According to the BBC there have been 1200 murders in Jamaica so far this year. That seems a little high. On the subject of things being a little high, rent at the hostel has gone up because we're now in the summer month of December and everyone wants to be in Sydney come Christmas. In the Caribbean island MP's have voted to keep the death penalty (that's a lot of injections), which has caused a stir in some quarters. In my quarters (and that of the others inside room 302 of Base Backpackers) the price hike in rent - now set at $196 a week to share with 8 people in a fire trap - has caused more than a stir, so I have taken drastic action: I have moved in the missus!

I have made attempts to find digs of my own (by that I mean I have looked at two properties, so take my efforts with a pinch of salt), but certain factors are against me: I do not know how much longer I am going to be in Sydney as both Lysey and I are moving to New Zealand in the new year once she gets the nod from work; I also do not have the bond and rent required upfront – quoted at $1200 for one place I looked at this week.

Of both properties, house number one (22/11) was a palace. Believe me, it was one of the best terraced properties I have ever seen, and that’s including everything I have run my eye over back home too. Polished floorboards downstairs and plush carpets upstairs, the place oozed elegance. All three bedrooms had built in wardrobes, and the house also came with a front and rear garden – a rarity in any Sydney property. (Indeed, upon stepping foot on the carpet I shrank two inches.) The major problem, however, was that the property was unfurnished. I simply cannot afford to buy a bed, a TV, washing machine et al, especially as I do not know how long I’ll be here.

House number two (26/11) was set in an apartment which housed 30 or so individual private properties, and it was located in my former suburb of Stanmore. Of the five available, all of them were of a sterile appearance; everything was white and each place, almost all identical, had a homogenous ‘shoebox’ feel to it. For the price of $200 per week, plus the bond and initial down payment of $1200, I wasn’t won over. Therefore, after some subtle hints dropped by yours truly and with Lysey acting upon these I will be moving in on Tuesday (2/12).

To be honest, the hostel wasn’t too bad this week, but I think it was aided by my decision to only spend four nights out of the seven here. With most of my time spent at Lysey’s, including this week, to some it may seem logical that I move in. The only stumbling block, however, is in my head; Lysey shares with a housemate, who I incidentally get on with very well, but I feel that I am intruding on their space. If things don’t work out I’ll look for something else, but it won’t be in a hostel.

Now that we’re soon to be living under the same roof we’ll obviously do more things together. We’ll no longer have the luxury of own personal space, but I think we’ll be ok. Furthermore, I realise that we are intending to live together next year in New Zealand, but I consider that as being ‘our house’, so I won’t be over thinking things in my head. However, certain things have started in earnest, including moa cooking my first ever meal for someone other than myself. I was like Gordon Ramsay, not because of my cooking abilities, but because I was loosing it in the kitchen during my efforts to make us, plus her housemate, a Mexican. (26/11) Luckily, everything went to plan and we all enjoyed the meal. I do not, however, feel confident in this becoming a permanent arrangement.

Another newbie to me involves Christmas Day as I’ll be spending it with the in-laws in Goulburn, some two hours by car from Sydney. For the past two years’ Lysey has missed out on a family get together come Noel due to work and traveling, so this year she has no excuses. I have been told that her family is accommodating over ten people on the day, and here where the problem lies. I have come to learn that her parents have bought me a present, of which I am of course very grateful for, but now that I have to buy them a present (I was going to anyway. They have both been very good to me), but where do I stop? Do I buy for other members of the family or just stop at the parents? Again, I think I am over thinking things. I really must find some new hobbies or take up talking to the people in the hostel just to keep my mind occupied.

I suppose I still have my hobby of making myself laugh, though. (I am the don at this). To prove this, on an initial unrelated subject, but tied with house hunting, everyone in computer land has received the emails proclaiming to be from a Reverend or Bishop in western African claiming that s/he has a mother who is dying of cancer, and that you've been chosen to inherit their fortune. However, in order to receive the life savings (life savings from Nigeria - alarm bells should be ringing already. What's the national yearly salary, 20p?) you need to reply with personal information such as bank details, email address, age, address, mother’s maiden name etc.

