Friday, September 30, 2016
Today we are headed out to the Sawailau caves at the northermost tip of the Yasawa island chain. I fucking love caves. Possibly even more than my outdoor shower. But first, we have to get ourselves fed before our 8am tour, which will be quite a feat when you combine a 7:30am breakfast start time with the wait staff’s affinity for “Fiji Time”. If everything was on Fiji time, this wouldn’t a problem, as you could just roll with the domino affect. But Fiji time only comes into play about 75% of the time. Because “Fiji time” only works as an excuse when Fijians need one. If you try to use it, then you may very well be the late ass prick who wasted everyone’s time and is waiving goodbye to the tour boat from shore because they just left your ass. It’s a double standard that creates a situation in which the house always wins. Well played, Fiji.
As we sat at the dive shop with our patient comrades awaiting our tour that was scheduled for twenty minutes ago, we enjoyed the free entertainment provided by the Hello Kitty Krew. These girls never disappoint. They strolled up (late) and marched straight into the equipment room, pulling snorkels and wet suits off the walls like it was their own closet. The tour guides attempted to tell them that wet suits where not necessary, but quickly realized it was easier to just let them make assess out of themselves. Sea sick Kitty, who spent the ferry ride to the island barfing her brains out, decided to forgo the wet suit in favor of denim overalls. She was obviously just fishing for an invite to the third annual jeans-to-jorts bar crawl next April. We were also joined a unoffensive family with some very well behaved kids, as well as a couple from Indiana who has apparently taken a vow of silence. But not to worry, the San Fran gays are also joining us, along with the Big Titty Committee. Eat your heart out, Gilligan! Sea Caves, here we come!
It was a quick trip to the island where the caves are located. I nevertheless ran to the bar before we left and had them stuff an empty shopping bag full of beers and ice for us. I learned my lesson the other day. Jorgie and I cracked an 8:30am beer on the way, because duh. We landed at a small limestone island where we disembarked and made our way up some steps to a big metal door. On the other side of the unassuming door were stairs leading down into a dark tunnel that magically opened up into a big cave with crystal clear water. The girls and I were obviously first in line, so we stopped and posed for selfies before our tour mates had a chance to fuck up the virgin background.
We swam around in the first underground cave for a while, maintaining a safe distance from the ass holes who brought fins despite being told, in no uncertain terms, not to. Luckily for us we were the only tour group in the cave, thanks to our early leave time and our resort’s proximity. It was then time to check out the next cave, which could only be entered by holding your breath and swimming down through an underwater tunnel in the rock. This is the kind of shit that I love, so I jumped at the chance to go first and have a few minutes to myself on the other side of the pitch black sea cave. I was not exaggerating when I professed my love for caves. So under we went, one by one, until we all made it to the other side. Every one of us. The entire group. Crowded together in a dark cave. With no personal space. I think you see where I’m going with this. The girls and I got fins to the face courtesy of the Big Titty Committee about four times over the course of our swim through the second cave. I don’t even know why they would need fins. Can’t their big fake tits keep them afloat? Maybe they got some sort of bargain 4-for-2 discount and missed out on the dual purpose buoyant tits. It was obvious these chicks had no idea where there own feet ended and their giant fins began, as they unknowingly smacked around half the group. From the looks for their bathing suits, they have the same lack of spacial awareness with the size of their boobs as they do with those fins. But hey, if you bought ’em, flaunt ’em. Mine were free and I certainly don’t hide their light under a basket.
The tour guide lead us around the cave with his giant flashlight. He chose to wait until we were at the farthest end of the pitch black cave to tell us that there are eels swimming around in the cave. There is a high likelihood he was joking, but it’s damn near impossible to tell when a Fijian man is kidding because they always have big shit eating grins on their faces. The girls and I weren’t going to wait around to find out if this guy had a serious side, so we high tailed it out of there and made our way out of the cave just in time to avoid a giant tour group of backpackers descending down the stairs. You always want to be first in and first out. That’s what she said.
