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. Noosa RiverWe 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. Bisbane SouthbankLooking back, it would have made more sense to pose between the B and the R….A gloomy Brisbane
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) Party Car!!!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. Lakefront Beachin’ with the A-teamNow, 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. Lake Mackenzie Beach DayFountain of youthIn my element
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. Getting weird with the dropbear mascot
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. Chet, our loveable hippy guide, in his natural habitat 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. Ferry ride to Fraser! 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. Stina at Lake WabbyThe drive to lake WabbySwimming in Lake Wabby
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. The dino and the unicorn 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. Eli Creek in all it’s tailgating glory 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. Our ship after the three hour tour…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. Champs pools! 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. View from the left of Indian HeadView from the right of Indian HeadMe in a champagne pool…not exactly what I had in mind, but beggars can’t be choosers
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. Why drink when you can drink with a headlamp?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.
Today we woke up to the sound of rain. Pouring rain. Which was fine, because this was a travel day for us – so rain all you want on travel day. We chilled out at the hostel in the morning and then headed into town to catch our Greyhound. After about a six hour journey with one bus transfer and never knowing what time it is because the time changes even though your latitude does not, we arrived in Noosa. We were picked up by our hostel, Noosa Flashpackers, and we checked into our PRIVATE room. Praise the lord. They fucked up our reservation (shocker) because 98% of all hostel workers are innately fucking retarded, and gave us a double instead of two singles, but luckily for them Stina and I are no strangers to cuddle time. As long as I have no crazy cunts in my room, I’m a happy camper. By the time we settled in it was around 6pm and we were informed of “Free wine and cheese night!” at the hostel. “Free” anything would have been enough, but follow that up with “wine and cheese” and there ain’t no mountain high enough to keep these gals away. We headed down and staked out a table. They put two bottles of wine and our own plate of cheese and crackers at our table. Big mistake.My “yay its free and it’s cheese” face. We basically handled that shit between just the two of us. People came over here and there to grab a piece of cheese, but I think we gave off the “don’t fuck with our table or our cheese” vibe and so most stayed away. We must have gotten pretty good at table protection on NYE. They looked afraid. Good instincts people. Don’t mess with a former sorority girl when it comes to cheese. We be cray.
A bit later we were ready for dinner. I found a very highly recommended Indian restaurant not too far into town on tripadvisor, so we headed out. Now, tripadvisor isn’t usually wrong. In fact, it has steered us to some pretty damn good Indian food thus far on our trip. But when it is, it’s DEAD wrong. And this time, it was. Worst service of the trip. Worst than then homeless pizza pot-heads in Able Tasman, NZ, worse than Christmas dinner in Queenstown. When your service is worse than the no fucks given Kiwis, you need to re-evaluate. Suffice it to say I wrote a horrible tripadvisor review while I was literally sitting at their table, where I basically berated the entire online travel community for their stupidity and general bad taste when they rated this restaurant so highly. And the owners were Indian!! Someone needs to plan a trip back to the motherland, because that tikka masala tasted like ass. Big disappointment. So we made it an early night. Again. We love early nights.
Tuesday, January 6, 2015
Beach Day!!! It was a bit touch and go this morning, since when I woke up at about 7am it was pouring rain. But remember, we are basically in Florida, so that is just summer here. We got our free breakfast, which was very exciting despite the fact that it was just toast and cereal, because no one ever gives you free breakfast here. Then we made some sammies and headed off to main beach. Today was our first good look at Noosa, as it was dark when we went to dinner last night. It’s basically Byron Bay’s gentrified older brother. Lots of Aussie families on holiday with their kids, tons of surfing and boogie boarding (which I think we’ll have to hit up before we leave for old times sake – who doesn’t love a good boogie?). Main Beach in NoosaThe main town area is basically one street with lots of “upmarket” shops, as they say here. And we are upmarket girls, so we fit right in. Basically, this is where the Golden Girls go to die in Australia. We settled in for a nice long beach day. We were interrupted by a few drizzles here and there, which were a welcomed distraction from the blistering hot and ozone-free sun, and only one downpour that lasted about 8 minutes. We waited it out under a tree and went right back to the beach once it died down, just following everyone else’s lead. We spent about 5 or so hours on the beach today, which was glorious. Read a book, got really tan. Life is good. As we sat on the beach, we lamented about how the hell we are ever going to go back to work after this trip. Can you guys just pay me to travel and entertain you via blog? Maybe I’ll start a kickstarter campaign called “fund my life, pretty please”. We headed back to the hostel around 5, with a quick stop at the bottle shop to provision for Fraser Island, and then ALL YOU CAN EAT PIZZA NIGHT. You should all know by now that Stina and I never turn down an all you can eat pizza night. We should. But we don’t.Pizza makes Stina a happy backpacker It was supposed to be dominos, which is my absolute favorite, but it was pizza hut. Vom. Very unsatisfying and I’m hoping I have finally learned my lesson. We then showered, did laundry, and packed up for our Fraser Island tour.
We leave in the morning for a 3 day, 2 night Fraser Island CAMPING tour, to be exact. If they make us put up our own tents, we are fucked. I am tent-challenged. We have been informed there are no showers, and one bathroom a ten minute walk from the campsite. So naturally we purchased lots of booze for this little BYOB camping trip. There is no way I’m camping without being drunk off my ass. No fucking way. There won’t be any internet, which means no blog posts for a few days (I know, you will all die without me…especially during the work week. I feel your pain. Oh, wait, no I don’t). But if I’m camping I’m bound to do something absurdly stupid, so I should have a pretty good post for you upon our return.