Well, these con artists' have moved into the field of estate agency. Prior to my plans to move in with Lysey I was frantically searching for properties, and as I have enquired about so many this particular gem didn't initially register, but it will remain with me for the rest of my days. The house, 298 Sussex St (slap bang in the middle of Sydney), is available if I send all the aforementioned information along with pay details to a woman claiming to have recently moved to America, but she is now looking for someone to take care of her flat. The emphasis, as she put it, is not about the weekly rent, but more about the care shown for her property and belongings.

With that in mind, and the fact that I am no moron, I have been winding her right up. Apparently, all potential renters are not allowed inside the property, but are allowed to view it from the outside, hence the reason she made such an issue with the address. I initially began by asking rather mundane questions such as 'when are you back in Sydney so I can meet you in person?' In all fairness, I initially received amicable answers, but that is only because she’s after my money. To this particular question her response was along the lines of… “I am not returning to Sydney for a while, but please reply with your personal information.”

Not wanting to fulfill her wishes, I decided to up the ante somewhat. My next email asked the following: "I have one more issue; it says in the advert that the house has to be kept immaculate. Well, I have two pets - one cat and one cassowary. Would it be ok to keep them in the property or not? I want to be honest with you, as you have been honest with me. I do not want to get into any bother later down the line as I am really interested in the property", to which her reply was as follows: "Thank you very much for your email, am very glad to deal with someone like you. i want you to know that me and my family are very happy to give the rent to you. i also want you to know that you can mo0ve in with any kind of pets ok even is more than 5 i want you to know that is allow. so please i want you to know that i have not see the rent application form so please i want you to shown me or you send me"

By the way, a cassowary is a bird native to Australia. Emu-like in appearance, it is a deadly animal; one rip from their giant clawed foot and you'd be saying good-bye to all your internal organs. How could I possibly live with one of them? Moreover, I don't even like cats.

Grammar and punctuation clearly isn't her forte, and by this time I could sense that she was getting angry. I then decided to do what I do best and press on. My following email and her response was as follows:

Me: "I forgot to mention one thing in my previous email regarding my pets. My Cassowary has an animal friend who is a dingo. Anyway, the dingo has a sister who is currently mating with a hippo, so that would make six pets in total. I know you said five pets are allowed in your previous email, but like I said, I want to be straight with you."

Her (Sandra Greiciales. That's all the information I have on old Sandy):"Ok dont worry you can bring all the six pets ok but just make sure you are neat and tidy with all my things ok and also here is the rent application form below and once you fill it i will give you call so that we can talk on how you will send the money and how you will get the keys"

I have been literally laughing so loudly at work every time I respond. Imagine me living with a cassowary, a cat, two dingos and a hippo in the middle of Sydney! I am so funny, and to prove it, I went one further. My next email, and perhaps my best one yet, went as follows. (Remember, her initial demands about anyone moving into the property were based on the uptake shown for the property.)

Me: "Excellent, you have made me and my boyfriend so happy. I have filled in the application form and I have also sent him the form. Because we are going halves on the rent he needs to fill the form in.

By the way, is it ok if I live with my boyfriend? We have been together for so long that it would be cruel to split us up. Moreover, his crack-addicted whore of a mother tends to visit every night. Would it be ok if she were to stay some nights? I don't mind what you say as I don't really like her, but she is good at what she does. Also, if it's ok, I will be willing to pay you an extra $10 per night, so it means more money for you.

What do you say?"

I would love to tap into Sandy’s brain, just for one day. I really would like to know what is going on up there, especially as my replies were getting dafter and dafter with each reply. She subsequently was starting to get annoyed, as highlighted by her response of "after this message i dont see your rent application i promise you i will not reply you again.and i mean it because i can see that you dont want to provide your details." However, I attempted to reassure her that I was in fact genuine with this pearl of wisdom.

