Planet Man has been voted off the island

I’ve always been attracted to strong women. I like that they’re capable of making their own decisions in life and relationships. I like that they refuse to be dominated by idiots. Or dictated to by morons. That they take an equal role in decisions and choices and pathways. That they carry their own weight and pay their own way.

There is a down side to strong women, of course. They do not suffer fools lightly. And by fools I mean pretty much the entire population of Planet Man.

My first wife, having grown weary of my control-freak act (“You spent how much today?”), eventually punted my demanding ass to the curb. Looking back, I can only wonder what took her so long.

Viking Woman also has an intense personality, as you might have surmised by her nom de don’t-you-dare-use-my-real-name. And by “intense” I mean “willful” as opposed to, say, “bitch.”

She is opinionated about most things, but that’s OK — at least you always know where you stand with her. That may be in the corner, wearing the “Dunce” hat, but, hey, at least you know.

She’s never been a big fan of reality shows, but will sometimes sit through episodes of Survivor in an attempt to comprehend the thought processes of the lowest common denominator. And by that I mean anybody who doesn’t squat to pee.

That can be a good thing — at least we’re doing something together and in the same room, even if one of us is snorting in derision.

The bad news comes when she starts applying the rules of tribal council to the real world.

The Viking Woman Monologues: 

“The women should vote off all the men because they don’t need them. And only keep the skanky women around long enough to lure the men to their doom and then punt the skanks as well.”

“Women would do a far better job of running the world. We don’t need men. We’d only keep a few around to donate sperm for the turkey baster. We don’t need the hunter-gatherer because women can do those things. We may not be as strong, individually, but a group of women can still lift an elk or a mammoth if need be. Women don’t feel the urge to see who can pee the highest or furthest. Take away the brawn and the penis, and what have men got going for them?”

“Men are a disappointment. You meet someone and you think they’re really neat, really awesome. And then the more you get to know them, the more you dislike them. The more of a disappointment they become. I have very little respect for very few men, I’m afraid.”

“Would the world be better without men? Oh, God, yes. I’ve often said that if the powers that be were all women, they could solve the problems of the world by sitting around having coffee and a chat. Men tend to piss on trees, trying to see who is the top dog.”

“Guys hate when they think a woman is better than them. Or smarter or has more capabilities. They can’t accept that, maybe, there might be a woman who is better than them. They get all insecure.”

***

Depending on your gender, after reading the above comments you’re either nodding with enthusiasm or fearing for my personal well-being.

The more I think about it, the more I realize I should be defending Planet Man against such dastardly accusations. And I should probably do that right now. Except I’m busy hiding under the house.

My lunch just winked at me

Viking Woman and I have come to the Black Barn Vineyard’s Growers’ Market seeking a New Zealand icon which may only exist in our imagination.

We have now attended a number of these local markets and have yet to stumble across what we would consider a typical Kiwi farmer. Which, to our mind, would be a bloke kitted out in a floppy hat, wearing a stained singlet, stubbies and Wellies, four days’ worth of whiskery steel wool on his ruddy cheeks and fresh dirt under his fingernails.

The carrots and broccoli and cukes and potatoes in the cardboard boxes nestled in the bed of his battered ute would have been plucked from the earth that very morning, when dawn was but a faint smear on the horizon and the birds were still clearing their throats.

That’s who we’re looking for. But he’s not here. Not at Black Barn, just outside Havelock North, about a 25-minute drive from our home in Napier.

Instead, we find ourselves in the midst of a small grove, with booths and displays arranged in a circle around a portable espresso machine and a comely lass serving up gelato. The entire place is wired for power and the adjacent washrooms have flush toilets.

While we don’t see anyone matching our fantasy of a real farmer, there are glass jars of jams and jellies for sale, artisan breads, gourmet cheeses, and offerings of lavender products and smoked mushrooms and Malaysian fare. One fellow is selling kitchen knives so finely worked you could shave a peach with them. Oh, and there are also avocados and limes, boysenberries and cherries and raspberries and apricots.