Today is Sunday, January 4, 2015. Today Stina and I double puked off the side of a kayak. And had to be towed to shore. I know you are all a little confused as to how we got here, so let me take you back. Back to last night….
Tonight was Rory and Stina “hit the town” party night. When the big 3-0 is only a few months away from sucking all joy from your life and replacing it with cellulite, you have to plan these nights well in advance. Because you can’t do it 5 times a week like you could when you were 19. Let me re-phrase, you shouldn’t do it 5 times a week. That shit ain’t cute on 30. The way I drank, it wasn’t even cute on 19. But fuck all that near 30 talk, because tonight, I’m 25. Going-out Rory is always 25. Are you rolling your eyes right now? I deserve that. Whatever, I’m 25 and I JUST WANNA DANCE! After fighting with the cunts for the shower and chugging a few bottles of wine, we headed into town at 8:30pm. The cunts, you see, finally woke up from their lighthouse-induced coma so that they could shower and promptly return to laying in bed sexting. I mean texting. See ya later, suckers. We made a bee-line for Beach Hotel, as planned the previous night. We grabbed a drink and started looking around trying to decide what group of boys to shamelessly hit on first. Just then a group of Aussie cougars came up to us. Well, two cougars and their B-team friend, who was more like a lioness. The cougars told us they were staying IN A HOSTEL. I about choked on my drink. Homegirls were knocking on 40. I can only imagine what fucked up shit they are doing to unsuspecting young tourists boys at that hostel. But then lioness came into town today and made them move to an air bnb, because she has birthed a child and has no fake tits and can’t be caught dead in a hostel (good for you, lioness). Apparently they are planning a trip to LA to make a movie, which is based on a book the lioness wrote and one of the cougars is adapting it to a screenplay. It’s basically a pathetic cougar tale that is a cross between “How Stella got her groove back” and “The Hangover”. Newsflash: even Stella knew to stay away from hostels. This entire convo ensued without the cougars noticing Stina and I giving each other the “how fucking pathetic” look. Go us.
The cougars did, however, explain to us why everyone keeps asking if we are Canadians. Aussies can’t tell our accents apart, and since asking a Canadian if they are American is insulting to Canadians, they just always ask if you are Canadian first. Apparently an American could never be insulted by someone assuming they are Canadian. It actually makes a lot of sense, since Canadians are like the teddy bears of the world. The teddy bear that you had when you were 5 and now you aren’t sure where it is and don’t really give a shit, but still think of it fondly on very rare occasions. But I guess thats something.
So now we are deciding, with input of the cougars, what group of men we will all hit on. It’s scaring me how well I am getting along with these ladies. Shit. Big fake titties cougar finds one she likes in a blue shirt, so I grab him by said shirt and haul him over to us (subtly is not my strong suit). He was with a big group of dudes, but the only hot one. So naturally, he immediately fell in love with Stina and I spent the night talking to his not-hot friends. Well, one was hot, but his teeth were fucked. Fucked up teeth knocks you down to an automatic 3, regardless of whatever else you got going on. Seriously, if you can’t fix your future kid’s teeth, do them and the world a favor and just sterilize yourself. But I digress. The cougars realized they had nothing to contribute and disappeared. No one cared. So you all want to know about the boys. They are all “Footy” players from Adelaide on Holiday. We asked them what the fuck “footy” is, and they spent the next 20 minutes trying to explain “Aussie Football Rules” to us before giving up and showing us a youtube clip. Basically, it’s a cross between American football, everyone else’s football, and rugby. It’s about as stupid as it sounds. I’m assuming at some point a bunch of dorks who couldn’t make any real sports teams got together and made their own sport so they wouldn’t feel left out. They couldn’t even give it a cool nickname.
The good news is that I didn’t bite anyone’s arm. The bad news – I managed to find an entirely new way to objectify innocent men at a bar. Stina’s footy hottie was telling us that one of the coaches is going to check them for “skin folds” when they get back, because they have all gotten so fat on Holiday. What are “Skin folds” you ask? It’s basically where you pinch people’s fat rolls. So naturally I had no choice but to go around to every dude on the team and tell them that I was sent here by their coach to perform a surprise “Skin fold” test on them. Arms and stomach. They were confused, but actually went with it. I was thoroughly entertained for hours. Literally, hours. When the night was winding down at the bar I invited myself over to the house they had rented for an “after party”. Stina was already invited, obviously, to make out with hottie, but as I had no one to make out with I really just wanted to keep raging. The boys obliged and entertained me for a few hours with drinking games, when more drinking was the last thing on earth I needed. We played kings cup, I argued with them about every rule (typical), they bbq’d, I ate a giant hot dog, we drank more, I passed out on their couch. But not before one of they guys (hottie with the fucked up teeth) showed me pics of his Columbian girlfriend and I told him she was ugly, because she was, and he got slightly offended. But I think he kind of knew. So I recorded some video on his phone saying I was going to sleep with her boyfriend (or something of that nature) and tried to get him to send it to her. I thought it was hilarious at the time. While I was entertaining half of the Adelaide fake sports team, Stina was making out with hottie. I mean, “on a walk”…yeah, they pull that same bullshit “bush walk” move over here too. I passed out on the couch. I made out with no fugly dudes with girlfriends. I did not steal anything. This is TOTALLY maturity. Ok, I’m at least halfway there.