Me: "We are both genuinely interested, please believe me. He is faxing across his copy of the application form now, but before he sends it he wanted the answers to all the questions about his crack-addicted whore of a mum being allowed to stay. I knew he was overreacting as I know you'd be fine with it. It looks like we might lose the place now - I hope we don't as we both walked to the place last night and we liked the look for it from the outside. His mum liked it too, she wants to erect a red light out the front."

Golden, I know, and her response was: (I am putting in the edited version as it was very wordy with not one full stop. Deciphering it was annoying enough for me, so I have saved you the effort) "ok i understand you Yes !!!! you can bring your mum ok that is not a problem but atleast you should see that i have been asnwering your questio since morning atleast you should tell your boyfriend to please get back to me with the rent application form ok.... and please i beg you again dont email me without the rent application form because my family are not happy they see you as if you are not seriouse and they are little worried that they dont want to give this rent to you so please if you can attahced it below i can talk to them so that they can accept it so please hurry up with... please let me know how much you want to pay because the total cost you want to pay now is 1300 AUD with the bills so please when you email me the rent application form also request for the payment details so that you can send the money to me via western union and once i comfirm it i can send you the keys today.... please be fast and also please i want to ask you a question can you still send the money today???? if so i want you to hurry up before western union close so please and please get bac to me Asap please just give me ur addres and phone number where i can reach you please and please be fast."

I have left it for now and I haven’t answered any of her questions. However, I may resume my windup next week, that's if I get a 'spare' five minutes at work.

I am a Jekyll and Hyde of emotions. One minute I am down, the next I am up. The medical term for such behaviour is known as ‘bipolar’, but I am anything but. Indeed, I have come to my own conclusion for my fickle behaviour, and in doing so, I have invented a new disease.

It’s called Football Fickleness Syndrome, or FFS, as it will be known in medical circles. FFS is synonymous with long-term football fans that have supported a crap team for most of their lives; after a succession of defeats it’s all doom and gloom for the side. However, once the taste of defeat is soon replaced with something much sweeter - a couple of victories, and with other results going your way elsewhere, it’s all rosy once more. Sadly, these result patterns rub off on the fans’ of the clubs involved, and it inadvertently affects their lives away from the beautiful game.

Case in point, me: I have moved back to the hostel this week (15/11) as I wisely decided not to pay two weeks rent for my cockroach infested house of old whilst I was away in Fiji. Therefore, I was left with no alternative other than to move back into the hostel until I get back on my feet, and hopefully find new digs.

For my first few nights I was ready to commit GBH on almost everyone associated with Base Backpackers. (That’s something like 400 people.) From squeaking beds to loud roommates, getting a good night’s sleep here isn’t an option. In my current room of eight I am the only person who works, so getting my customary seven hours before my 5am rise has yet to be achieved. In addition, my room initially resembled something out of the Crystal Maze, where the challenge was to navigate your way around the free floor space without stubbing your toe, or to avoid stepping on one of the many upturned plugs that lay loosely around the floor. I am convinced it was, and still is, a fire hazard, as there simply isn’t room for four bunk beds, and their occupants, and their belongings. Sadly, I was initially located on the bottom bed on one of the bottom bunks in the middle of the room, meaning that if I turned my back I’d ignore one side of the room. This was highly annoying – so much so that I simply stopped talking to people altogether. (Last Sunday, 16th, a blonde lass moved into the room. Because I hang my towel at the end of my bed to dry, I am unable to see the next bunk, so upon her arrival I shifted my towel to one side so I could strike up a rapport with her. However, after finding out that she was French, and that English wasn’t her first language, I promptly shifted the towel back to its original position. Consequently, I took up ignoring her, along with the majority of my other roommates.)

