I’d met him just that morning, having conked out upon my arrival the night before. Both of us had checked into one of the six-bed dorms available which, for an extra £1.18 per night, meant that we got air conditioning instead of a fan. The room was like walking into the large storage freezer of a food production plant, both in temperature and smell. With the sun blasting down rays peaking in the thirties and humidity levels comparable to that of a dense jungle, it confounded me why some people always opt for the most basic and money-saving bed available. How little do you care about your wellbeing that you are happy to sweat like a paedophile in a playground all night just to save a quid?

“The Komodo dragons,” I explained. “It says here in my guidebook that the small islands of Komodo and Rinca off the west coast of Flores are the only places in the world where these big giant 3m long monitor lizards can be seen in the wild.”

“Absolutely man,” nodded Fraser, biting into a white chocolate and almond flavoured Magnum ice-cream. In the soaring heat you need to ensure that you stay cool, and a little treat every day isn’t going to burst the budget. I’m a firm believer that you should never travel until funds are so low that you return flat out broke. I’ve met a scarily large number of people living in hostels and working part-time shifts in cafes because they can’t afford to get back home. At least they are fending for themselves, I suppose, and not committing the number one backpacker sin of calling the bank of dad for additional funds.

“Awesome,” I smiled, happy to have found a new companion. Flashpacking is best done in groups of two of three. This way, at least one person is usually always keen for a night out or a daytime activity and you’ll egg each other on to do cool shit and live like you are dying. When travelling alone, it is easy to hole up and reduce spending at the cost of missing out on potential adventures and on creating memories that will echo down through the centuries for millennia to come.

“How are we going to get there?” he asked as I pointed on the map to where the islands were located. “It looks quite far.”

“Yeah, by boat it takes about four days. You can also fly there in just over one hour, though.”

“And what’s the price difference?”

“Irrelevant,” I laughed. “We’re getting on a plane.”

A Professional's Guide to Flashpacking: Part I

Queenstown, New Zealand • March 2017 • Length of Read: 4 Minutes

From my time spent on the road, I have learnt that there is no one way to travel. And that means that there is no right way to travel either. Far too often, I’ve seen people judge me for what they consider ‘wasting money’. They say that I’ve incurred unnecessary expenses as a result of ‘not travelling properly’. Well, guess what? I didn’t leave home to wander the globe under the strict conditions that I would live off a diet of pasta and noodles every day, only drink beer when it is on discount offer, and get a job cleaning the showers and changing the beds in hostels in return for free accommodation. I came away to enjoy myself. I came away to live life to the fullest. And this is exactly what two lads I met in New Zealand were doing. Every. Single. Day. They weren’t backpacking in your traditional sense, but flashpacking.

“Ditch the rucksack for a start,” said Adam, sipping on a dark n’ stormy. “The wheeled suitcase is the way forward.” We were sat with his travelling companion, Giles, in a fancy rum cocktail bar in Queenstown, shooting the breeze and killing some time before our dinner reservations that evening. “Oh, and avoid local backpacker bars if you can, especially during happy hour promotions. They always run in conjunction with mandatory organised fun activities. I’d rather shit on my hands and clap than spend my evenings gulping watered-down beer that tastes like feet whilst watching dudes take their clothes off in a bid to win a free skydive.”

I’d asked him what it meant to be a flashpacker, and he was spelling out the truth to me. Unlike some weapons that you find on the road who dwindle away money, he hadn’t relied on an inheritance to fund his jaunts around the Earth, but years of saving. A small portion of each month’s paycheck had gone into a separate travel fund and now he was enjoying himself. Road tripping across the United States, the boys had then spent Christmas in Fiji before coming to New Zealand.

“I’m also pretty lazy when it comes to cooking,” added Giles, “and would much rather eat out than wrestle around a kitchen that is more overcrowded than a Taiwanese jail; fighting for the only pan that doesn’t contain traces of salmonella. It also allows me to sample the local cuisine. And when it comes to preparing lunches you can forget it. A lot of people carry cooler bags around with them filled with half-packets of mince, near-empty jars of tomato sauce, and tubs of super saver peanut butter that they will spread on anything more solid than peanut butter. I always find the $9 pizza baguettes and steak pies from roadside pit stops to be much more filling and nourishing. The occasional $10 smoothie can also be very nutritional. We don’t want to be getting sick now, do we?”