And so this brings me back to today. We awoke around 7am in what can only be described as a rental frat house. We high tailed it out of there and caught a cab. Our cab driver asked if we were out for an early morning walk. I replied, “something like that”. He was old, his heart couldn’t take it. Now, when we arrived in Bryon Bay a few days ago we booked a sea kayaking trip for SUNDAY MORNING. What would ever possess us to do such a thing? It is, without a doubt, my single biggest activity planning mistake. For shame. But we had paid in full, so an old buff guy with tattoos who reminded me of Tori Spelling’s husband (just shorter, more buff, and obviously more remorseful) picked us up. Stina told him that we had a “very aggressive” night, so he would know to go easy on us. He loved us instantly and took massive amounts of pity on us (refer to Waiheke post re: old men loving us). We referred to him as “dad” for the rest of the trip. That fucking kayak trip. A day that will live in infamy for at least a week.
We should have known to turn the fuck around the second they gave us HELMETS and told us to CARRY OUR OWN KAYAK DOWN TO THE BEACH. These aren’t little pussy kayaks. Ocean kayaks are gnarly. We dragged that thing down to the beach Weekend at Bernie’s style and were sweating and exhausted before we even got in the water. Post puke wave ridingGetting through the waves was fucking terrifying, but we managed to get out without flipping over (credit for this probably goes entirely to kayak dad). We started off ok, but quickly faded. Faded fast. And hard. Stina started heaving. Which then made me heave. Before we knew it we were both puking of the side of the kayak. One of the guides (the 24 year old hippy-hot guide) told us he has actually never seen a double puke off a kayak before. We are trailblazers. To add insult to injury, we didn’t even see any damn dolphins or whales, not even a turtle, which is the whole point of the fucking trip. Stina thinks it’s because we puked in their house and they were mad. But people piss in there all the time and no one says boo. It became very clear that there was no way Stina and I were getting ourselves back to shore, as we were still intermittently vomming into open ocean. Help me, I’m hungover So dad tied a rope to our kayak and literally towed our sad, pathetic assess all the way to shore. Everyone on our tour hated us. Because we puked, smelled like booze, complained a lot, and got lots of attention from the guides (like the extra attention given to kids on the spectrum, not because we are charming). Getting towed in like the big drunk losers we areI think you all know where the rest of this day is headed….we went to bed. I typed this blog, so that’s something. Oh, and we ate our thousandth pizza of the trip. A little pic our guides snapped once we survived the three hour tour…
Today we headed up the east coast to make all our Aussie beach bum dreams come true. It was a 5am wake up call to catch our 7am flight up to the Gold Coast. Stina’s cousins and his wife actually picked us up and drove us….at 5:30am. I felt bad, but we are not in the business of turning down offers out here. Once we checked in, her cousins came with us through security to grab breakfast at the terminal food court. Australia domestic air travel is basically like being back in 1998. Anyone can go through security and your ID does not get checked. Literally, not once. Not even when they print your boarding pass and check your baggage. I guess that how it works when you live in a country that isn’t universally hated by most of the world. Zero fucks, Aussies style. It did, however, remind me that Home Alone 2 was not as far fetched as you think when watching it today.
It was a quick 1hour flight up to Gold Coast, and from there we hopped in our transfer van to take us to Byron Bay. Now, I realized I’ve already named Waiheke Island “Heaven”, but let me specify. Waiheke is where blue blood winos go to die, and Byron is where hippies and pot heads go. As they don’t mix in this world, I can’t imagine they mix in the next. It is a gorgeous long strip of beach with a little town in the middle that goes off every night. Now almost everyone we have met has told us that Byron Bay is their favorite place in Australia, and now we know why. Super chilled and laid back with an emphasis on fun and lots of gyros (called Kebobs here….don’t ask). What more can you ask for? We checked in to the Byron Beach Resort, which sounds classy but its really just a super chill beachy hostel.Our hammocks The property is pretty spread out, with hammocks hanging every 5 feet or so, the beach right across the street and a BOMB restaurant next door. Oh, and yoga in the back three times a day.
We spent the day at the beach, which was hot as fuck because the humidity here is like Florida, and then went into town to have a look around. We stopped at a travel shop to book our Greyhound bus tickets up to Noosa in a few days and ended up spending $1,000 each on all our activities, buses, and tours the rest of the way up the East Coast. What can I say, the travel desk guy was cute and efficient. We told him the tours we had planned and what else we wanted to do – he immediately surmised that we are “upmarket” (his words, but I like it) and we felt like he really understood the Bougie Backpackers. The prices were basically the same I was getting online, so why not let hot boy make a little commission and do my work for me while Stina and I stare at his blue eyes? Everyone is a winner in Byron! Feeling very accomplished, we headed to the Beach Hotel for a drink (Aussie lesson: a lot of the bars here are called “hotels” because back in the day places were not allowed to serve booze unless they also had places to sleep, so all the bars became a “hotel” and the names just stuck – history lesson credit to Dan). The Beach Hotel is, specifically, where Rory goes to die. A big bar, right on the beach, with TONS of dudes and everyone getting sloshed. It’s raining men. Hallelujah! Now, the dudes are all pretty mediocre, it’s definitely quantity over quality here in Byron, but there are a few diamonds in the ruff here and there. I am already getting a feeling my inner arm bitter is about to make a cameo. She can’t be stopped. We headed home early, since Sydney tried to kill us and all, with plans to return tomorrow for a big Saturday night out. Once we got back to our hostel, we found some crazy nut-bag cunts had checked into our room. It was about 9pm and they were all sitting in their beds texting…probably responding to dirty tinder boys and their pathetic dick pics. Those are the kind of girls I’m talking about here. But everyone wanted to go to bed early, and in a dorm room, that is a miracle. (Note: last dorm room of the trip!!).