But everything looks so scrubbed, a little too perfect, as if it has just come off the shelves at a supermarket instead of an orchard or farm. Like flush toilets in the middle of a paddock, it feels a bit on the contrived side. A bit too convenient, as if no one wants the moneyed residents of Havelock North to peer behind the muddy curtain of tilling and planting and irrigation and fertilizing. No one here is getting their hands dirty.

Maybe our vision of a farmers’ market no longer exists. We certainly didn’t find it in Vallejo, when we lived in Northern California. At that downtown market, Viking Woman eyed the knock-off purses while I stationed myself in front of the batch popper, watching in hungry fascination as individual kernels sacrificed themselves so that I might enjoy a plastic bag of warm kettle corn. And, no, not a single real farmer in sight.

This isn’t meant to denigrate the Black Barn market. We always enjoy exploring various aspects of our new home and the setting — ordered rows of grape vines tucked into a hollow of the Tukituki Valley, seemingly a mere stone’s throw from Havelock North’s city limits — is delightful.

We marvel at the lemons and compare them to the ones growing in our front yard. We buy a bag of apricots, our mouths already watering at the thought of adding them to our fruit salad.

We also learn about gooseberries, how some sort of calamity once had them on New Zealand’s endangered list, along with kiwis, green sea turtles and my hairline. But, I’m pleased to report, the fruit is making a comeback and, while not recommended to be consumed in its raw state, makes for an excellent jam or jelly.

We employ an upturned oak cask as a makeshift table for our coffees while we sit and revel in another glorious Southern Hemisphere summer morning. We are soon joined by a rotund dog, obviously the market’s designated barkuum, who roams the area in search of pats on the head or, better yet, any dropped offerings.

And we inch closer to becoming true Kiwis by indulging in what is considered one of the nation’s culinary traditions — a whitebait fritter.

Let me start by saying whitebait is the juvenile of a fish called the inanga. I have no idea what the adult version looks like, but if I tell you the fry appears to be an icky, transparent worm, would you be lining up to try one with us? Didn’t think so. I did mention the little black eyes, right?

Because Viking Woman is gluten-intolerant, we don’t have our shared fritter on a bun. Too bad — that might have helped in the taste department. As it is, the creation served up to us on a napkin is simply whitebait fried in an egg mixture and sprinkled with lemon juice and salt. Which means, to my undiscerning palate, it tastes like a salty omelette.

Viking Woman, however, licks her fingers and says she’d eat one again. She won’t have to worry about sharing.

One of the fellows operating the espresso coffee machine picks up on our Canadian accents and chats with us later. Like many of his fellow countrymen, he has visited Canada, primarily the ski fields of Whistler, Banff and Lake Louise. He enjoyed his time in the Great White North but was surprised, while visiting Vermillion, Alberta, to find that residents need to plug their cars in during the winter. I’m surprised to hear anyone bothers to stop in Vermillion.

We tell him about breaking our whitebait maiden, how we are slowly working our way through the staples of the Kiwi diet. And that’s how the talk turns to Marmite.

Kiwis, like their British descendants, eat Marmite like we more civilized folk eat peanut butter. With one big difference — you can’t pave roads with peanut butter.

I worked for the Ministry of Highways for 10 years and I swear Marmite is simply the British term for asphalt. It even looks like asphalt.

Undeterred by my blunt opinion of his favorite snack, our new best friend describes how best to serve up Marmite: daub butter on a slice of white bread, apply a thin layer of Marmite and then sprinkle on chopped onions. 

Just the thought of that staring back at me from a plate makes me want to gaaaaaa . . .

Oh, hang on, I think I just threw up in my mouth. Hmmm, tastes just like whitebait. Only better.

I touched slimy things and now my hands stink

Sunday morning. The fish market at the Ahuriri marina, just around Hospital Hill from our house.

OK, maybe “market” is stretching it a bit. It’s more like three guys selling fresh fish — stored on ice — out the back of a cube van. The haul was caught last night in a gill-net operation off the coast of Gisborne, about a three-hour drive north. We’re told the fishing will continue there until Christmas before the boat returns to Napier waters in January.