Giles was wearing a Ralph Lauren Polo shirt and had his hair perfectly groomed. Appearance was important to him, and he hadn’t let being constantly on the move interfere with his fashion sense. “I mean, I really have no desire to slide on a pair of elephant pants from Asia or an oversized sleeveless vest advertising a beer I don’t even like,” he pointed out. “There are also the standard backpacker activities which we don’t get pure enjoyment from. Instead of playing mini-golf putting, for example, we would rather rent a set of clubs and play eighteen holes of a Championship course.”

“I see where you are coming from,” I nodded, my philosophy very much aligned with what they were saying. The boys were so unashamedly themselves that it was near-impossible not to be drawn into their lifestyle choices. “Some people that I’ve met on the road have changed so much that they would probably be unrecognisable now to their friends and family. If I can return back home the exact same person as I was when I left, albeit more cultured, have more apathy for the world, and have more epic stories to tell, then I will be as happy as can be. I once booked a $600 flight as a present for a friend to come and visit me on a trip, only to find out that they couldn’t make it and my purchase was both non-refundable and non-modifiable. Would that classify as flashpacking?”

“Absolutely,” said Adam. “A perfect example of doing something under your own accord and not because someone else has influenced you. Money can be earned, lost, and re-earned. Time cannot.”

“And what do you do when you want to slow things down and look after the wallet every now and then?” I asked, intrigued.

“That’s simple,” he laughed. “We have a quiet night in amongst the blackjack and roulette tables of a local casino.”

Island Hopping around Fiji (Bucket List #93)

Yasawa Island Chain, Fiji • March 2017 • Length of Read: 10 Minutes

Type ‘Fiji Party Island’ into your search engine and Beachcomber will be the first result that pops up. Wrapped in a spotlessly clean golden beach, you can walk around the entire island in less than seven minutes, and it is the renowned hangout spot in the South Pacific where backpackers tend to get a little loose. Where better to kick off my Fijian island-hopping adventure?

I’d booked the trip through a sketchy guy at the hostel travel agents when in Queenstown, New Zealand, and the only thing I had to confirm my booking was a Facebook message received from the dude with a reservation number and the date of initial travel. I was pretty sceptical as to whether I’d actually booked anything, but the message said that I was scheduled to be on the boat leaving the mainland port at 8:30am. I awoke at 7am on my morning of travel and went to the hostel reception to inquire as to how much a taxi to the port would cost.

“You don’t need to worry about a taxi,” beamed the lady behind reception. She had been working the desk at least since I’d gone to bed the night before but was still full of energy. “The bus will pick you up in ten minutes.”

“Bus?” I frowned, “But I didn’t even tell the tour company where I was staying.”

“That’s no bother, the bus always comes past at 7:10am each morning to pick guests up. You better go and get your stuff.”

I sprinted back to my dorm, shoved the loose contents into my rucksack, and came back downstairs just in time to jump onboard. My Facebook confirmation number was enough to get me on both the bus and boat, and I took a seat in the downstairs area of the vessel next to two English lads who I recognised from the hostel bar the previous night. Dan was a big ginger farmer boy and Luke a short, fat, comic book nerd, but the two had struck an unlikely friendship. Both were also going to Beachcomber and had high expectations of the place.

“Have you heard of a thing called Cloud 9?” asked Dan, who would intermittently interrupt conversations with such absurd statements as ‘your nan’s called Jeff’, and ‘Jonathan Ross is my dad’. It was like a weird form of family Tourette syndrome.

“The phrase used to describe the feeling of floating on air because you are so happy?” I asked.

“No, the two level floating raft out in the middle of nowhere where you go to for the afternoon to get drunk and party along to music played by internationally-known DJs.”

“Sounds awesome,” I responded.

“Yeah, we were thinking of booking it for tomorrow once we’ve seen what the talent on the island looks like.”

Upon approaching the island we transferred from the large vessel to a smaller boat that could cut its way through the shallow water and sped towards the landing area. Lined up on the beach were four of the resort’s employees holding musical instruments, and as we approached they welcomed us in with traditional songs. I don’t know if this is statistically correct, but I would estimate that approximately 97% of all Fijians know how to play the guitar.