Saturday, January 3, 2014
Today we awoke at 5am to what we thought was a fire when in actuality it was those fucking cunts waking up and yelling at each other across the room and into the bathroom. Screaming. At 5am. Stina and I both shot up out of bed. Apparently we had both separately resolved to tell them what they could shove up their dirty little namesakes if they said one more word. They did not, and thus saved themselves a baby dino brawl. Btw – they were doing a sunrise tour of the lighthouse in Byron. 5am, to see a fucking lighthouse. Get a life. We went back to bed and woke up around 9am to make the 9:30 yoga session. When we arrived we were told the 9:30 class was just ending. Confusion ensued. Apparently, for the last 24 hours, we have been on the wrong time, thinking it was an hour earlier than it was. We even had an entire discussion about how much earlier the sun sets here and how weird that was. We are morons. Can I blame Apple? I’m sure even the cunts figured out how to tell time in Byron Bay. Update: the cunts slept in the room ALL DAY LONG, because they were so wiped from their 5am lighthouse extravaganza.
So what do a couple of LA gals do when their workout plans are foiled? Why, we brunch of course. And then beach. The beach outside our hostelWe managed to stay on the beach for almost 3 hours this time without dying. I went topless, because when in Rome, until some creepy old man kept sneaking a peak and I discovered that my inner hippy is actually quite uptight. We headed into town that afternoon, went to visit our hot travel stud to pick up our vouchers, and then headed for the hike to the lighthouse. You see, instead of getting up at 5am and being a huge pain in everyone’s ass just so your lazy butt can catch a free ride up to the lighthouse, you can also hike up. The views were gorgeous, but if I’m being honest, by the end of it I kind of wishing I had woken up at 5am with the cunts. Why do hikes always seem like such a great idea and then turn into pure hell? This can’t just be me. The whole straight up and then straight down thing just drives me crazy for some reason. I can’t help but think how much better it would be with a tunnel and an elevator at the end. We grabbed some booze in town and headed back to the hostel to prepare for party night. This is where I’ll leave you for today. Don’t worry, party night will be in tomorrow’s….it’s a fun one. View of Byron BayWategos BeachEasternmost point of AustraliaWe are exhausted at this point but still look cuteThat damn lighthouse
I’m currently sitting on my balcony in Queenstown with a view of the Skyline Gondola and about 10 Christmas morning hang gliders trying to figure out where to even begin. Probably due to my hangover. Let me focus. Ok. In the morning we went to Puzzling World, which is basically a grown up version of the McDonalds play place. So Puzzleword has a bunch of rooms with crazy optical illusions and puzzles. In one room you feel like the room is slanted at a crazy incline and can barely walk across it, but when you roll a ball, up is down and down is up.
The gang at Puzzleworld in the slanted room
It’s hard to explain and that probably didn’t quite do it. There is also a giant outdoor human maze. We decided to tackle the Maze with our bus husbands. We figured between two doctors, a lawyer and an accountant (low man on the totem pole) how long could it possibly take? A long fucking time. I can’t believe they put mice through that shit.
In the maze with our bus husbands
I thought Stina was going to break down a wall to get us out. I tried to cheat like 12 times.
Then we were off to Queenstown! The adventure capital of the world. AKA, Rory’s paradise. We passed some beautiful lakes and crystal blue rivers on the way. Fairly standard for South Island. We also passed the 45th parallel, if that is cool to anyone. Doubtful. And then we arrived at AJ Hackett on the outskirts of the city for someone on our bus to jump off a bridge. We were at the famous “K Bridge”, which is the site of the world’s first commercial bungy (AJ Hackett and Co spells it this way, I do actually know how to spell bungee, just not much else).
K-bridge Bungy!
We didn’t jump, as we were doing the canyon swing in about an hour, but suffice to say we signed up for a jump as soon as we got to our hostel. So pics in a few days! Then we were off to our Canyon Swing! A canyon swing is basically a bungee jump on crack. You are driven up into a canyon and then thrown off a ledge suspended in the canyon and swing through said canyon. Stina and I did a backwards tandem jump together first, to warm up. Then we each did a second swing where you hang upside down and the jumpmaster drops you…when you least expect it. Fucking amazing. Apparently if you jump topless its free. I told the guy 29 year olds can’t do shit like that, and frankly, no one wants to see 29 year old boobies flopping around in a canyon anyway. He asked if I was married. I said no. And he said “oh, then you are fucked. It’s ok for a guy to be old and unmarried, but not a girl”. I told him I was aware and why did he think I was throwing myself off a cliff? Ass hole. Later that night I became 25 again, so no worries.
The Canyon…and what you jump off ofStina and I about to jump backwards off the ledgeStina being reeled back up after her second jump
After our canyon swings we picked up our bags and had to find our hostel. We stopped on the street and asked a girl working in a fish and chips stall where Church Street was. She said she didn’t know and would google it for us. It was the next street over. Literally, the cross street of her place of fucking employment. Stina could not handle the stupidity. I thought she was going to perform an impromptu sterilization right there at the stall. So I must repeat my question from the other day’s post: how the hell do these morons get themselves to work? I wanted to give her a card for my “how to not be loser” seminar, but I haven’t gotten around to printing them up. Bad for business, I know. I’ve been a little busy. We arrive at our hostel to find a lovely private room that basically looks like a hotel room. A little Christmas present I booked for Stina a few months ago. She looked like she was going to wet herself. We then bought a shit load of booze, as they don’t sell any on Christmas day here, and everyone knows that provisioning is always the key to a good holiday. $20 says half our bus will have no booze and be crying about it on Christmas day. The half that are losers.
