We arrive in Sydney for our last night of trip at about 8:15pm. After having to ditch our first cab driver who neither spoke English nor knew how to use a navigation system, we finally make it to our shitty airport hotel. We drop our bags off, throw on some jorts and grab a cab to the city. No time to waste. We head into the city to Stina’s friend Will’s place for some pre-drinking. Our cab driver was fucking NUTS. By nuts I mean he drove exactly like me. Now I am starting to understand why people are afraid to get in a car with me. We did a pre-game straight out of 2006.
About 8-10 shots each (who’s counting?) with one can of sprite between the two of us. Efficiency at its finest. All that was missing was tally marks on our wrists. Then we were off to a club. Now, I’m not typically a fan of clubs, but a big sweaty mess of hot Aussie men does slightly appeal to me. If you can believe it. Once we get there drunky Stina realizes she has no I.D. And no I.D. means no entrance, despite our persuasive American powers. So I text my cousin and we head off to whatever seedy bar he was in where we are assured no I.D. is needed.
A few hours and a few drinking games at the bar later, everyone is shit faced. Like, super drunk. And wants to go home. Or has been kicked out of the bar for reasons unknown (my cousin, Ben). Fuck that. It’s my last night and I am in it to win it. I just need a wing man. Enter: my other cousin CJ! What are the odds? A totally random run-in.
This kid walks in with his current flavor of the month, a hot little blonde number, and I know I am saved! People to play with! So Stina heads home and I head out with CJ and his lady friend to another bar. Where we remain until 6:30am. Now, I would love to give you a little more color on the night, but it’s all a bit fuzzy.
Suffice to stay I was bouncing off the walls doing that thing where I think I am everyone’s best friend. If ya know what I mean. At 6:30am my alarm goes off. Not my wake up alarm. My “time to the leave the bar and go to the airport” alarm. So I bid everyone at the bar farewell, grab a cab, stop at the hotel to grab my bag and Stina, and we are off to the airport.
Monday, January 26, 2015 – Happy Australia Day!
And so begins the most painful flight home that has ever been. Ok, thats a lie. That time I was escorted off the plane by homeland security was way more painful. We’ll call this the most exhausting plane ride ever.
I don’t actually remember checking in or going through security, as I think I was sleep walking through it. I slept the entire flight to Auckland, suffered through a 4 hour layover and them somehow survived the 11 hour flight back to L.A.
Monday, January 26, 2015 (Our second Monday)
Back in the United States of I Hate My Fucking Life. Awesome. Customs was a hot mess. I forgot how much I fucking hate the U.S. Actually, I did not forget. But here I am. My dad picks me up at the airport – he greets me as if I’ve just been gone for a long weekend, not two months. Missed you too, Dad. Back to the real world. Since none of you cheap bastards will sponsor my blog I now have to get an actual job. One that I have to show up to every day. And deal with fucking idiots all day long. My hair has already started to fall out at the thought of it. I hope you all are happy.
A few of you have requested that I continue to write my blog even while not traveling, but I can assure you that blog would not be worth your time. Today I sat on the couch and watched Vanderpump Rules – all day long. I think reality T.V. summaries are pretty much covered on the internet already. And once I start working, it’s only going more downhill from there.
So thanks for reading. And suffering through my horrendous spelling and pathetic excuse for grammar. I have certainly had fun writing it for you all. A special thanks to my BIGGEST FAN: Kim Treacy, who put my blog at the top of her priority list. Like the rest of you should have done. Seriously people, would a comment here or there have killed you?? I’ll expect better on my next adventure…whenever the hell that may be.
An extra special thank you to my TRAVEL SOUL MATE: Christina Lutz. I cannot think of anyone that I would not have murdered after two months together except you. More importantly, I don’t think there is another person on this earth who wouldn’t have murdered me after two months. So thanks for putting up with me. It feels very wrong being apart. I am uncomfortable. I keep looking around for you to tell you something funny. This will take some getting used to.
Today we awoke refreshed after a full nights sleep. The dirty Irish cunts in our hostel somehow didn’t keep us up last night. I don’t know what it is about these skanks, but they cannot physically walk without stomping like fucking godzilla. Every time they stumble down the hall. I don’t even know how they do it. I walked down the hall and tried to replicate the thunderous noise and physically could not do it. And don’t even get me started on how fucking loud these little whores are. They are not capable of talking. They have two volumes: mute and screaming shrew. And let’s face it, they are Irish, so it basically sounds like they are screaming in a foreign language because you can’t understand a word they say. Today we saw one of these chicks who looked beyond haggard walking around the hostel in a loose tank top with no bra and her tits flopping around everywhere. And I’m not talking about cute boobs. I’m talking about those nasty Orangutan boobs that hang awkwardly and swing around everywhere. They are really more like utters than boobs. Fucking gross. No one wants to shit that shit girlfriend. Take a shower and put a bra on. These whores makes me physically ill. The boys are pretty much unoffensive, per usual.
We showered and bounced out of their asap, per usual. We went to the “farmers market” in the park across the street. I use quotes because this pathetic little accumulation of tents made the Torrance farmer’s market look like the Orange County Fair. We then had our favorite breakfast in life: avo smash. Yum. After that we drank a bottle of champs and headed out to the Aussie open. We don’t have real tickets, we just got ground passes which basically gets you into the beer garden. Based on how awesome it was on Thursday we are beyond excited. We should have known….
We show up around 11am, which is an hour after the gates open. Apparently we are a few hours too late already. The line for the beer garden is winding around the entire grounds, and we are told it’s two hours long. What.The.Fuck. What useless Aussie planned this shit? Oh it gets better. We settle into line with some beers, figuring we’ll just party in line and be shit faced by the time we get in. We are then told that we are not actually in line to get into the beer garden. We are in line to put our name and number on a list so they can text us when we can get in the second line to get into the beer garden. As I have not been born with the gift of patience, I am pretty pissed at this point. We basically accept that the beer garden is not going to happen, but we make some friends in line so we decide to stick it out just in case and keep drinking. After we put our names on this ridiculous list, we head to the other beer drinking area, which has basically turned into a second beer garden. It’s not a fun as Thursday, as there are way too many people and you have to wait in line for 30 minutes to get a beer, so you end up having to buy 4 beers at a time and hoard them. Oh, and there are tons of chicks. I guess I should just be grateful that they are not the
Sunday, January 25, 2015
Today was pretty mellow. It’s our last full day of vacation and, wouldn’t you know it, the weather is fucking horrid. It’s the first day that it is not hot. And not only is it not hot, it’s fucking freezing. Being the creatures of habit that we are, we head out to find some avo smash, as our last non-airport brekky cannot be anything else. The plan was to lay out at the beach, but since that is out we just headed to the bar. Apparently Melbourne’s version of Sunday Funday consists of tons of huge groups of dudes sitting around drinking beer waiting for slutty chicks dressed up like they are going to ‘da club to show up. I’ll take flip flops and jorts in Hermosa over that bullshit any day, thank you very much. Not sure if anyone gets super sloppy, as we had to head back in the afternoon to grab our stuff and head to the airport. After the bar we were so cold we went to the “sea baths”, which are public hot pools that look out onto the beach. Stina told the cutie at the front desk it was our last day of holiday and gave him a cute little frown so he let us in for free.