Dan, Luke, and I turned out to be the only three people that got off the boat, and as we checked-in to our dorm rooms it was clear that the island wasn’t at full capacity. That’s to say, it was fucking dead. Despite being down season for travellers, only twenty of the 600 beds on the island were occupied.

Unperturbed, we dumped out bags and went back down to the beach where two English girls and a pair of Italian brothers were chilling. As well as mentioning to them that all of their nans were called Jeff and that Jonathan Ross was his dad, Dan also asked whether they were planning on going to Cloud 9 at any point. Yes, yes they were.

Lunch was called at 12pm and I was thankful to get into the shade. Being a pasty, ginger, Scot, I’m not really built for beach life, and it was apparent that even though I’d only been out for a short time, some severe damage had already been done. I’d tried to sun-cream my own back and clearly missed an out-of-reach portion down my spine. The patch was sanguine red and already beginning to sting. Not as much as the mosquito bites that I’d somehow collected, however. They had attacked me like I was a sewing cushion and itchy red spots ran all the way up my legs. As the boys finished lunch and went back to tanning, I retired to my abode and lay there in a feverish sweat. I then lay there all afternoon, all night, and then all the next day, letting the others go to Cloud 9 without me. Welcome to paradise.

When they returned that afternoon I felt a lot better. Lathering myself in aloe vera lotion and antiseptic cream for twenty-four hours straight like I was preparing for an intense Thai massage had somewhat dimmed the redness, and I was keen to have a few beers with the team. Of the twenty guests on the island, six of them were socially inept eighteen-year-old Germans girls. Whilst we sat at the bar watching a live fire-juggling show being put on by a troupe of travelling pacific islanders, they sat in the opposite corner playing card games and refusing to make eye contact with one another. By the time the show ended, I’d had enough.

“You guys need to be more inclusive,” I said, marching up to their table and sitting down.

“What do you mean?” replied the alpha female of the group.

“Well, you make up 30% of all guests on this island and you’re being more unsociable than widowed spinster hermits. How about we all play a drinking game together?”

“Yeah, okay,” responded the same girl, realising that they should perhaps be making more of an effort. As it turned out, they were absolute booze hounds. We drank and partied for the rest of the evening, giving the DJ requests and then dancing in the summer rain that had started to fall until we were soaked through to the bone.

Brushing my teeth in the communal bathroom before bed, I glanced bleary-eyed at the Danish guy standing next to me. I’d seen him at lunch and dinner but he appeared to be a little odd so I hadn’t instigated a conversation with him. Perhaps that was a bit hypocritical of me considering the conversation I’d had with the German girls earlier that evening, but as he gazed soullessly into the mirror in front of him I felt like my decision was justified.

“Are you okay, mate?” I asked, slightly concerned. His face resembled a smudged oil painting.

“Ear infection,” he grimaced, getting out a cotton bud and poking it into his ear canal.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, before realising that was probably not the best statement to have made under the circumstances. Choosing to nip the conversation in the bud I turned round and staggered my way back to my dorm where I subsequently collapsed into my bed. Dan and Luke were already asleep.

The following morning I checked out of my room on Beachcomber and went down to the restaurant where they had a full English breakfast buffet on offer. Dan and Luke were heading to a different island from me that day, but there was another English couple on the island who were also planning on heading to Manta Ray Resort. Not knowing when I’d next be fed, I filled my plate high with sausage, potato scones, bacon, and pancakes before sitting down beside them. They turned out not to be a couple at all, but brother and sister.

“You guys sounded like you had fun last night,” said Robyn with a smirk.

“In what sense, I said?” genuinely perplexed. “Were we a little on the loud side? If so, I do apologise.”

“No, it was more one of the German girls who sounded like she was enjoying herself,” chuckled her brother, Oli.

“What a sly dog that Dan is,” I laughed as we were called for the arrival of the boat. “I knew that his dad was Jonathan Ross, but I had absolutely no idea that he got it in last night.”