And then it was FERGBERGER time. If you have not heard of a Fergberger, google it. It’s basically Queenstown’s In-n-out. Their claim to burger fame. The end-all, be-all of food in this fair little city. So we met up with some of our bus mates, queued for about 20 minutes, and settle into burger bliss by the lake. We fully expected to be disappointed, especially after the sad excuse for Mexican food we had the other night. Oh, that reminds me, we have two Mexican girls on the bus, and everyone just calls them “the Mexicans”. When they are late, our bus driver goes “Where are those damn Mexicans?”. She is totally serious. I laugh my ass off every time. There are two other girls who are not Mexican but are really tan and no one can tell the four apart, so we just refer to all of them them as “The Mexicans”. But I digress. Fergberger was the shit. They are literally as big as your head. They do breakfast burgers as well, so naturally that is now on the itinerary. Later at the bar I was so full I had to have one of our bus husbands rub my belly.
Belly rub from one of our hubbies
It sounds weird…but I’ve had him do it before, after all-you-can-eat pizza night. To a 29 year old overeater, a belly rub is better than foreplay. I can’t possibly be alone is this, can I?
And then it was bar crawl time. Also known as “7pm” here in NZ. And you people wonder why I pass out at midnight every night. 5 hours of drinking is like a marathon for this old bitch. We started at Loco’s where we did our secret santa gift exchange. Thank god one of the A-team people got me, and I was rewarded with rings that you can blow bubbles from ($5 max on the gift – I’m not sure how you can do better than bubble rings for $5, honestly. She outdid herself). These would come in handy later in the night…I’ll get there. Stina got this one girl, Sofie (who we like) a mini nerf gun that you can shoot people with. Basically, the best present ever. Sofie did not agree and was very disappointed. When we were shopping we must have forgotten that Sofie is a real girl and hates all things fun. More for show than go, if you know what I mean. So I gave her one my bubble rings in exchange for the gun and proceeded to put the gun to people’s heads and threaten to shoot them for about an hour. Doesn’t sound funny now. But vodka makes a lot of weird shit funny.
Mushache maddess
Oh, and someone got stick-on mustaches. Stina and I spent about an hour just fucking around with all the lame presents laughing our asses off. People were confused.
We then moved on to another bar which played non-stop Christmas music and we all danced our asses off for about 2 hours until normal, non-backpacker bus folk started to accumulate. We had a limbo competition using a string of tinsle as the pole. The DJ put up a $50 bar tab to the winner, so you know it was on. Stina, myself, and horse face (not sure I’ve mentioned her before, but her face looks like a horse and her voice is super manly – yes, more manly than mine!) came in second and some no-fun nancy skinny bitch took first. Games like that need to be scored on a sliding scale that take into account your weight-to-height-to-age-to-awesomeness ratio. The bar tab was wasted on this bitch. Later that night there was a competition for who could look the most Christmasy. As the only Jew in the room, I was naturally the obvious choice for our group of friends to thrown their support behind. It was clear that the boring bitch (who already won a game!!) was going to win, as the B-team decorated her, and they are FAR more numerous in number than the A-team and therefore had more Christmas shit at their disposal. So Stina literally stole the Christmas tree from behind the bar and I danced around holding it on my head. It was for sure a winner. But I was basically disqualified for theft.
The Jew that stole Christmas
The one time Kiwis actually give a fuck is when you put a tree on your head?! Come the fuck on! I demanded a recount. My plea fell of the deaf ears of the grinch working the bar. Bastards.
But our luck was about to turn. Because upon returning from the ladies room (where I pissed on a Santa Hat that someone had put in the toilet – zero fucks!!) Stina informed me she had found the hottest guys in the bar. So I did what any 25 year old gal would do…I went up behind them and blew bubbles at their (very tall) heads. As that did not illicit the response I was looking for (which was eternal love) I pushed my way to the bar next to them…the classic whoo girl move, been doing it for years ladies. Works just about every time until you turn 25, and then the effectiveness drops exponentially, much the like viability of your eggs. But it was my lucky night, because it worked. Stina got the hotter one, but I got the younger one. If we are being honest, the younger one got stuck with me. But 29 year olds who pretend to be 25 at bars take whatever scraps they can get. So bring on the 26 year old Sweedish wing-men! Did I mention these hot men were both about 6’8 and BROTHERS. It was a Christmas miracle. The bar closed so we spilled onto the streets and loitered about for a while. The extremely tall and good looking Sweedish men wondered how we knew everyone in town. We mumbled something about a bus but kept the explanation short, as we preferred them to think we were kind of a big deal.
Tall, beautiful Sweedish boyfriends. Merry X-mas to us..