Anyway, we have since re-jigged the room so that every bed is facing the walls looking in. Seriously, after some casual feng shui that Wednesday night (12th) I was happy as Larry, and there’s the fickleness of it all. All it took was some readjustments and I take up speaking to everyone – including the French girl. (Nancy is her name and I don’t mind that every conversation we have had begins with her admission ‘that I don’t speak the English that well’.) I am now a black belt in the fine art of feng shui, and in doing so, I no longer want to commit GBH on anyone.

The parallels of this example, along with supporting a football team, are resounding. I am in the same room as I was at the beginning of the week, where I wanted to inflict pain upon as many people as I felt necessary (the equivalent, of course, being something like Tottenham’s start to the season), but by moving the beds ever so slightly I am happy once more (just like I am now Harry is in Charge. A couple more victories and we’re back up the league). Stockholm Syndrome was invented on a whim, so I feel there is a place for FFS. I imagine there are millions of sufferers around the world, both male and female, who have suffered in silence for years. The more I think about it the more I can relate my newly found disease to all walks of my life. Hopefully, though, with some awareness we’ll be able to rid the planet of it.

The waifs and strays that pop in a hostel, however, would be worthy of their own reality TV show. Seriously, in a world of crap programmes such as ‘I’m a Celebrity…’, or ‘A Farmer Wants A Wife’, the characters that appear within this building could make a successful show. (Alan Partridge, in all fairness, did suggest such a show called ‘Youth Hostelling with Chris Eubank’. I would pay good money to watch that, even though I do not like the lisp speaking, truck driving tosser that is Eubank. Sadly, however, Partridge’s idea was turned down, but it certainly has potential).

Exhibit one of my proposed youth hostelling programme would involve a current tenant at Base who is being evicted at the end of the week. I do not know him personally, but I have seen this person, a male of athletic build in his late 30’s/early 40’s, strutting around. Apparently, he has been lodging within the hostel for a number of weeks, but throughout his time he approaches men to see if they want a body massage. He never asks women if they require his gentle touch, just men, and, as you may assume, every man has so far rejected his advances.

However, after he has been refused his right to let his hands run wild over another mans back, he becomes aggressive with that very person. He has had a number of complaints lodged against him and therefore he has to move out. I was present when the night manager gave him his orders, and he denied all the allegations against him, despite the fact that two new victims were standing in front of him contradicting his every word.

I would pay good money to watch people like that on television. Before he gets the boot I am determined to get asked by him, just so I can see for myself if he does get aggressive. On Sunday (23/11) he was in the kitchen and I was by myself; I wanted to stretch and yawn and generally moan about having a stiff neck, all with the intention of him offering his services. However, as I was on my own, such behaviour from yours truly would have simply looked mad, and I’d appear as crazy as him. Crazy people aren’t tolerated here, as was the case of some Malaysian woman during my last stay who wanted to stab me ‘as I was infiltrating her son against her’. Indeed, if I was to appear crazy I would be heading the same way as my massage friend, but maybe that’s not a bad thing as I do need to get out of here soon. (There’s the FFS once more.)

Staying in this particular hostel means you soon get caught up in its many rituals, one of which is the weekly pub quiz. (On my first visit here, both Mike and I happened to win it) The elements were against us this time, however, largely because of the teammates on offer. For example, when the question ‘what is Elton John’s real name?’ was asked, one girl shouted (and she shouted in a way that intended to show her intelligence to the rest of the team – some eight other people) ‘Dwight Yorke’. Yep, that would be Dwight Yorke of Manchester United and Sydney FC fame. She was so insistent that she was correct that 20 minutes later she wanted to know if I did put down Dwight Yorke as the answer to question 9 in the general knowledge quiz. Needless to say, we didn’t win.