Our stag party boyfriends from the other day have their wedding tonight, so they are sending Stina and I pics to show us what we are missing out on. I’m not gonna lie, we are slightly devastated that we are missing out on an Aussie wedding. But we are spending our last night in Sydney. Our current plan is to stay out all night and then go straight to the airport for our flight. Wish us luck and wait for the outcome in the LAST BLOG OF THE TRIP tomorrow 😦
Side note: at what point does it become acceptable to scold other people’s children. I understand spanking them is out. Sadly. But at some point you have to be able to do something, right? Yes, you guessed it – more wretched children on the plane.
Today is our LAST bus tour of the trip!! But it’s gonna be a long one (that’s what she said). 7am to 9pm long. 14 hours. On a bus. As soon as the bus pulls up we are filled with dread. It’s a mini bus, not a coach. That is what happens when you are a bargain hunting Jew and scour the internet for the cheapest tour. They call them “small group tours” as if it’s a selling point, when in actuality it is just an excuse for them to pack you into a tiny bus with no leg room like an animal for the better part of an earth’s rotation. On a bus tour, being stuck with 20 morons who have no common sense is basically the same as being stuck with 40 of them. You might as well get the extra leg room. Law of diminishing returns when it comes to stupidity.
So we are off. Stina and I each have a new book for the day so we are all set. We head down the coast and have some photo stops at various beaches. They are pretty. But a beach is a beach. We enter the Great Ocean road and then wind around for an hour or so before we stop for lunch in a little seaside town. We were supposed to see wild koalas along the way, but as you all know, Stina and I repel wildlife and had no such luck. The tour guide said she has never not seen a koala on this trip…in ten years. Well Ms. Tour Guide, meet my friend, Black Cloud. He perpetually hangs over my head and fucks shit up. The afternoon is where the good stuff is. First we have to get the rainforest walk out of the way. This is our 42nd rainforest walk in the past few weeks, so we are kind of over playing Tree Jeopardy. Ms. Tour Guide has a thing for tree’s that have rotted out and the top has fallen off. Every Aussie tour guide has one tree fetish. Not sure the rotted tree would be my choice, but to each his own.
Finally, we make it to the stuff you see on the postcards. We first stopped at Loch Ard Gorge, which has beautiful limestone cliffs and a hidden beach that looks like paradise. This was the site of Australia’s most famous shipwreck. It was a cargo ship named the “Loch Ard” that crashed into the cliffs in 1878. There were only about 50 or so passengers and two of them survived by floating into this beach. Straight up Titanic style. One of them floated on a table…so you know he probably pulled a Kate Winslet and refused to share that shit. Anyway, two 18 year olds, a boy and a girl, were stranded at this beach. They found a farm nearby where they were stuck for 3 months. And they did not fall in love and live happily ever after. At least lie to us for the sake of a good story. Anyway, there are a bunch of hiking trails, so our guide gave us 45 minutes and said we could fit two in. Stina and I did all three in 30 minutes. Shocker.
Next up was the 12 Apostles. No, there are not 12. There were never 12. It was actually never called the 12 Apostles, it was originally named “The Apostles” and people just stated adding the 12. There are currently 8. We had a photo shoot while trying to avoid the Asian bus and then we were on our way back home. Pictures for your viewing pleasure.
We looked for Magnums all day, but everyone just had the knock off ice cream bars. It was disappointing, indeed. We hated everyone on our bus because they were fucking morons who couldn’t even figure out how to exit row by row. So every time we got off a cluster fuck ensued in which everyone stared at eachother willing the other to make the first move. It was an early night for us. Not only because we are exhausted, but because tomorrow is Aussie Open day #2!! We only got the free tickets for Thursday, but our stag party friends informed us that you can just buy a ground pass for pretty cheap and get into the beer garden. You don’t get to watch the matches, but we all know Stina and I are just going for the beer.
Today is mainly a travel day. We are super hungover, but we figured if you are going to spend the entire day feeling like shit, it might as well be on a travel day. When you have to fly. Flawless logic. We have a morning flight from Cairns to Melbourne with Jetstar. Jetstar blows – and not just because the seats are tiny, but also because their pilots haven’t quiet mastered the take-off and landing aspects of their job. Minor details. We befriend a 15 year old boy in the seat next to us who looks like he is about 10. He thinks we are hilarious and pathetic and will probably tell his friends all about the ridiculous drunk chicks he hung out with on the plane. Take off is rough, but we manage well enough. After about three hours or so we begin our descent. Our descent into a fucking wind tunnel apparently. Stina screamed, and there may have been tears. People were staring. We held hands. Probably since we hadn’t been able to cuddle the past few nights. And finally we had arrived in Melbourne! I was about 3pm by the time we got to our hostel. Our room is a box. With no air conditioning. Just a fan. But we do have free wifi and it actually works in our room! You guys will probably have noticed an increase in text messages from us because we are spoiled for i message capabilities. We went for a walk on the esplanade and got some Mexican food. I am assuming this is pretty obvious to you all, but it was an early night for us.
Thursday, January 22, 2015
Today is a very exciting day. Not only is it Jorgie’s 30th birthday (hehe), it’s Aussie Open day!! Yes, we are going to be real, non-backpackers for the day and we could not be happier about it. And old client of mine hooked it up with some free tickets, which is primarily why we scheduled Melbourne for the end of our trip. We head off to the open around 10am, which is when they open the gates. We are eager beavers. It took about 30 seconds for us to find the beer garden – which was empty at that point. We swore to return, got some champagne and headed to our seats where we watched some Sweedish chick get her ass kicked by a Russian chick. Is it becoming clear how much Tennis I watch? About halfway through the match the inevitable outcome was glaringly obvious, so we left to check out the situation in the beer garden. The situation inspired lots of hope for the rest of the day.
I think you can all see where this day is headed. This beer garden was HUGE, the Aussie men were plentiful, and the women were not. Nothing I love more than shooting fish in a barrel. And day drinking. After trying out a few different groups of dudes we found some funny ones and decided to grace them with our continued presence. Drinking with Stina and I is like winning the lottery; luck needs to be on your side and you just wait for your number to be called. And wouldn’t you know it, they were a stag party (Stag party = bachelor party here). I don’t know how it’s taken us almost two months to find a stag party, but we all knew it would happen eventually. We spent the next few hours getting sloshed. The plan was to go back in to watch Serena play…but they had a big screen in the beer garden. Soooooo. What’s the difference really? And do you have any idea how quiet you have to be when you are watching a tennis match? It’s like being muzzled. I could barely handle it sober. I can’t be held down like that, people.