Then, as you all well know, after the party is the after-party. We went back to our luxurious flashpacker suite to pop bottles. Yes, I actually said “lets go pop some bottles”, and yes, the Sweeds thought it was hilarious. So we spend the next few hours drinking Rose Sparking wine, dancing to the Jammy pack, and introducing the Sweeds to the baby dino. No, that is not secret lingo for some weird sexual move. It is literally where I just talk in a high pitched voice as a baby dinosaur. A Pterodactyl, to be exact. At one point my boo decided he also wanted to be a baby dino, so I made him get in the fetal position and then declared him re-born a Velociraptor Dino and instructed him to make whatever noise he thinks a baby raptor would make. It’s about as weird as it sounds. Keep in mind it was 2am and I had already drank every vodka tonic in town. After sufficiently scaring these boys, we sent them home to their parents. Yes, they were on Holiday with their parents. We also invited ourselves to (1) Christmas dinner with their parents, and (2) Their NYE party in Sydney. They don’t want us at either one. Shocker.
Today was pretty freaking fabulous. There are going to be lots of pics, because we covered a lot of ground. You’re welcome. Big bus day with a lot of stops. Stop #1 was Lake Matheson (aka mirror lake) with beautiful views of Mt. Cook in the background. We did a short little hike to the lake and then some lounging in the sun. Then we were off to the beach for lunch. Now, when your driver tells you “we’ll have lunch at the beach tomorrow”, what would you bring? Perhaps a bathing suit? Maybe even a beach towel if you are really getting crazy? These people showed up in jeans, runners, yoga pants, basically everything except proper beach attire. It was like Torrance beach on fucking Cinco de Mayo. Beachin’ it Stina and I strip to our suits, lay out our towels and turn on the jammy pack while everyone watched us and said “oh, you guys are so prepared!”. What did you think was going to happen here? Add “appropriate beach wear” to the list things I have to put in my social interaction class. Everyone freaked out at the dolphins. Our driver at one point said something like “how often do you get to eat lunch on a beach and watch dolphins swim?!” To which I responded “oh, we call that Saturday back at home”. People were not amused.
After the beach-in-jeans stop we were back on the bus following the Haast river on our way South. This is easily the most beautiful driving day we’ve had since we’ve gotten to NZ. The amazing weather probably had something to do with that. We stopped at Thunder Creek Falls for a little walk and a photo op. Dinos at Thunder Creek FallsThis is also known as “LSD falls”, because if you stare at the waterfall long enough and then look away, everything looks trippy like you are on LSD. Or so I’m told. I’m gonna have to take people’s word on that one. We caught up with the Kiwi bus at the waterfalls. They left about 2 hours before us, so not sure what they were doing all day. Probably took a break to actually do LSD from the looks of them. Fucking rag-tag bunch of little half-wits.
Then it was on to the the blue pools, which are these amazingly clear pools that are formed where the Haast River and the Makaroro River meet. They have suspension bridges along the hike. So naturally, what does one do when met with a lovely bridge with crystal blue water running under? Strip on the bridge and jump off. While the boys were considering their options, Stina and I said fuck it, hoped over the side of the bridge and just went for it. Team America for the win, once again. Did I mention the water was fed by glacier runoff? God it was so fucking cold. Half my boob was hanging out when I got out of the water and I didn’t notice because I was so cold I couldn’t even feel them. Can you boobs fall off from frostbite? I really hope that is not a thing. Anyway, I self corrected before anyone saw. This is not the kiwi bus…we keep our tits in our shirts like ladies.
And then, we made it to Lake Wanaka. Oh, beautiful Lake Wanaka. Fourth largest lake in NZ, but the most beautiful lake I think I have ever seen in my life. The pictures are good, but even they don’t do it justice. The amazing reflection in Lake WanakaThis place is basically like heaven. We checked into our room – private suite, per usual. The couples on the bus are really getting annoyed with the fact that Stina and I have a private room every night while they have to play roomate Russian Roulette in the dorms. It’s not rocket science, all you have to do is go on this little thing called the internet and book a fucking room ahead of time. It really baffles me how some of these people get through life without someone like me to explain shit to them. I don’t even know how their ass gets wiped. How do they get to work in the morning? Or pay their bills? They can’t even figure out how to book a room. And these are the ones that will probably soon be procreating. In dorm rooms. God help us. Maybe I shouldn’t have kids. What if they are stupid like these people? Nah, not possible. Not with a combination of genes from myself and my helicopter-owning future husband. Phew.
We went for Mexican food in Wanaka with our bus driver, Lego. We were supposed to go as a big group of people from the bus, but we didn’t like the people that showed up for Mexican night (B-team) so the three of us literally just sat at a different table. You know how I always say, if I don’t like you, you’ll know? Case in point. Subtlety is wasted on people like that anyway. Subtlety is what got Smelly Cat thinking she was our friend and trying to hang out with us. Which reminds me, Smelly Cat’s stench was in rare form today. Probably because it was so hot. And she was sitting across from Stina on the bus. I don’t even know how these people get up to the front of the bus. The front is for the cool crew. All 12 or so of us (it’s slim pickins). I’m waiting for Stina to punch her the face or something. Because no one will expect it coming from her.
We are now lounging in our room getting ready for an early night. After all, tomorrow is a big day – Queenstown Christmas Eve Canyon Swing and then bar crawl! Shall we take bets on if I can stay awake past midnight on the bar crawl?