We spent the ride back to the resort finishing our beers and pondering the sexuality of the San Fran boys. Some new evidence: one carries a Lulu Lemon bag as his beach bag. If that’s not a smoking gun, I don’t know what is. We returned before lunch and spent the remainder of the day doing what we do best – not a fucking thing. We lay on the beach while Jorgie moved her chair a few inches each hour to avoid the blistering Fijian sun. That must be what vampires do on vacation too. We floated on our rafts through the lagoon, expending energy to paddle ourselves in another direction only when drifting too close to the kids club. Jorgie and I had a deep and profound conversation in which we answered the age old question “if you were a pizza, what kind of pizza would you be and why?” I decided that I would be meat lovers. Not because I’m a slut, you ass holes, but to be fair I could see how my pizza choice could lead to that interpretation. But because it’s aggressive, unapologetic, and completely unfit for a fairly significant portion of the human population (vegetarians). I decided Steph would be mushroom pizza with truffle – it has a very distinct flavor that leaves an impression. Also, it’s fancy. And that girl is fancy as hell. I gave Jorgie margherita with jalapeños because its traditional, reliable, everyone likes it, but has a little kick that surprises you every once in a while.
Before dinner Jorgie and I had some Kava with the house band. Kava is the national drink of FIji, but it’s actually a powder that is made from a root and mixed with water. It tastes more like the national drink of the kids club, because it’s basically dirt mixed with water. It’s said to have hallucinogenic powers, however it mostly just makes your mouth numb and relaxes you. We really just went to the kava ceremony because we fucking love the band and wanted to hang out with them. We talked about how we all love country music. One of the band guys said it was weird that two girls from LA love country. I pointed out the irony of being told that by a Fijian man in a country band. The girls and I got a pre-dinner bottle of champagne while we got ready for dinner, because that’s what we do. Tonight was “lovo” dinner at the resort, which is basically code for a Fijian style buffet that revolves around a delicious roasted pig. It rivaled a honey baked ham. And this Jew loves honey baked ham. We were supposed to have a bonfire, but the resort canceled it because of the high tide. The high tide that comes in EVERY NIGHT. I’m not even going to bother picking apart the logic of this one for you. So it was another early bed time, fat and happy.
Saturday, October 1, 2016
We woke up with the sun around 6am, per usual. Steph and I did a little interval workout by the pool and sweated our assess off in the morning humidity. If it seems like we are working out a lot on this trip, it’s because I’ve decided to start Crossfit upon my return home, so I’m practicing how to bore the shit out of everyone with unwanted details about my daily workouts. Just kidding, it’s because our meal plan is all-you-can-eat. Thankfully I also have a fucking awesome new tan to supplement my 30 minute workouts. Their powers combined are still no match for my vacation diet, but it’s better than nothing. I figure if Michael Phelps gets 12,000 calories a day to do nothing but eat sleep and swim, that same diet should apply to me as I have the exact same agenda. Actually, lets throw in another few hundred calories because I also got a massage today. If three massages in a week is wrong, I don’t want to be right.
Other than our visit to the massage hut, we spent most of the day on our beach chairs or floating on our rafts. There was a mass exodus of our blog friends from the resort today. I am obviously using the term “friends” here to describe people that I have made fun of but never actually spoken to. I should think that would be obvious by now. I did manage the catch the Hello Kitty Krew in a heated discussion with each other over how to split up their bill as they checked out. Apparently their communistic approach to meals stops short at paying the tab. The Big Titty Committee also headed out today, as did the SF gays. Luckily we caught the boys take their final romantic stroll down the beach before they left and documented it for posterity. What those boys really need is a walk out of a closet, but let’s take what we can get.
We enjoyed a bottle of champagne while getting ready in our outdoor shower and happy houring on our deck. Dinner tonight was an “on table buffet” which means that they put you at big communal tables and force you to socialize with the masses as you share bowls of curry. We somehow lucked out and got the Italian honeymooners who didn’t speak English at our table. Score! It’s a good thing they kept to themselves because I’m not sure I could have looked then in the eye over dinner after witnessing their attempt at a sexy beach photo shoot earlier today. SLR’s are not made for selfies, people. Please stop trying. They also ate like birds, so I was able to hit my calorie goal for the day. Phew.
After dinner I lost my shit while a giant cockroach scurried across the wall as I was brushing my teeth. When your entire bathroom is pretty much outside, mother nature has a funny way of reminding you that you are missing a few walls. I sent Steph and Jorgie to kill it, at which point they lost their shit because a lizard had already beaten them to it. Our villa neighbor then came knocking to see if we were safe because of the screaming. Just kidding. She told us to shut the fuck up because her children were sleeping. But tomorrow while I’m napping on the beach and her kids are screaming two feet from my chair, I’ll be a “bitch” if I tell her to shut them up. And herein lies my issue with parents who think the world revolves around their ill behaved children. These people are not the exception, they are the rule. If you are reading this wondering if you and your children are, in fact, the exception, let me assure you that you are not.