We did go back in at some point to watch Djokovic (#1 in the world) play. He looked like an ass hole to me. I rooted for the underdog, who I think was adorable, but I stopped wearing my contacts about a week into the trip so I can’t really see shit. He got is ass kicked, off course. Ever the consistent spectators, we headed back to the beer garden once it was clear where that match was headed. Where we remained until about 8pm. We had gotten passes to the Heineken VIP area earlier in the morning. Some skanks were walking around handing out passes to attractive men only. They were like a snooty, uptight version of Budweiser girls. Stina went up to one and asked if she could get some passes. The chick literally made Stina walk her over to where I was sitting so she could make sure I wasn’t a beast before grudgingly handing over the passes. It was like Regina George was checking to make sure I wasn’t wearing sweat pants. We went up to the VIP area, but it was awkwardly uptight. The room was filled with guys with too much product in their hair and chick in heels. Heels – at a fucking tennis tournament! Not exactly our crowd. We drank our free beers but looked longingly out at the middle class where all the fun was being had – and let’s be honest, where we belong. We spotted our stag party boys and high tailed it back down to party with the lay people.
The rest of the afternoon was spent as you can imagine. Getting totally shit faced. Eating ridiculously fatty foods. Like gravy fries. How can something as simple as gravy over fries be so insanely delicious? My sister-in-law is probably drooling as she reads this. As you should all be. A bunch of the single dudes invited us to go to dinner with them. We were promptly uninvited by the married guy in the group. Married people ruin all the fun. Did you take a vow of marriage, or a vow of boring? Because you could have fooled me. A slight tiff ensued amongst the single and married men, but we parted with them promising to meet up later at the bar below our hostel, which apparently they frequent quite regularly.
When we got home it was getting dark. I was confused because I thought it was about 4pm. It was 8:30pm. Time flies when you are keeping pace with a stag party. An Aussie stag party. We got some kebabs (the Aussie version of a gyro) and I promptly passed the fuck out. I awoke around 11:30pm a few hours later to a bunch of facebook messages from the stag boys, who were downstairs at the bar, as promised. But those who have been day drinking with me (which is probably all of you) know that once I am down, I am not getting back up. It’s like when someone has a concussion. If you let them fall asleep, it’s over. I think 10 hours of drinking is my limit these days. Old age is a bitch. Stina was beyond thrilled that I did not make her go out, as she was equally down for the count. Travel soul mates strike again.
Tomorrow we spend 14 hours on a bus to see the Great Ocean Road!! Should be thrilling. Ok it will be boring, but there will be bus people to talk shit about and lots of cool pics.
We woke up bright and early at 6:30am for our day out on the Great Barrier Reef! Well, also to give ourselves ample time to put it down at the breakfast buffet, which had been comped due to our room troubles from the previous night. We walked down to the marina to catch our boat. It was 7:15am and I’m already sweating like a pig. Gotta love Queensland in January. Just as we got to the boat I realized I forgot my ear plugs – the fancy ones that don’t let any water in but still let air out so you can self regulate. This is the one day I specifically bought them for, so of course I forgot them. I found some shitty ear putty crap at the Marina and kicked myself, repeatedly, for my auditory blunder. Our boat is basically a huge ass catamaran that they fit way too many people on, all of whom have respect for personal space. So your typical day tour. We promptly took our spots on the nets at the front, after which all the hoodrats who can’t spell the word catamaran came and tried to sit on top of us. If I ran for president, my platform would be personal space. I really don’t think a foot radius at all times in all directions from all other living, breathing things is that much to ask. Did no one get hugged as a child? That can’t be it, because the Germans are pretty good about personal space and lord knows they weren’t shown affection as children. Maybe they were hugged too much. New platform: spank your children.
It’s a two hour ride out to the GBR and our first snorkel sight – Paradise Reef. The coral here was absolutely amazing – pictures just don’t do it justice. We snorkeled for a while – but really, how much coral can you look at? I think we did pretty good for a girl that hates fish and a another gal with inner ears that resemble the fiery depths of hell. Our next snorkel sight was Michaelmans Cay, which is a protected bird and turtle sanctuary. It basically looks like a tiny little deserted sand island in the middle of the vast ocean, until you get closer and realize its basically a bird frat party. Birds all over the place. Tons of them. And turtle sanctuary my ass. We didn’t see any turtles, because like the crocs, it’s mating season. And they don’t take visitors in mating season. Why do all the animals here have to get it on while I’m in town?
The ride back to the reef was without incident, other than the fact that bitches be cray trying to get a spot on the nets. Stina and I held our ground and gave dirty looks to keep the vultures at bay. After about three beers each we were slightly drunk, probably due to the heat exhaustion. We went back to the hotel, showered, and tried to talk ourselves into going out for our last night in Cairns. We are quite partial to the 9pm bed times, if you couldn’t tell by now, so we knew this would be a feat.
After an early dinner, some torrential downpour, and some cheap massages at one of those Asian massage places where you don’t take your clothes off, we bought a bottle of vodka and tried to pump ourselves up. It became clear we would wind up in bed unless we had someone to drag our asses out. But wait, we do have someone to drag our asses out. Enter: River Guide Matt. We called him up and informed him he would be taking us out tonight, to bring a friend and show up at our hotel at 10pm. Strike 1: He was late – but Rory rolls with the punches on vacation, remember? So he did not get bitched out for tardiness as I would usually do. Strike 2: I specifically requested that he bring a hot friend. I have a hot friend, so it follows that he should also supply one so they can celebrate their mutual hotness in harmony. He did not. Boys here think that the fact that they are Australian is their get out of jail free card with American girls. That just because they have that sexy little accent, nothing else matters. Ok, I just heard someone talk in an Australian accent as I type this and I guess that is kind of true. The accent will usually get your in the door to the party, but it won’t get you upstairs fellas.
So we partied in the room a bit – Stina and I polished off a fifth between the two of us and off we wen’t to Gilligans. We had been meaning to stop by Gilligans as some point, as it is basically a giant resort for backpackers, famous for its parties. Three bars, a lagoon pool, restaurants, and tons of skeezy drunk backpackers everywhere. I was too afraid to actually stay there, as aside from being a round the clock frat party the website features petroleum jelly wrestling and wet t-shirt contests as their major selling point. Airborne herpes outbreaks just don’t appeal to me, what can I say? Luckily for us, tonight was wet t-shirt contest night! Nothing makes you feel better about yourself more than watching uncoordinated white drunk chicks with daddy issues wash away any small shreds of dignity they had left with hose. We all got to vote by cheering, but everyone knows how these things go – efficiency always wins in a wet t-shirt contest. Rip that top off from the get-go and you win. Big fake titties also help, and our winner tonight had those in spades. She did win a free tour, so I guess those puppies are paying for themselves.
Now here is where the night starts to get fuzzy – the bar had fireball!!! Not many places have fireball down here, so I think we felt the need to make up for lost time. I turn into one of those Mexican shot boys with a whistle the second I see fireball. It can’t be stopped. We also had to find Stina a hottie, since Matt failed that part of his instructions. I spotted one at the bar and yelled “hey! you! come here! yeah, you! Over here, now!”. And just like that, Stina was introduced to her Irish Prince Charming for the night. I’m that good. Or boys are that easy. Let’s be fair, its a bit of both. So we both had our boyfriends for the night. I’m pretty sure I hit the dance floor at one point. Why god why?? All in all, a good end to a stay in the hottest place on earth.
Today was another early start, as we are the first sky divers of the day! We are jumping in Mission Beach, where you literally land on the beach. It is somewhat known as the best sky dive in Australia. We are picked up at 7am and headed off to the office to sign our lives away. We were then introduced to our tandem partners and harnessed up. Now, if there is one thing I’ve been looking forward to, it’s hot skydiving instructors. We haven’t seen an attractive man since Byron Bay, so we are due. But alas, they are all old.