So we left off on the evening of December 22. I promised you a crazy party night, as I was promised by our diver that the bar would “go off”. Not the case. I was desperately hoping for some non-backpacker bus people so that I could momentarily be a normal person, but alas it was not in the cards. The Kiwi Experience bus was there, however. Which is basically the same as Stray (the bus we are on), except they average 5-8 years younger and apparently don’t shower. It basically looks like a bus full for kids who make bombs in their basements being sent to reform school. Seriously frightening. Thank the lord we went with Stray. Or I’d definitely have been arrested by now for kicking the crap out of one of those little shits. I called out the Sweedish storytelling photog and told him he was creeping the girls out and to stop taking pictures of them. Someone had to do it. Drinking fun with some of the Stray crew He tried to play innocent, but I know better. There is probably a website somewhere with our heads photoshopped onto naked bodies in some sick bus-fantasy senario. I got in a fight with an 18 year old German boy who I had the strong urge to punch. I decided that was my cue for some Rory alone time (I’ve been doing surprisingly well up till this point). I went to my room at about 11pm just so I could drink my vodka sodas in bed alone and watch TV…because we actually had a TV. Stina stayed out dancing and what not though. I’m going to try to think of something exciting from the night to tell you.
The Dick Docs gave us a little insight into why men desperately need their services. Apparently in Germany, and sadly probably elsewhere, guys stick their dicks in vacuum cleaners. Like, for sexual pleasure. And apparently some of the older models have the motor in the front instead of the back. Ouch. So if you wonder why German men universally have the male-equivalent of the bitchy resting face, it’s probably because they are scarred by getting their penis caught in a hoover. We also learned about swaffling, which is just when you go around slapping shit with your dick. Basically the perverted equivalent of planking. Do we have this term at home? Stina and I informed them that this was typically just referred to as a dick slap. But “swaffling” sounds much more scientific so we’ll go with that from now on. Luckily, we have no swafflers on our bus. Can’t say the same for the kiwi bus. Oh, and I finally realized why I’m single. I’ve been using the wrong pick up lines. So, I’ve decided to steal the best line ever from our bus driver, Lego: “Do you like bread?” And if the answer is yes, follow up with “Do you like garlic bread?”. Because, let’s be honest, weeding out the non-bread eating freaks is imperative. I know my Brother is currently reading this thinking “Rory, you should not be eating bread”. He’s probably right.
We woke up bright and early for our helicopter ride to the Franz Joseph glacier!!! It was fucking awesome. Rory’s first helicopter ride. I can’t believe I’ve been looking for a boyfriend with a private plane all this time (please see section on why I’m single) when what I really want is a helicopter and I didn’t even know it! But seriously, these things fucking rock. We then spent about 3 hours hiking around the glacier. Is it weird that this my second time in crampons in 2014? Our guide was a horrid storyteller – every story he told us ended with something horrid happening. Like the one about the guys who got stuck in an ice cave for 13 days and had their legs amputated…right before we went into an ice cave. And he had a shit eating grin on his face at the end of each story, which was a bit eerie. I think I’m going to have to add an optional storytelling seminar to my social interaction course. The course load for “how to not be a loser” is looking quite heavy. Anyway, we got to walk through this big narrow crevice and go through a little ice tunnel on our bums. For the record, 3 hours on a glacier is about 1 hour to many. But at least we had a helicopter ride to look forward to on the way down. Little travel fact: Helicopter is the only way to reach this glacier, as it is the fastest retreating glacier in the world. In about 90 years it will be completely gone. Some pics for you below! Our ride to the glacier!View of Franz Joseph glacier from the helicopterMe on the glacier in full gear and crampons!Stina going through an ice caveCrevice in the ice we hiked throughStina wants a helicopter too!‘copter captain Rory
After our glacier experience we were supposed to go kayaking (you know Rory loves a double activity day) but apparently the water levels were too high and rough, so the trip was cancelled. We were secretly a little happy, as this meant we got to spend the afternoon lounging the hot pools and napping before ALL YOU CAN EAT PIZZA NIGHT.
At about 7pm, we headed over for the pizza extravaganza. Now, the “all you can eat” was bullshit for a few reasons: (1) they bring out garlic bread and fries first, so you fill up on that shit and eat less pizza. I knew their game immediately…but I still ate the fries. I have no self control. (2) After bringing out a bunch of pizzas, they they make you wait 20 minutes in between pizza rounds, so that you have time to realize how full you are…just mean, (3) They give you a free beer, also to fill you up – ok I just realized I’m complaining about free beer, so I’ll retract this one, but you see my point, 4) they have a “last call” for ordering pizza. Now, I’m not saying I wasn’t full. I couldn’t have eaten another slice to save my life. But that shit ain’t “all you can eat”. But alas we are in NZ and in true not-giving-a-fuck fashion if they want to call it “all you can eat” they will. The only other people that seemed outraged by this false advertising were our German husbands. Which is another reason for the “why we love our bus husbands” column. Crack kills, people.
After all you can eat pizza night was the nightly game where you can win free shit – tonight’s game was the same as last night’s – rock, papper, scissors (Stina gets spelling credit for scissors, thank you Stina). And guess who actually won??? That’s right, little old Rory. All of our bus mates had gone to bed, so it was just us and our husbands there to rep Stray for the game (one of the Dick Docs won last night). There were about 25 kids from the GAP Experience bus. Now, the GAP kids are basically annoying, loud, spoiled, rich British kids who’s mommy’s and daddy’s fund their travels and have not yet figured out that the world doesn’t actually revolve around their twitter accounts. Basically, the Kiwi Experience kids but with money and friends. I could practically smell the Chlamydia emanating from this group. So naturally, I was beyond thrilled when I won, which was probably the only thing in the world that could shut these little fuckers up. We went to bed before they could drink themselves annoying again.