Today’s offering includes John Dories, flounders, moki, live crayfish, red cod, snapper and gurnard. Viking Woman was here last week and knows she wants flounder. She’s also heard gurnard is a good white fish and is eager to try it.

There are no orderly lineups. There is no till. It’s strictly cash in the hand. The bed of a nearby pickup is used to hold some of the containers but most of the selling is done straight out of the cube van.

One of the fishermen, a dreadlocked, grizzled Kiwi bloke named Mark, displays an interesting attitude towards customers, especially those who attempt to reduce his profit margin to somewhere south of zero. Most of those clamoring for ridiculous deals are what I’ll politely refer to as immigrants. It soon becomes painfully obvious these belligerent non-locals — all sharp elbows and pushy demeanor — will not be receiving a Christmas card from Mark this year. Or any year, for that matter.

A typical bargaining session goes something like this:

Customer: How much for that fish?

Mark: Fifteen dollars.

Customer: I’ll give you 10.

Mark: F**k off.

No matter what language you speak, there are certain words that are universal, and the F-bomb pretty much tops that list. 

It isn’t the most subtle marketing strategy I’ve ever observed, but it’s effective nonetheless. Aggressive bargain hunters slink off to badger a garage sale somewhere.

Another customer plucks a moki from the ice and waggles it in front of Mark.

Customer: How much is this one?

Mark: Five dollars, but it gets dearer the longer you hold it. Six dollars . . . seven . . . eight . . 

The fish is quickly returned to the ice.

I’m fascinated by how Viking Woman reacts to the action. “Demure” and “shy” are adjectives no one has applied to her since she was maybe four, but she seems quite content to hang back, to let the other punters push their way into the fray and be subjected to Mark’s withering barrage of abuse. She knows from experience that the crowd will thin out before the supply of fish does.

Mark appears to appreciate her calm attitude and, once she’s applied the full range of her Canadian charm and politeness, we end up with four gurnards for the price of two.

I am taking notes and photos for this blog and there is a moment of consternation when someone suggests I might be working for the government and somehow keeping a running tab of how much GST will be owing at the end of the day. But then I speak and the accent serves to soothe the anxiety somewhat.

Home then, where Viking Woman sharpens the knife and sets to work carving fillets from the corpses. I eye the bulging gut sacks and prepare to dry heave, but there are no errant nicks and so everyone’s stomach contents remain intact.

Later, it falls to me to clean fish scales out of the sink and I note how the larger ones resemble guitar picks. Really, really smelly guitar picks. It’s an interesting image, and one I’m hoping will not return tonight during dinner.

I have been Zorbed. Which would explain why I’m now peeing blood.

Further travels around New Zealand with Sis, my travel agent sibling visiting from Canada.

We’re in Rotorua. Or, as the rest of New Zealand likes to call it, Roto-Vegas.

Fenton Street is shoulder-to-shoulder motels/hotels/motor lodges/backpackers. The city is one big tourist trap constructed around thermal hot spots. The tag line in the visitor guide is “Feel the spirit.” More like smell it — the pervading odor is that of sulphur mixed with rotten eggs and poured into your gym socks. If someone farted in Rotorua, how could you tell?

We’re not staying on Fenton Street. We’re booked into the Duxton, a sprawling, wooden pile located some 15 minutes outside Rotorua, on the shores of Lake Rotoiti. I ask at the desk if there is a shuttle into town. Our host smiles and says no, but he can ring a taxi. A 15-minute cab ride? Yeah, right. Just as soon as I win Lotto.

This is my third visit to Rotorua. I know how the Sheep Show works at the Agrodome and am still sucked in when audience members are urged to jam a hunk of freshly-shorn wool over their noses and inhale. Sheep stink! Which probably explains why they’ve never really caught on as household pets. Well, that and the whole cud thing.

During past visits, I’ve also guided the wheeled luges down the tracks stretched across the flanks of Mt. Ngongotaha. Except this time Sis and I decide to challenge the Advanced route. I’ve barely started my downhill roll when I’m nearly clipped by a teenage girl a little too eager to squeeze past. This will never do. I pass her in turn and then tailgate her friend all the way to the bottom. Revenge is sweet. And, yes, it is mine.