And mine is a big lesbian. Why am I not surprised? Apparently even the good looking Aussies know not to come this far north in summer because its so damn hot.
We didn’t spring for the pictures because (1) I’m cheap, (2) It was a bit cloudy and (3) After your first time jumping out of a plane the novelty of spending $100 on pictures of yourself wears off. They packed about 8 jumpers + 8 guides in the plane. I was shocked by how calm I was.
I guess I got all the fear out of my system on my first jumped last summer when I tried to fire Pipi for talking me into it. We actually had to free fall through a cloud. Clouds are cold. There is one very important plus to having a Lesbian guide instead of a guy – she put on my harness in a way that did not hurt my lady parts when the parachute went up. Poor Stina won’t be walking straight for a week.
The rest of the day was pretty uneventful as there is FUCKING NOTHING to do in Mission Beach. We hung by the pool for as long as possible in this heat, which was about two hours. Other than that, we just people watched the trashy kids staying in our hostel in complete disgust. About 90% of them are travelers that have run out of money and are now working on banana farms in unbearable heat and humidity so they can make some money to keep going. Personally, if I ran out of money, I would just call my dad crying until he bought me a plane ticket home. I would probably turn to prostitution before the thought of working on a farm even occurred to me. Apparently you if you work so many days on a farm in Australia, you get a year visa. So lets all be grateful we have Mexicans at home, because you definitely do not want this degenerate youth in charge of cultivating your food. In fact, you don’t even want them in your country. They are another breed. Here is an idea – just get a fucking job at home and save some damn money and then travel. Kill Bill came on TV at night, so that was a nice little treat. At 2am some belligerent fucks started drunkenly screaming about god knows what – they were probably fighting over farm equipment or something. Stina opened the door and politely asked them be quiet. Little do they know she saved their lives. Had I opened that door….
Saturday, January 17, 2015
Today is white water rafting the mighty Tully river!! The Tully river is generally supposed to be pretty bad ass, as the water level is controlled by a power station, so it is raftable year-round. Needless to say, I am fucking stoked. I have been waiting the entire trip for some white water. Once we are checked in, another bus of people arrive. A bus that strikes fear in the hearts of travelers everywhere. That’s right. The Chinese bus!! I actually think they were Korean. It doesn’t matter. They don’t speak English and I think we can all agree they would be dead weight in a rapid. I immediately started to freak out about getting stuck in a boat with these useless fucks and agonized over it to know end (you know me). We all scuttled on to a bus to drive up to the top of the river during which an adorable guide, Matt, gave us our safety briefing. I think we can all agree that a man’s hot factor increases exponentially when he is a white water rafting guide. They also all tend to have an absurdly dirty and politically incorrect sense of humor, which never hurts. Now Matt was in charge of putting everyone into groups for boats. Therefore I found it necessary to pull him aside and tell him to “put us on a good boat”. Translation: No non-english speaking meek Asians in my boat. I’m trying to get after it. Not take selfies all fucking day. Matt understood, and placed us with a group of white people with zero personality but the ability to follow instructions. That’ll do. He took fucking forever to organize the groups, so we thought he was slightly slow. He later told us he was just trying to figure out a way to group everyone to ensure that Stina and I were on his boat. Favorites, yet again.
With our group intact and our guide staring at our asses, we were off! The rapids were not exactly what I was hoping for, as the water levels were a bit low. Apparently they have had a pretty dry wet season and it shows. So no big crazy rapids, but a lot of maneuvering to get around rocks. Which means you need to follow instructions. Self explanatory, right? Wrong. At one point we were sitting around having a swim so Guide Matt could make sure all the other boats got down a rapid safely. Meaning we got a front row seat to pure, unadulterated stupidity. These were my favorites: (1) Asian boat – some of them actually did surprisingly well, but one boat in particular spent the entire time screaming any time water touched them. Not sure what they thought was going to happen. (2) German boat – these morons got stuck on a rock and then proceeded to have a conversation with each other while their guide was trying to instruct them what to do. The result was the most amazing display of pure hatred by any guide I have ever seen. His face got red and he was screaming at them “listen to me!!” while gesturing “look into my eyes!”. I was awesome. I really felt for the guy. That entire boat should have taken their money and spent it on my intro “how to be a loser” course. (3) Contiki Boat – as in the kids on a Contiki tour. These miserable fools were a hot fucking mess. They were all insanely hungover from the night before. One girl – who we called “bang” – was trying to keep her Friday night bang blow out in tact all day. One giant clump of bangs swept in her face the entire day.
She looked like every guy on the Contiki bus had already had their way with her by this point. And they probably have. She was trash-tastic. The other doe-eyed little bitch on the boat had her hair perfectly quaffed around her helmut and seemed determine not to get it wet. On a rafting trip. Stina and I took care of that with our paddles in about 4 seconds. Oh, and on the boat ride up to the river Matt asked everyone who lives in the Northern Hemisphere to raise their hands, and one of the Contiki guys had to ask for clarification because he wasn’t sure what hemisphere he was from. He was Australian. I wish I was making this up, I really do.
After a few hours we stopped for lunch, and I got my finger bitten by a rabid river turtle. One of the guides said it was because it looked like a sausage. I can’t argue with this. My fingers are not my best feature. Then I was stung by a wasp. It was a rough 10 minutes. Then we were back on the river for a few more hours of rafting.
At one point when we all jumped out to swim Stina and I overheard one of the guides of an Asian raft trying to explain to someone how to swim. I shit you not. I thought I was imagining it, but no. That happened. I can’t decide if that beats the bike tour I did in Germany with Steph where people literally didn’t know how to ride a bike. Seriously, the more people I come across in this world, the more I am convinced that (1) Humanity is doomed unless we can find a politically correct way to institute mass sterilization, and (2) Ignorance is bliss – these morons are so content in their stupidity it’s scary. Matt made comments about our asses a few too many times. He later told us he spent the entire day staring at them. Thank god we wore shorts.
Some girls were not so lucky and a few suffered from very extreme cases of hungry ass, where their ass eats their bathing suit and there is nothing they can do until the opportunity to pick it out presents itself.