The weather had closed in slightly, making the seas extremely choppy. As I sat on the boat with my eyes closed, music in and sunburn rubbing against the back of the seat, the vessel decided to deal with the rough waters by doing its best impression of an Alaskan fishing trawler. My large breakfast may have been a good idea at the time, but I was already regretting the decision to stuff my face. I could feel it resurfacing and when we hit a wave that acted more like a brick wall than water I projectile vomited right into the sick bag I’d grabbed from one of the passing stewards. From what came out, my body hadn’t even had time to properly process the meat.

By the time we arrived at Manta Ray two hours later I’d thrown up twice more, the final one just being water and grog. I was sweating like a paedophile in a nursery and had become severely dehydrated from the outing. The last thing I wanted to therefore hear was another traditional song. Sure enough, however, as we entered the bay to Manta Ray there they were. Those well-meaning Fijian employees and their bloody music. I gave them a weak hello upon disembarking, looking as pale as a corpse and head still spinning. What I needed now was a large bottle of water, a comfortable pillow, and some rest and relaxation. Unfortunately, though, I was also placed in a 32 person dorm for my sins, and you’ll never guess who had the pleasure of being in the bunk above me. The weird Danish guy with the ear infection.

I was lying on my bed at 6pm that afternoon when the whining noise started. I was reading my book and feeling a lot better. The sunburn and mosquito bites were ever-present, but my seasickness had subsided. Having tossed and turned all afternoon, the Danish guy had eventually managed to fall asleep, but as the sound of the hairdryer got louder and louder he awoke from his nap in a rage.

“Turn that thing off,” he yelled. “I’m trying to sleep here.”

“It sounds like your request has fallen on deaf ears,” I toyed with him as the noise continued. “Is now a bad time to tell you that I snore like a bear in hibernation, have a severe uncontrollable flatulence problem, and plan on having loud rough sex tonight right on this bed?”

“You better not,” he responded, legitimately concerned.

“Then you better stop complaining,” I said. “If you want to have complete peace and quiet at this time in the afternoon then book yourself into a private room.” His sulking face went as sheet white as mine had been on the boat crossing.

The culprit and owner of the hairdryer had been Lucy, a lovely Welsh girl who was travelling with her friend Megan. The pair had become friendly with Robyn and Oli, so the five of us had dinner together that night. I retired back to the room soon after, still not feeling very well, whilst the others headed down to the bar where jugs of sangria were on offer.

I awoke the next morning to see that the bunk above me had been vacated. ‘No way,’ I thought to myself. ‘We actually ripped into the Danish dude so hard that he checked out a day early.’ He was definitely meant to have stayed on Manta Ray for two nights. I walked to the restaurant for breakfast and found the four Brits slumped over one of the tables.

“Well, what happened last night?” I chuckled, assessing the pile of limp bodies in front of me. The weird Danish guy has already checked out this morning and left because he couldn’t hack out chat, by the way.”

“Ugh,” moaned Megan. “Things got a little silly last night. We ended up getting wasted, danced on the tables, and then went skinny dipping in the ocean once the bar closed.”

“Jesus,” I laughed, “sounds like I missed out. It must have been quite the party.”

“Not really,” laughed Robin. “It was actually only just the four of us. Megan almost fell asleep in her sandy dungarees, Oli fell into a ditch at the side of the wooden walkway when trying to get back to the room, and there is no way that I’m even going to try and stomach breakfast this morning.”

“Speaking from experience that seems like a wise decision” I giggled. The four of them were truly a class group of people.

I got the boat back to the mainland that afternoon, fed up of resorts. Tanning on beaches all day is some people’s idea of Heaven, but for my skin pigment, it is literally hotter than Hell. Perhaps I hadn’t made the most of my time on the Fijian islands, but considering the pain I had caused my body I couldn’t care less. I wasn’t walking on could nine but more hot coals. Thankfully, the seas were calm for my return trip, though, and the journey passed without the contents of my stomach deciding to make another unwanted appearance. I got the shuttle bus from the port back to the same hostel that I’d stayed at before departing for my trip and grabbed a free room.

Buzzing the key card against the door I entered into the air-conditioned bliss and froze in my footsteps. Standing in front of me was the weird Danish guy. I nodded towards him and he meekly shuffled past. We were only bloody sharing a bunk bed together again.