Sis does not pass anyone. In fact, at one point during the descent, she actually comes to a complete halt. This is nearly impossible to do, considering the angle of decline. Besides, stopping on the track is probably discouraged. Unless, that is, you have a fondness for luge enemas, provided by the next rider to come screaming around the corner at full speed.

Sis did not stop on purpose. But she did notice a sign about a camera on the course — so deep-pocketed lugers can purchase photos of themselves in action — and so sat up nice and straight and smiled brightly all the way down. Good for the camera. Bad for momentum.

Having survived the luge with all sphincters unviolated, we visit the Tamaki Maori Village. I have also been here before and continue to shake my head at how the impressive Maori culture and history and warrior fortitude have been watered down into little more than dinner theatre for the tourists. Who then proceed to titter and giggle during the official welcome, which features a fright-inducing display of bulging eyes and thrusting tongues.

It’s meant to be intimidating — “We’re going to suck the marrow out of your bones while you scream for mercy. Unless, however, you happen to come in peace.” — but I think it would be more effective if Maoris still practised cannibalism. One tourist roasting in an underground oven would soon quiet the rude laughter. Most of which, by the way, is provided by Americans. Most of whom, by the way, would shoot you dead if you dared titter/giggle during the singing of their national anthem, or guffawed during a recital of the Pledge of Allegiance. 

Which brings me to the Zorb, a Rotorua attraction I had yet to cross off my list of things to do.

How to describe the Zorb? Hmmm. Well, basically, you’re confined inside an inflatable plastic sphere encased in another, larger inflatable plastic sphere and then rolled down a hill. It’s as simple — and as brutal — as that.

You have the option of Zorbing wet or dry. The former involves donning your swim suit and wriggling into the inner sphere where a shallow pool of water awaits. You then pretty much slosh all the way to the bottom.

The wet version of Zorbing resembles a rolling waterslide. Except at the end, where you slip out of the Zorb’s hatch amidst a rush of water. Then it looks like you’re exiting the birth canal, complete with placenta.

Sis and I decide to go dry, if only because we have no desire to be born again. Plus we don’t want to drive around all day with wet swimsuits steaming up the backseat.

Big mistake.

There is no sloshing involved with the dry run. Unless you count the way your brain slops around the inside of your cranium like so much dirty dishwasher. Instead, you are strapped to a seat, positioned with your back to the slope, and off you go.

This is how it feels: I’m going to die and then I’m going to puke!

This is how it looks: blue-green-sky-grass-blue-green-sky-grass.

This is how it sounds as you bounce down: Ugh-ugh-ugh-ugh-ugh. One grunt emitted with every impact of the Zorb with the ground.

One of my seat straps smacks me in the face with every flip, and my head is constantly snapping back to slam against the skin of the inner sphere.

It isn’t so much a ride as a rolling, bouncing torture chamber. It’s the Spanish Inquisition encased in bubble wrap. 

The ride ends when the Zorb slams into a wooden fence at the bottom. As far as efficient braking systems goes, this one leaves plenty of room for improvement. The final impact feels like Muhammed Ali has just punched my left kidney. I now understand how a crash test dummy feels.

There is no simulated birth to my exit. At least that would have had a certain style and grace. Instead, in an effort to regain my shattered equilibrium, I actually drop to one knee. All captured on camera. All available on CD for only an extra $25. Because everyone should have a photo of themselves grimacing with pain, clutching their side and looking as if they’ve just emerged from a large, spherical blender. 

But I survived to Zorb another day (next time: the wet ride) and my wife the nurse assures me the bruises will eventually fade.

And so I can now lay claim to having been Zorbed.

I am, officially, a Zorbonaut.

Now, take me to your leader. I may need one of his kidneys.