After rafting we were taken back to the office – which is a bar by day – and had a few beers. The Asian tour group of unknown origin spent the entire time staring at the pictures that were taken of them spending absurd amounts of money on the photos. Before we left Matt gave us his number so that we could meet up with him that night in Cairns to party. We were contemplating whether or not we would be normal people and go out on Saturday night, but let’s be honest, we were leaning towards having the lights out by 10pm, per usual. However when your rafting guide says “let’s party”, you party. I have been known to make out with a rafting guide (or two) in my day, so I do have a reputation to uphold here. Thus, Stina and I devised a plan for the night. The worst plan in the history of going out plans…
First, we were bused up to Cairns, which is our base for the next few nights. Now remember when I surprised Stina by booking a room at the Double Tree? This is the place. We checked in and were given warm cookies. All our questions were answered. It was seamless. Then once we saw our room – an actual hotel room – we almost started crying. Words cannot describe the euphoria we felt at this moment. Oh, and the beds. Omg the beds felt like a cloud. We could almost just fall…right to…..NO! Follow the plan!! No sleeping!! Step 1 – Food. Now, those that have traveled with me know that (1) I love carbonara pasta, (2) I only eat it when I’m on vacation, and (3) I always eat it when I go on vacation. Once. Every trip. I have not had it yet on this trip, and so that is the plan. We find an Italian place, order ourselves two heaping bowls of creamy heaven (plus a bottle of wine), and put it down. Problem #1 – Carbonara makes you want to climb into bed and rub your belly until you fall asleep. And you all know my penchant for a belly rub. Problem #2 – Carbonara is not exactly a great drinking base. Shit. We must party, but I feel like I’m going to puke. Just make yourself a drink, Rory. It’ll be fine. It actually was fine, because after I took one sip of my vodka soda I puked my dinner up. So that solves that problem. Bring on the vodka! By the time we got ourselves showered, puked and into a drinking ready state we were running a bit late, so we took shots. Of vodka. In our hotel room. I’m 25 in Australia, remember?
We met up with Matt and a few of the other guides at a bar. And wouldn’t you guess our luck – one of the guides was the angry guy who screamed at the Germans! And he is 6’9″. We spent most of the night shit talking about all the fucking morons on our trip today. We hated all the same people. Matt explained to us that once he saw our lululemon shorts he knew he wanted us on our boat, and that he spent the entire day just staring at our asses (which we knew). And all the other guides were pissed at him for not putting us on their boat. Oh, and that we generally just kicked major ass at rafting. Tell us something we don’t know. Before we knew it, it was 2am and I was getting a foot rub in a bar from my rafting guide.
Not bad, old gal. We took Angry/Tall guide and Guide Matt back to the Double Tree for an after party and drank the four beers we had left. Then it was off to bed around 3 or 4am, just in time for our 7:30am pickup for tomorrow’s tour. That one is gonna hurt…
Today we set sail for the Whitsunday islands. But not till noon. So this bitch is first getting a desperately needed pedicure. You ladies know what camping does to a gal’s feet. Or perhaps you don’t, in which case consider yourself lucky and stick to condos. We then sweated our balls off as we lugged our beer all the way down to the dock in the blazing fucking heat. The boat is BYOB. BYOB + not knowing what kind of people you will be trapped at sea with = GET LOTS OF BOOZE. You could wind up with a group of super cool people you want to get drunk with. Or you could get stuck with a bunch of morons who need my seminar in which case you will want to get even more drunk. Sadly, we wound up with the latter. I honestly don’t think I have ever seen such a sorry group of losers in my life. I think there should be a rule that your cool/cute factor determines which boat you will be on. If that were the case, all our boat mates would be on the fucking Nina, Pinta and Santa Maria. And we would be on P. Diddy’s yacht. Fugly boring faces don’t belong on a catamaran. Rory and Stina belong on a catamaran. Please get on the wooden boat at the end of the dock and leave the A-team alone.
But since I don’t run the world (yet) we quickly learned we were in a dire situation. It took about 4 minutes before we were saying “thank god we have each other”. Now, let me run through the list of characters. I didn’t bother to learn anyone’s name, but we don’t use real names here anyway. Let’s start with those we can stand: The Canadian guy – old and kind of weird, talks like a robot, but he’s harmless, as all Canadians are. Then there is a British gal and her mum. We hate all the same people and share a cabin with them. They are, dare I say, normal. Although not much by way of entertainment. We are merely talking unoffensive. And then there is everyone else. B team doesn’t even begin to describe these losers. I’ve taken to calling them team-27 because there just aren’t enough letters in the alphabet to describe this group. There are some German girls who look confused and baffled every second of the day, like they are about to wet their pants at any moment. There is a German couple who talks about nothing but scuba diving all the time. I thought they were pretty insufferable until they started dirty dancing (sober) on the boat on day 2, and then I decided there might be hope for them. Hope for them to entertain me. And now we get to the real problem. The group of people that I immediately know may result in my being marooned on an island for fighting: the group of British friends who all met working in a hostel (warning sign #1). Now, you would think that people who have spent the past few months cleaning bathrooms and kitchens and making people’s beds would have a little humility. This group of five is the most entitled, uncouth, rude, selfish, obnoxious group I have ever come across. It took them all of 5 minutes to completely invade our personal space and try to sit on top of us on the nets. If my life were a game of “would you rather”, I would rather take the B+ team America girls ANYDAY. I’m afraid of what I might do.
Now let’s get back to the itinerary so you can see some pics. Stop 1: Rory’s first attempt at scuba diving!! It was just an intro course, so we didn’t go too deep (that’s what she said), and I didn’t see anything exceptionally cool, but it was fun to put on all the gear and pretend like I knew what I was doing. One couple that was diving held hands the entire time under water. I shit you not. I hate couples that do that crap. We all know you are together. And it’s because no one else wanted either of you. Take it down a notch Ariel and Prince Eric. The German scuba diving experts got yelled at by the captain of the scuba boat within about 14 seconds for doing some stupid shit that certified divers should know not to do. Typical. After that stop we had tons of time to do more snorkeling. Stina and I instead took out the paddle boards, which was one of the main reasons we chose this boat, as none of the others had paddle boards. Our captain literally drove the dinghy into us until we fell. Multiple times. Rude.
Then we settled in to the boat for the night and watched a beautiful sunset until it was time for dinner. The scum of British youth making up team 27 will literally check your ass if you try to get in their way of food. They will literally run to the kitchen and push you out of the way. One of the girls is super fat, so she should slow down and her friends should support her in this endeavor by doing the same. You are on a boat in paradise. SLOW YOUR ROLL. The Queen Bitch of British team-27 keeps staring at me. Every time I turn my head, she is staring at me. I don’t think she has seen a black person. And by black person I mean a really tan ass bitch. If there is one thing I can’t stand, it’s a bitch with a staring problem. Oh, and she looks like a man. And her boyfriend is a ginger. A really gingery one. My fists were clenched most of the night. Want to suffocate her in her sleep. I realize this is not normal. But if you can’t be honest about homicidal feelings on your blog, where can you? Anyway, Stina and I got drink while people sat around being boring. In bed by 10. Air con out of control. Like sleeping in a wind tunnel.
Tuesday, January 13, 2015
I woke up at 5:30am with the sun, and the beginnings of an ear infection. I’m like a toddler at the YMCA once I get in the water. Ear infections for days. I literally travel with swimmers ear medicine at all times. I even put it in last night! I also woke up being spooned by Stina, so there’s a silver lining if I’ve ever seen one. She is quite limber if I do say so myself. We had breakfast. Well, the obnoxious British fuck tards had breakfast like apes who have never seen a civilized meal and then the rest of us ate once the animals had been fed. It was immediately time for snorkeling, which was out due to my ear, so Captain Tim drove me around in the boat and showed me some coral. Then I did some paddle boarding, which I much prefer to snorkeling anyway, so the FOMO (fear of missing out) was not a factor. However I did miss my chance to drown the British man-girl. We then moved to Manta Ray Bay where everyone snorkeled (Stina and I paddle boarded) and no one saw any Manta Rays. Some bitch yelled at me for taking too long on the paddle board because she wanted to do it to. Must I refer back to our three rules of traveling? STATE YOUR PURPOSE. I’m not a fucking mind reader who walks on water. I’m just a bitch on a paddle board. You don’t get to cry when you don’t ask.