I thought today’s blog would be pretty quick, as this was mostly a travel day. But then the sun went down…and you all know Rory and Stina can’t fight the moonlight. Today we were up at 5:15am to catch the ferry to the South Island. Only good part about being up at the ass crack of dawn is you can rationalize your need for a McDonalds breakfast without feeling like a huge fat ass. That’s a lie, I still felt like a fat ass. Whatever. We slept for most of the ferry ride since we were hungover, and got our new bus once we arrived in Picton. It’s basically a truck with a bus in the back…it’s fucking huge. So it was aptly named “the truck bus” and off we went. It was about a 5 hour drive down to Able Tasman National Park, but we did manage to stop in Marlborough for a little wine tasting. Bubbles were purchased, obviously.
About ten minutes before we got to our hostel, the owners rang (called) our driver and told her that (1) They have Air Force boys staying there, (2) They are seriously getting after it, and (3) last night they all got naked. Oh happy day for us! It was our intention to have a nice kiwi BBQ with our busmates and make it an early night. But alas, plans change. Once we pull up to our hostel, we are greeted on our bus by the owners and one of the Air Force men in a slutty Santa’s little helper outfit. He was the youngest of the Air Force guys and being hazed. He reeked of booze. Beer pong was happening. I should have known then what we were in for….
The hostel is pretty sweet – lots of outdoor space and fire pits, beach view. However 2 problems: First, the owner is total bitch. I’m talking serious see you next Tuesday shit here people. I almost flipped out on her at check in but thought it would probably be best not to get kicked out on night 1. Second, our room is a glorified tuna can. Literally. Stina in our box. I mean room.It’s a box. With a sliding glass door and two beds. And nothing else. No fucking electrical outlets. And this was the upgrade. Oddly enough, the dorm rooms do have electrical outlets. Because that makes sense. The people that pay you more should naturally have less amenities. Again, they just don’t give a fuck.
So our driver, Lego, cooked everyone a BBQ and Stina and I downed a few bottles of wine. A few of the other gals told us we didn’t have a choice and had to come out…we are easily persuaded so we started to hit the beer. And then the lovely gentlemen of the NZ Royal Airforce came to play. They were all three sheets to the wind by that point, which made it all the more fun. Stina and I found our two boyfriends for the night. Or rather, they found us. They informed us that they were on some sort of “team bonding” outing where they do shit like mountain biking and kayaking in the morning and then just get totally fucked up all day and night. On their last bonding adventure, they went “Tramping”. Stina and I giggled and explained that tramping essentially translates to whoring. To clarify what tramping entails they said “we went bush walking”, at which point we burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, for obvious reasons. It took them a minute, but they got it. It doesn’t sound funny now as I am typing it, but I swear it was hilarious. Trust me on this one.
After about 3 hours of drinking, we headed down to the bar with boyfriends and a bunch of the others. Oh, the bar. I was at a loss for how to explain this bar to you all, but don’t worry – it came to me. If Toby Keith and Bob Marley got together and opened a bar in NZ, this would be it. Oh, and it was open mic night. So all the freaks came out to play. The bartender was high as balls, so drinks took forever. I’ve seen glaciers melt faster than that guy poured a whiskey coke. One of the Airmen had a hat made entirely of glowsticks, which I stole within about 3 minutes. Ok so this is where it gets weird…you knew it was coming. This weirdo who had just hopped on our bus today was blacked out of his mind and walking around the bar trying to fondle all the Air Force guys. I’m talking like, full on dick grabbing, sitting on their laps, trying to kiss them. It was fucking hilarious. Now, you pull that shit on bunch of guys in the Air Force at home, you get your ass kicked. But – say it with me people – Kiwis don’t give a fuck! About anything! Not even some drunk weirdo trying to fondle them in a NZ honky tonk. They were shockingly nice to him, actually. Until Stina informed the weirdo that the boys were going to get naked later and they leave their door open when they slept. Weirdo’s eyes lit up, I died laughing, and the Air boys looked terrified. What else….oh! So remember a few posts ago when I was talking about how I wanted to bite that guy’s arm? Well. Yeeeeeeah. I bit a dudes arm. It was big and muscular. And I don’t know what got into me…probably all the arm biting talk Stina and I have had in the past few days, but I bit him. Not too hard. Twice. He was generally baffled, as one can imagine, but in true Kiwi nature zero fucks were given. Oh, then boyfriend got jealous so I had to bite his arm too so he didn’t feel left out. I’m so selfless. Me and boyfriend. I swear he isn’t a predator like my face impliesStina’s boyfriend in the back. Yes I wore that hat ALL NIGHTThe dude who’s arm I bit in the back…and some fugster he had no business wasting his time with
The bar closed at midnight or so, probably so the staff could go get high. So back to the hostel we went and more beers were had. At this point it was just Stina and I and boyfriends left by the fire pit chatting. Boyfriend was starting to get the look in his eye. You know the look I’m talking about ladies. The one were they are contemplating how best to make their move. Sometimes the look reads like desperation, sometimes it looks pathetic, and sometimes (if you are lucky), it’s confident. This one was probably a mix of the first two. I took this as my cue to go to bed, and off I went. Stina said he was very sad. I would be too. I’m pretty awesome. Oh, you may be wondering why I did not want to make out with Air man…well, two reasons. One: not hot. Very nice. But not hot. Two: I found out over the course of the night that he isn’t actually in the air force!! He is their trainer! Wrong move boyfriend, the Air Force thing was the only card you had to play, and you tossed it. Stina followed to bed shortly after me, after her boyfriend asked her to “go for a walk”. We know what that shit means here. No thank you, sir.
Up in tomorrows post: I’ll give you a run down of the new bus characters and SAILING!
This Bitch Be Trippin 