The Numb Bum Winery Tour

Sis arrives from Canada to visit us in Hawke’s Bay. She’s a travel agent and so is eager to know more about New Zealand, or at least our small corner of it. She has compiled a list of places to see, things to do. Viking Woman is working out of town, so I’m nominated as the tour guide-slash-chauffeur. Start with simple pronunciation guide: Whakatane is not pronounced Whack-a-tanny but, rather, Fuk-a-tanny. Yes, our mother will be shocked.

Moving on.

We start with the On Yer Bike Winery Tour. Not sure which rocket scientist thought drinking wine whilst riding a bicycle sounded like a good idea but this is New Zealand, after all. Once you invent bungy jumping, everything else is pretty much fair game.

Sis is eager to try the local wine. As a non-drinker, my situation is that of the cow observing a passing train: mildly curious but with no comprehension whatsoever of the mechanics behind the process.

Drive west, to the community of Bridge Pa, just past Hastings. Meet a nice lady named Mary at the tour starting point. She hands us each a map and explains the various twists and turns, gate openings and cross-country pathways. Sis and I compare notes later, discover that each of us was thinking the same thing: Sure hope the other person is paying attention. Oops.

A picnic lunch is provided. It turns out to be yummy but I’m initially disappointed that it doesn’t include the long French loaf pictured in the brochure. I’d planned to duplicate that same shot for this blog but quickly realize a Tupperware container sticking out of the bike’s wicker basket will not have the same postcard effect.

We climb aboard the bikes for a practice spin around the paddock. Funny how your brain never lets your body forget how to ride. Funny how your body forgets how much it hurts to ride. Am flummoxed to find bikes now have gears. And you no longer brake by pedaling backwards. What’s next, colour TV? Yeah, right. Good one.

10:40 a.m.: We’re off.

10:40:02 a.m.: Realize they don’t make bicycles seats like they used to. Is this thing supposed to dig into my lower intestine?

10:45 a.m.: First intersection. Have no idea which way to turn. Five minutes in and we’re lost already. Fortunately a local happens by and points left. I notice the prison across the road and stop complaining about my sore ass.

11:15 a.m.: First winery: Triangle Red. Adrienne Campbell explains how their Pinot Gris has exotic, tropical flavours, how the Chardonnay is unoaked and fruit-driven, how a good wine shouldn’t hurt your throat when you swallow. How rose (rose-eh) is making a comeback because gay men have embraced it. All those facts and Sis buys a bottle of Drama Queen because she likes the name.

11:54 a.m.: Second winery: Ngatarawa. Racehorses were once stabled here. The place has been open for 106 years. In all that time, no one has figured out how to pronounce its name.

At this point, our route takes us through an olive grove. It’s a relief to be away from traffic. And then we spot the sign warning that this is a shooting area. What, the iron maiden that passes for a bicycle seat isn’t enough torture?

12:40 p.m.: Third winery: Hatton Estate. Kay tells us their rose “is not lolly water.” I translate for Sis: it isn’t bottled Kool-Aid. When I tell Kay I’m the token non-drinker in the family, she informs me there is still a method by which I can appreciate the wine. She brings the glass to her face and I assume she is going to sniff its contents. Instead, she dumps the wine into her mouth. Swish-swish and spit.

I’m not sure what part of “I don’t drink” means “but I will put it in my mouth.” Somewhere, Bill Clinton is smiling and nodding.

Kay isn’t finished quite yet. She observes to Sis: “You should have no trouble with the biking tour. You look like you’re in shape.” Then she glances at me, raises an eyebrow and walks away. Say what? Has she just called me a “fat bastard” without uttering a single syllable? Am suddenly thankful I opted not to wear my Spandex bicycle shorts.

1:12 p.m.: Fourth winery: Te Awa. One of two where Sis has to pay $5 to sample the offerings. Walk past Audis and Beamers in the parking lot. We have helmet hair. We have chain grease on our pant legs. We are sweaty and out of breath. The fellow takes one look at us and cops an attitude. He already knows we won’t be buying any of his over-priced plonk. He’s right.

1:30 p.m.: Fifth winery: Trinity Hill. The place resembles a Second World War concrete bunker but the Pinot Gris is spicy and there are lawns and shade and picnic tables on the grounds. We eat our lunch here. My burning thighs and throbbing knees and screaming scrotum thank me.