Then it was finally time for the piece de resistance: Whitehaven Beach. If you google image Whitsunday Islands, Whitehaven is what you are looking at. It is, without a doubt, the most beautiful beach I have ever seen in my life. And y’all know I get around. We walked down to the beach where our boat maid man (who we called mom, as he is responsible for the cooking and cleaning on the boat) asked if we all wanted to get some fun group pictures. Stina and I didn’t even break a stride as we yelled “NO!” and kept it moving. We spent the afternoon on this amazing little strip of paradise. Now, I’m not one for a big photo shoot. I’m a snap a few pics and get on with enjoying life kind of gal, but we may have had a mini European-girl moment out there. So pictures ensued.
When we left the beach the Dukes and Duchesses of Doucheville, who were last to arrive and made everyone wait for them, decided that getting on the first boat was a life or death situation. God forbid their Royal Highnesses of Hostelworld wait 8 minutes for the next dinghy. When we piled in there were too many of us on board, so the boat maid asked one of boys to get out and wait for the next one. He refused. I shit you not. Threw a fit and refused to get out like a petchulant child. This is the shit we are dealing with here people.
Once we got back on board I was terrified I might kill a member of the High Court of Entitled Punks. Thankfully Captain Tim (who we called dad) invited us up to the Captains Suite for a bit of reprieve from the douchbaggery. And that is basically where we remained until dinnertime, annoying the shit out of the Captain. But let’s all honest, he loved us, as Stina and I are always the favorites of whoever is in charge. Always. So we sat up in the perch, looking down at the lay people. Our rightful place in life. Nightfall came, Stina and I hit the beer. They showed a slideshow of all the pictures that were taken. Stina and I weren’t in a single one. Literally. It was hilarious. At one point I asked Stina who “that dude” was in one of the pictures. It was the Team-27 man-woman. I got up to lay my towel on the back of the boat and ran into ze German couple going at it like rabbits on the nets. At about 8pm. With 17 other people about 10 feet away inside. I knew they’d be good for something ridiculous. Although the husband has an inny-outty and his fat bulges out of his tiny little swim suits. He kind of looks like Shrek. So his naked ass was clearly last thing I wanted to see. Got drink and went to bed. I slept outside, as I had enough of the air con from hell-hath-frozen-over.
Today we awoke to the sun shining in Noosa. We didn’t have to catch our bus to Brisbane until that afternoon, so we headed to Noosaville, which sits along the beautiful Noosa river, in search of paddle board rentals. A bus ride and AUD 30 later we were the proud renters of two stand up paddle boards for the next two hours. We were told to go up river against the current, so that our way back would be easier, which makes perfect sense. However, up the river was home to the damn yacht club it seemed – we were actually almost killed by a jet ski tour of about twenty fucking idiots who looked like the only thing they’d ever driven was a mario cart. Since anything that goes faster than a kayak is no bueno when you are on a SUP, we switch directions, made it across the the veritable nautical autobahn, and headed for the lovely and quiet section of the river. Stina had a bit of a wobble while trying to admire her lovely surroundings (or a big ass catamaran with lust in her eyes) and took the best fall off a paddle board I have ever seen. Homegirl went down like a starfish, face first, a full frontal flop. She recovered nicely and I resisted the urge to fall of my board in a fit of laughter. It was gorgeous and peaceful, nothing but a few house boats, lots of nature, and us. I was in heaven. Until we turned around. Holy shit. Apparently once you start paddling upstream the river is no longer filled with water – It is now peanut butter. We sounded like the damn Williams sisters at Wimbledon with each stroke we took. It took about five minutes for me to drop to my knees like a choir boy on Sunday. I later conferred with Stina and apparently we both employed the “count to ten strokes on each side, then switch” routine. I contemplated playing dead on my board until someone took pity on my pathetic ass, but then I remembered that Aussie’s only give half a fuck, and Rory in a bikini is not half a fucks worthy, despite my great tan, so I better just keep paddling. And paddle I did. My little heart out. The only thing that could be heard above the gale force winds was the occasional whimper from Stina or I. By the time we made it back to the rental place, we were near tears. I tried to bribe a few 10 year old boys into carrying my board back. Apparently they had better sources of income. So Stina and I lay on our boards like beach wales and slowly swam our way in.
After this, our millionth failed attempt at a workout, we lazed around by the lake and ate our 45th hand-packed salami sandwiches of the trip before it was time to head back to grab our shit and catch our bus. Some chicks on the bus found out there was no wifi and threw a fit. I tried to explain to them that their ticket clearly states that greyhound would ATTEMPT to provide wifi on all buses and that was therefore not a guarantee for which they could seek reimbursement. But my words fell on the deaf ears of fucking morons, so I gave up. Sorry Greyhound, those fuck faces are your problem. Stina kept quiet and rolled her eyes. I am starting to suspect she has an even lower tolerance for stupidity than I do, which is a feat. Only difference is that I can fake nice really well (a trait I acquired during childhood – long story) whereas Stina will wear her contempt for you on her face at all times. It’s kind of amazing. When Rory is nice cop, you need to reassess your life. And enroll in Rory Boston’s “How not be a loser” seminar. For the low, low price of [something I have not yet figured out, but it ain’t low].
We contemplated spending the night watching TV in our room. After all, we had been through a traumatic paddle board experience. But since we only had a few hours in Brissy we decided to get off our fat, lazy asses and go to dinner. Dinner was fab. Stina adopted a goat cheese and spinach croquette as her child (she is registered at fatties-r-us), we through back at pitcher of Sangria, and then off to bed. I dreamt that I lost all my bathings suits the day before our Whitsundays boat trip. I am a pessimist even when unconscious.
Sunday, January 11, 2015
The search for a decent boozy brunch continues…this time in Brissy. We headed down to Southbank in search of a little beach time at the lagoon and peeps getting trashed. We found neither, as the sun didn’t come out and I’m convinced this “Sunday Session” thing is a myth. All people talk about is how Aussies know a good Sunday Session. I’m calling bullshit on this right now. These morons don’t even know what a mimosa is. And the restaurant we went to, with a full bar, wasn’t licensed to serve booze before 10am, which is a problem we have run into before. These people think they party on Sundays when you can’t even get a drink before 10am? I’ve been roofied before 10am in Hermosa. Get your game together Australia.
I will give Australia one thing – the most amazing breakfast called “avo mash”. Our Canadian friends from Fraser told us about it so we sought it out today. Basically it consists of sourdough toast topped with avocado mashed with chunks of feta cheese, arugula, onion, and lemon. It’s heaven on bread. Not that bread needs any help. We headed back to catch the noon train to the airport for our flight to Airlie Beach (Gateway to the Whitsundays!!!). On the train there was a child crying. I gave the kid a stern look at shook my head. This littler girl shut up so fast you would have thought I was holding her barbies ransom. On the plane, Stina was sitting next to the most horrid child on the face of the earth. I did the same thing and it totally worked until her dumb ass mother moved her to the window seat and I could no longer put the fear of god in her. So it’s official, children are silenced by their fear of me. That will come in handy one day, mark my words.
We arrived in Airlie Beach, caught our transfer into town and checked in to our hostel. Our “deluxe” room looks like the jail cell that is given to mobsters who bribe the warden – large and roomy with the poor folk in another wing, but you are still in jail. We headed down to check
out the lagoon, which rocks, and the back to the room for showers and off to beers around 6pm. I think we shot our wad a bit too quickly, because by 8:30 we were ready for bed. And so that is what we did. We went to bed. No one wants to be hungover on a boat anyway. Oh, guess who is saying at our hostel? B+ team America from Fraser Island! The name of the game is AVOIDANCE. Especially since we now know that Stina won’t be able to conceal her disgust. Me on the other hand, I could walk right up to them and say “omg where did you get that bracelet, I love it!”. When in actuality it is the ugliest effing bracelet I have ever seen. See what I did there?
We won’t have any wifi on our boat, so it’ll be a few days before the next post. But that post will include sailing the whitsundays, so it’ll be worth the wait for the pictures alone.
Today I was awoken by a didgeridoo to the noggin, as Chet got a little carried away. Per usual, Stina and I dressed, packed, and ate breakfast in about 6 minutes and then waited an hour for everyone else to get a fucking clue. While we were waiting, I thought I saw something out of the corner of my eye. My first thought was that it was an island mirage, but upon closer inspection I realized that it was, in fact, a BEER BONG. Thats right, I had been camping with a beer bong the past two days and had no idea. How was “…and here is our beer bong” skipped over in the base camp orientation? Despite it being 7:30am, it was calling my name. Luckily we had a few beers left and so much to the horror of the staff, I hit that. I hit it hard. And I hit it well. Nothing lifts my spirits like a beer bong with breakfast. I then scolded the staff for not informing us that they had a beer bong. One guy tried to defend himself. But I explained that if he was a guest in my house, I would have promptly offered him a beer bong upon his arrival as that is just good manners. There was no arguing with my flawless reasoning and so he hung his head in shame.
At 8am we were off to Lake McKenzie, which is the island’s most famous post-card worthy sight. The night before we agreed with the Canadians that the party car (which is what we called any car the A-team was in) would be a country car, and so we blasted the country music. The Brits were very agreeable, bless their hearts, and suffered through my country DJ’ing with smiles on their faces. A bumpy hour drive through the forest and suddenly the foliage opened up to reveal a stunning crystal-blue lake. An oasis in the middle of a forest on a beautiful island off the coast of Australia. If this is heaven, take me to church. Now, apart from being beautiful, it is said that this lake is the fountain of youth and the sand makes your skin softer and your hair more luscious. You all know I’d probably jump in a pit of dog shit if I had a chance at getting one over on old father time. But alas, I still look the same, like a sprite 25 year old. I feel as though I’ve been lied to.
Now, today Stina and I had to make a list of shit that we need to teach this crew when they attend the “how not to be a loser” seminar with Prof. Rory Boston. This list is inclusive but not exhaustive, as these people need work. Lesson 1: how to get your lazy ass in and out of a car. I’ve seen sheep be herded into a pen through one tiny opening faster, and these ass holes had four doors. Lesson 2: How to have some fucking urgency in your life. Seriously, where is the urgency? How is it possible that people go through their entire lives at a snails pace and still manage to complete tasks such as bathing, feeding themselves, and earning a living? Do people actually enjoy spending their entire lives in a logistical nightmare waiting for someone like me to heard them? Because I feel I am perpetually stuck in a line behind someone who is paying in pennies and counting them out one by one. Do you want to know what I do with pennies? I throw them away. I literally thrown them in the trash. Because they are a waste of fucking time. Lesson 3: How to wipe your ass. I’d like to think that this doesn’t need to be covered, but based on what I’ve seen, I think some of these people may benefit from a quick “wipe front to back” tutorial. Just to be safe.
After the lake we went for a forest walk to look at some tree’s (refer to yesterday’s post re: my hippy guide) and had lunch. Then it was time for the drive back to Noosa, which consisted of about 3 hours of driving along a beautiful beach. The Brits were headed to a different destination so we bid them goodbye but had some extra seats in our car. And who jumped in? That’s right – the American B+ team. We then endured three hours of “take a picture of me with my head out the window!” and “Can you go pro video me riding in the car?!”. At one point the Touchy Girl called her boyfriend for a catch up with 6 other people in the car. No, you’re schmoopie! Touchy girl put her hand on Stina’s shoulder at one point and poor Stina looked like she was about to crawl out of her skin. I was actually waiting for her to flip her shit on them and just cheer her on, but she kept her cool. By the time we made it back to Noosa we hopped out of our car as soon as we were close enough to walk home. We got our pad thai on before heading back to the hostel and were in bed by 10pm.
Get comfortable, we have a lot of ground to cover, as we have been without wifi for 3 days. Without plumbing as well….
Wednesday, January 7, 2015
Today we were up bright and early for our 7am pickup for Fraser Island. The day started off innocently enough. Picked up by our guide, Simon, who is a big hippy (we are talking like, he doesn’t own shoes) from Norway with a slight Irish accent. I couldn’t stop calling him Chet, as he looked shockingly similar to a tour guide named Chet that Steph, Jorgie and I had in Peru who lit up a joint the second we got in his car. No relation though – I asked. Seemed like we were in for an interesting few days. We were taken to the DropBear tour office where we were shown a safety video that basically detailed how to not have your baby eaten by a dingo. The wild dingos on Fraser Island are the most pure native dingos you can find anywhere in Australia. Apparently they can get cray if you feed them. After the instructional video that is probably similar to one I will show in my “how not to be loser” seminar, we headed out on the road. Basically how this tour works is there are 4 jeeps and you just jump in one and switch off driving with everyone on the tour, while the guide leads. An Aussie caravan on the beach, if you will. Now I know what you all are thinking – will Rory manage to add another point to her license from across the world? Don’t worry, I did not drive. People were shocked Stina and I had no interest in driving until we explained we were from LA. Seven years of an hour commute each way is apparently the driving get of jail free card.
And we we were off! For about 20 minutes. When a tire fell off a car. Literally. The tire. Fell off. The car. Not the car I was in, but still too close for comfort. The guides with us called the office to inform them that we had some “car trouble”. Ummm. Car trouble is what you call it when a check engine light goes on, or your tire pressure runs low, or you run out of gas. I would call a fucking axel breaking and putting everyone in said car’s life in danger something more like “a major fucking accident”. If your entire business is based around people driving these cars onto and around an island, wouldn’t you think to, oh I don’t know, tighten a fucking lug nut? But then I realized we are in Australia, where they give only half a fuck about everything. So after our little snafu they put everyone in the three remaining cars and we just continued on our way, leaving broke ass car on the side of the road for the Company to come get at their earliest convenience. A few hours up the coast, one rest break that took entirely too long and a ferry ride later and we were finally on Fraser Island!