2:45 p.m. Sixth winery: Sileni. There is honeysuckle in the Reisling and almonds in the Chardonnay. So how come it all smells like horse piss to me? A beautiful building in a wondrous setting, all paid for by the $5 they charge for samples. That’s supposed to buy you six swigs. Sis only drinks white, so she is limited to three sips. Needless to say, we do not donate any more to Sileni’s next mortgage payment.

3:25 p.m. Seventh winery: Alpha Domus. Encounter a white called Viognier. Apparently this variety nearly died out before it was rescued. Endangered wine? Call Greenpeace. Sis does her best to help the conservation effort by buying a bottle. Canadians, eh? Always willing to drink to save the planet.

3:45 p.m.: Eighth winery: The Abbey. This place isn’t on our On Yer Bike map, but we’d heard along the route that it’s worth stopping in. We’d also heard the owner was a grumpy old man who had obviously failed Marketing 101. But he is a dog person and, once we make a fuss over his Westie, we are all friends. The building has only been open for two weeks and is immaculate.

And — finally! — someone explains to me why some wines are referred to as “dry.” A dry liquid? Does anyone else see the problem? But, apparently, it all has to do with the sugar content. While most wines contain between 30 and 40 grams of sugar per bottle, the Abbey’s dry wine has only two grams. Diet wine! Who knew? No more wine belly! Thank you, Jesus!

4:20 p.m. We’re back at the start. Home and hosed. Done and dusted. Tired and sore.

Mary has picked up the four bottles of wine we purchased along the way (Sis tucked the off-route Abbey offering in her backpack) and so we’re good to go. Before we stagger back to the car, Mary asks how it went and, while Sis extols the virtues of the scenery as viewed from atop a bike while imbibing in the best juice a grape can sacrifice its life for, I dig deep to summon my inner poet.

“I can’t feel my ass,” I say.

Party hearty? I’m thinking no.

Christmas draws nigh and I shudder. Not because I’m some kind of Scrooge or Grinch. And not just because painful experience has taught me one thoughtless gift will cause Viking Woman to take vice grips to my mistletoe.

What has me breaking out in a cold sweat is that most loathsome of events — the Christmas PARTY!!

It’s not as if I particularly hate parties per se. After all, they do keep breweries and your local dealer in business. It’s just that I’m not much of a people person. Wait, let me clarify that: I’m not much of a drunk/stoned/wasted people person. 

This is the same reason why I don’t attend concerts much anymore (well, apart from the fact any music released after 1970 pretty much sucks). I have a low tolerance level for people whose brains are parked in Stupid but still insist on breathing beer/weed fumes into my face and telling me how much they love me/my writing/my tie/my wife/my . . .  *RALPH!!!* Oh yeah, that’s going to leave a stain.

Much like the kid who was bitten by a dog or thrown into the deep end by Dear Old Dad, the dislike for parties dates back to my youth.

Let’s see now — there was the time Ron Nielson took me to a shindig at some dude’s place where I did not know a single person. Other than Ron, of course. So you can imagine my chagrin when he proceeded to vanish into the night like a werewolf in pursuit of a full moon. To my everlasting embarrassment, I had to ask the host — a complete stranger — for a ride home. It was either that or start walking in the pitch dark.

Oh, and then there was the time a particularly adventuresome young lady invited her boyfriend and three spunky lads, myself included, to join her in the bedroom for a little mischief. I declined with a bashful smile and a flippant remark about having given at the office. I’m no prude but I do believe there are some activities that should not involve audience participation.

And so I stayed in the apartment’s living room, sitting on the floor, staring rather intently at the pattern on the curtains. And, yes, wondering why I had bothered to show up in the first place when I had a perfectly good copy of The Hockey News waiting for me at home.

As it turned out, once the young lady’s boyfriend had initiated the performance, he decided that sharing was not such a good idea after all. And so I was soon joined by the other two blokes, the three of us sitting there on the floor, studying the curtains, limp with disappointment.