Fraser Island. You lovely little Oasis of gloriousness. What shall we call you? The actual name of the island, given to it by the aboriginal people that first lived there before the white men ruined their lives, was K’gary, which translates to “Paradise”. As that is pretty damn accurate, we’ll go with Paradise. Now, Paradise is the largest sand island in the world, and the only one with a rainforest growing right on top of the sand. So you have miles and miles of beautiful, uninhabited beach, rain forests with trees big enough to walk through, and tons of amazing little lakes and streams to discover. It rocks. What did not rock, however, was lunch. Lunch every fucking day. Make your own wraps. Sounds great, huh? That’s because you are picturing a burrito right now. And rightfully so. What we were fed was a sad amalgamation of ham, shredded cheese, a few veggies, a can of corn with a fork in it, and mayo. It was sad. However the promise of a lake in the middle of a sand dune kept our spirits high.
We spent the afternoon at Wabby Lake. A drive down the beach and a quick 10 minute (read: 20 minute through the forest) hike and we were at a lake that was created in the middle of a giant sand dune. Apparently this is the lake where they aboriginal men used to come for bro time – no ladies were allowed. We swam, we tanned, we played the name game. Everyone in the group fawned over how fabulous our tans are. It was a pretty great afternoon.
After the lake we headed back to base camp where we all claimed our tents and got showered for dinner. To be specific, Stina and I showered, changed, arranged our tent (no we did not have to put it up) and got a drink before anyone else could figure out which end of their sleeping bag is up. Typical. Dinner was an Aussie BBQ and was actually pretty fab. I was shocked it was made by the same heartless bastards that gave us DIY ham wraps, but people surprise you. Chet took us all down to the beach to watch the moon rise over the Ocean, which was surprisingly cool, as I don’t think I’ve ever actually sat and watched a moon rise. We drank with the A-team, played kings cup (which Brits call “ring of fire”) and a few other drinking games. Chet brought out a bunch of onesies at one point – one was a unicorn and one was a baby dino. Ok, I think it was actually a crocodile but work with me on this. So danced around in our onesies most of the night. I thought Stina might sleep in hers, as unicorns are Stina’s spirit animal just as Pterodactyls are mine. We headed to bed at a reasonable hour – basically once we got drunk enough to pass out in a tent.
Thursday, January 8, 2015
Our wake up call was Chet coming up to each tent blowing in a didgeridoo. This was a big day of sights, but before we get into that, let’s talk some shit about the peeps on our tour. There were so many, so I’ll just cover the highlights. We have the Brits. The Brits are typically our favorites on any tour, probably because they share our dry sense of humor. Or perhaps it’s just been bread into us as Americans to stick with the Brits (or, more accurately, for the Brits to stick with us). Either way, they were rad so we hung with them erryday. Also in the A-team were the Canadian girls. They are super fun 24 year olds who didn’t shower once but still managed to look cute. They were basically Stina and I five years ago. Before we were ravaged by things like back-fat and full time jobs. That basically sums up the A-team. The B-team was composed of your typical boring couples and painfully shy groups of friends who look like they will cry if you speak to them so you just keep your distance. There were the Canadian boys – 20 years old, thought they were superman, and one had a mullet. Every day I devised a plan to cut it off while he slept, but come nightfall I always got drunk and forgot. Must find a different form of community service. And then, we have the wannabe A-team. The A-team posers are the most dangerous of all teams. We’ll call them the B+ team. While they possess social skills that lead you to believe, at first, they can function in normal society, you soon realize those skills need desperate sharpening. Our B+ team was mainly composed of a group of American girls. They claimed to be Californian, when in fact they all just happened to live in California at the moment. This much was clear from their constant losing battle with sand. It was like some mythical fairy dust that they just couldn’t quite figure out. Bitches were drowning in it. We have names for all of them, thats how bad it got:
1. Sick girl – Oh lawd, the sick girl. Hacking up a lung from the second we met her. Now, sickness is not something that automatically puts you on the B+ team. However when you spit your sickness in everyone’s face because you can’t handle not being the center of attention for one fucking second despite the fact that you should be put down for a nap, that’s when you get demoted to B+ team. There was some serious Jan Brady shit going on with this girl. She also couldn’t dance on beat to save her life, but one of the Brits explained to me that it’s because she is tall and tall people are always awkward dancers. Which is true. So I let that one go by.
2. Ugly girl – I know this sounds mean, but let me explain. What I mean by this nickname is that she is ugly to the point of it being offensive. Shit, it’s still mean. On top of that, she was ALWAYS late, constantly losing her shit and making everyone look for it, and had a serious selfie issue. Someone should break it to her that those pics ain’t making her any cuter.
3. Touchy girl – She is like the one girl in the sorority that is super nice but kind of creeps people out, so everyone tries to avoid her. Serious personal space issues. Always wanting to hug you, or tell you how awesome you are. As if I need to be reminded how awesome I am.
4. Old chick – she was older than the rest of her crew, and looked it, sadly. But actually the most normal out of all of them.
I just figured out how to do my community service – am giving them all scholarships to the “how not to be a loser seminar”. You’re welcome. Their first class will be called “Accepting your basicness 101” in which I will attempt to explain to them that the bad bitch club is not something attainable for everyone, for bad bitchness chooses us (Stina and I), we do not choose it.
So let me take you through the next twelve hours, with visual aids, of course: The first stop of the day was Eli Creek, which was basically a lazy river that dumped out onto the beach where tons of people hung out white-trash style. I obviously loved this place. We floated down the river and then lazed on the beach for a few hours. Everyone then commented on how I am even more tan today than I was yesterday. I tried to explain how the sun works, but that’s a losing battle. Then we saw the famous Maheno shipwreck, which is exactly what it sounds like. After that it was off to the Champagne Pools which are, sadly, not exactly what they sound like, as no bottles were popped. But they are still pretty cool – little pools on the very north of the island that the waves come crashing into. Sun went into hibernation for the hour or so we were there, but still pretty rad. After this it was on to Indian Head, which is where the evil white man killed a bunch of Aboriginal people. Bad, bad white man. Same story, different country. Next up was Pinnacle rock. Now, remember yesterday when we went to the bad-ass aboriginal dudes-only hangout at the lake? Well, this is what the women got. Some fucking rocks. When I scoffed at this inequality our guide tried to rectify the situation by explaining that there are plants at the base of the rocks that can, after a very tricky recipe, get you high. He really thought that helped, bless his heart. Our last stop was a sand dune. Only prob here is that our guide told us shoes were not necessary (and by shoes, we mean flip flops), when in fact it was a walk through a fucking forest. Not everyone has calloused hippy feet dude, please recognize.
We head back to camp and shower and change for dinner. B team has actually discovered we have showers and get in line for one. Stina and I are second and third in line (first in line had no soap or shampoo, which is the only way one of the sheep beat me to it). We then have dinner and proceed to get drunk, as the main goal of any camping trip is to get drunk enough to forget that you are camping. We discovered that the Canadian girls love country music, which upped their badass factor by about 20 points. I tested this by ensuring they knew at least the chorus to Devil Went Down to Georgia. They did. Once the B-team went to bed we had a flip cup game. Then a bunch of people went skinny dipping. In the shark infested waters. In the dark. Stina and I watched from a safe distance and saw things we cannot unsee. Went to bed once thoroughly intoxicated.
I’m going to post Friday’s blog tomorrow, because I my rambling has gotten out of hand.