Maybe part of the problem is that I don’t drink. Never have. Never felt the urge to feel any more wired than I am by nature. Granted, pour five or six Cokes down my throat and you might want to stand back. I’ll soon be demonstrating how I can touch the tip of my nose with my tongue or, better yet, shoving foreign objects up my nostrils. Weird? Yes. Entertaining? Every bloody time.

But that was all in my wild, misspent past. When I still had friends, or at least people determined to torment me every weekend with vague promises of Bacchanalian excesses. Just as soon as I loaned them gas money, that is.

Now I play the cranky hermit as often as Viking Woman lets me get away with it. Moving from country to country for most of this millennium has also prevented social circles from being formed.

But no more. We’ve been in Napier for nine months now and apparently that’s long enough for some people to get to know us. And one of those people has extended an invite to a Christmas party.

What do I wear? What do I bring? Do I shave? My face and my chest?

Do I practise shoving household items up my nose just in case I’m called upon to perform? Is burping the entire alphabet considered impolite in mixed company? Do I have to constantly say “about” so everyone knows we’re Canadians and stops asking us about Obama?

This is all a bit too complicated for me, I’m afraid.

So maybe I’ll simply stay home. Just like when I was a teenager living in my parents’ basement. In fact, I’m fairly certain I’ve still got that same Hockey News around here somewhere (I am, after all, a Sagittarius).

The curtains, alas, are long gone.

 

 

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Final score in Tahiti: Injuries 4, Boobies 2

I’m home after a week in French Polynesia, where life is sun and sand and 85 degrees every day. Yup, pretty much Disneyland, without the annoying mascots. Or the sticky floors. Or that damn Small World.

I brought back 400 photos of sunsets and a notebook filled with writing done on the run and now reduced to saltwater-smudged scribbles. I have three travel stories to write this week, all with a different angle.

But that writing can wait for another day (hell, it’s only money). I have a blog audience to cater to, goshdarnit, faithful readers who want the gritty shit that doesn’t get printed in family-friendly publications. Let’s get to it, shall we.

Five hour flight from Auckland to Papeete, Tahiti. I tend to sleep on long flights. I tend to snore when I sleep. It sucks to be my seatmate. Or even be on the same plane. I sound like the fifth engine. With a buggered nasal passage.

Am pleasantly surprised to find traffic on the right, after growing accustomed to driving on the left in New Zealand. It’s the French influence. Note the only traffic sign in English is STOP. Note the four McDonald’s locations. Note that is same number as the Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Coincidence? I think not.

Breakfast on my first full day is courtesy of Tahiti Tourisme. It is one of five meals I score, still leaving me on the hook for 13 feedings over the course of my visit. In preparation, I have filled my suitcase with sachets of powdered soup, boxes of granola bars and packaged kits of tuna-with-crackers. Travel writers are paid AFTER their journeys, which means forking out $26 US for a continental breakfast ain’t going to happen. But — damn! — those almond croissants look yummy. I’m nearly positive they are calling out “Eat me!” but my high school French is rather rusty, so for all I know it could very well be, “Back away from the pastry table, Fat Boy!”

Am hooked up with a local driver to transport me around the island for the better part of a day. Tahiti is the largest land mass in the Society Islands and, accordingly, has the largest population. And the worst pollution. And the most rubbish to dispose of. Too many people, too many cars. Papeete reminds me of Honolulu, except everyone here speaks French instead of Japanese.

My driver is very knowledgeable — well, except for the part about not knowing every attraction I was scheduled to visit is closed on Mondays. That leaves us with more time for cruising around, during which I’m regaled with tales of how corruption and con men are ruining the country. My new friend informs me he could straighten out the entire mess with little more than an Uzi and a good aim. I keep one hand on the door handle, the other on the seatbelt release, and smile and nod. A lot.

We’re at Venus Point, which has some historical significance I quickly forget because it’s here I encounter topless women. Actually, they are the only topless women I will see on this entire trip, despite being promised acres of quivering European-suntanning-influenced bare flesh. I spot a pair of tourists flaunting their assets, but one of them quickly covers herself. It may have something to do with the way I’m frantically fiddling to attach the telephoto lens to my camera, but I can’t be positive.

A day later and I’m in the island’s interior, scrambling through lava tubes, huge holes in the mountain carved by magma after some long-ago volcanic eruption. I have shown up woefully unprepared: my swimming togs are in my bag rather than under my clothes, and my boots aren’t designed for walking in water. I’m loaned a dry suit from which — much to my dismay and despite its tag denoting an XL size — parts of me extrude in unsightly bulges. I envision an over-stuffed sausage casing and vow to ignore all croissants from now on, no matter how loudly they may cry out to be devoured. 

I’m also given SCUBA shoes of some kind but protection and traction are mutually exclusive, as I discover when a misstep on a slippery rock results in a face plant. The impact liberates a chunk of flesh from my right knuckle (Injury No. 1) but it’s my pride that takes the hardest blow.

One of my guides is a young fellow whose English is as proficient as my French. I impress him by counting to 20. He impresses me by pointing out where a wild boar has trampled the grass, and then uses his fingers to mime huge tusks. The thought occurs that I never learned the French translation for “Help! I’m being gored by Babe!” Five years of school pretty much wasted.

On to Bora Bora, a quieter, more serene island, more in line with how I envision the South Pacific version of Paradise. It’s filled with lush vegetation and a teal lagoon teeming with rainbow-hued sea critters and . . . Americans. Universal Pictures has taken over the neighboring resort, much to the shock and awe of the locals, to film a romantic comedy starring, among others, Vince Vaughn and Jon Favreau.

To my credit, I did not once give in to the urge to yell snippets of dialogue from Swingers across the lagoon.

My over-water bungalow at Le Meridien has a large panel of glass in its floor. I can either stare at the water or watch CNN’s 24-hour coverage of the run-up to the U.S. election. One proves as brain-numbing as the other. I swim under my bungalow at one point to try watching the TV through wet glass. It does not make the news any more exciting. 

To my credit, I did not once give in to the urge to swim under the neighboring bungalows and stare up at the occupants like some white-blubbered, googly-eyed denizen of the deep.

Visit the turtle sanctuary at Le Meridien. Am so fascinated by saving the green sea turtle from the dinner plates of Tahitians that I fail to notice that those areas of my feet not covered by my sandals are on fire. Sunburn = Injury No. 2.

A 4×4 excursion takes us into Bora Bora’s interior, where the Americans installed seven-inch guns soon after entering World War II. They have a range of six miles. The guns on the Japanese battleships had a range of 35 miles. You do the math.

Fortunately, the war didn’t come this way, leaving the GI Joes little more to do than fire seven-inch coconuts from their batteries and impregnate the local womenfolk. Military manoeuvres, my ass. But that would help explain the brown skin and blond hair so prevalent on the island.

It’s a bouncy ride in the 4×4 and I can only prevent myself from exchanging inside the vehicle for outside the vehicle by maintaining a firm grasp on the roll bar. That firm grasp eventually develops a blister on my right thumb. (Injury No. 3).

I can access the lagoon via a metal ladder off the back deck of my bungalow. While enjoying this privilege, I somehow manage to scrape my ribs against a collection of barnacles/coral attached to the lower rungs of the ladder. The result is a red, itchy rash. (Injury No. 4).

The doors to these bungalows are heavy and tend to close of their own volition whenever the wind blows off the nearby sea. I step outside for one second and the door slams shut behind me. I am outside. My key is inside. I am outside. My shirt is inside. The spare key is at the reception desk, a five-minute walk of shame away. I came here looking for topless, but that wasn’t supposed to include me.

Leave Bora Bora filled with powdered soup, instant coffee, a suitcase of liberated toiletries and pleasant memories. Back to Tahiti for one night. Watch gendarmes operate a radar trap on the freeway, nabbing drivers travelling faster than 90 km/h.

There are speed limits in Paradise? Yeah, right. What’s next, North American doughnut shops and Hummers? Oh, wait a second, look over there . . .

To Tahiti Tourisme and Le Meridien: Thank you, merci, mauruuru.