Other than that, I have been keeping my head down at the hostel, choosing to rise when I want to speak to someone, and retracting when I can’t be bothered. In most cases, it's usually the same people involved, but after a seven-hour slog at work I often find myself not in the mood. That said, at times I am willing to go out and get messed with my roomies, as was the case on Friday (20/11) when a big group of us paid visit to the pubs in and around the Opera House. I probably have the most severe bout of FFS known to man!

Despite my precarious financial situation (I haven’t gone into detail about how precarious it is, but trust me, it’s precarious) I decided to buy a ticket to the dance festival that is Global Gathering. In doing this I have also fulfilled a promise I made myself many moons ago, in that I will attend a reputable dance festival in 2008. There are about half a dozen of us from the hostel who are attending, and with Kraftwerk headlining it’s going to be money well spent. The German group seldom perform live; I know of no one who has seen them, and I am going just to say ‘I have seen Kraftwerk’. Indeed, Alan Partridge once famously said: komme sie bitte und listen to Kraftwerk.

Despite devising an awesome line up, the organisers decided to host the event on a Sunday. Running from midday to 10pm I can see myself getting rather messy, and on a school night, too. I want to have a ‘get out of jail free card’, just in case my fears come to presence, so I haven’t told anyone at work about my plans - just in case I fail to turn up next Monday.

To whet the appetite, both Lysey and I went to see German house legends Booka Shade this Saturday (22/11). I would willingly attend these sorts of events on my own, solely because I enjoy the music so much. Moreover, I am of the school of thought that if I suggest going with someone who is not into the scene, they perhaps won’t have a good time, and that detracts from my enjoyment. Nevertheless, Lysey had a great time, so my fears were dumbfounded. The concert hall, a theatre by trade, was rammed with 800 or so people, and the four-hour gig had everyone pumped. Even if dance music weren’t your bag, I would recommend going to see Booka Shade just to experience the energy of one of their performances.

Bula!

That’s a traditional welcome from Fijians, and I indeed pass my hellos on those back home. As I write (please, assume I was writing this from the comfort of Fiji, which in reality isn’t true – all because their internet was either vastly overpriced, or vastly unreliable) I am sat on a pontoon with a fully stocked bar to my left, and to my right, the turquoise toned South Pacific Ocean. Simply put, my current location is paradise, but more about that later.

Our efforts to find paradise have been well rewarded. The day of our departure, Saturday 1st, must have seen me age ten years within one hour, such was the level of stress I found myself under. Before I go into detail, I must emphasise that I seldom suffer stress; I easily get annoyed, usually by the most trivial of things, but stress and I seldom come together. As I sit here scratching my head in search for an example, with the sun beating down making the sand radiate with a yellow gloss, the perfect example comes to mind: in my former Sydney suburb of Stanmore was a chip shop that always opened at 7.30am (anyone for a cheese burger and chips for breakfast?), but come 7.30pm – the time when people are returning from work, when at times one may be too tired to cook – they are shut. During our family business heyday many moons ago (my two brothers and I were actually too young to contribute, so it was in fact both my folks who held the reigns) the business plan didn’t suggest opening at 7.30am and closing when Emmerdale Farm was about to start.

The above story annoys me, but on the day of our departure, my relaxed and jovial mood was somewhat upset. For every flight I have undertaken since leaving England I have never required a printed version of my ticket. Moreover, when my mum and nan recently came to visit neither of them required a printed version of their tickets, all because everything nowadays is based on an ‘e-ticket’ system. Therefore, Lysey and I rocked up to the check-in gate unprepared for what was about to happen: it is company policy of Air Pacific, our airline flying to Fiji, that they require printouts. Additionally, they also require the return leg information, even if that return leg is not with the same airline, as was the case with both Lysey and I.

Therefore, we went on the search for our tickets. Getting our departure ticket was easy because Qantas, the parent company of Air Pacific, had a customer service desk open. However, Pacific Blue unfortunately adopts a relaxed attitude towards customer service as they neither had an information desk, and their office within the airport was locked for the weekend. (For the record, I am not blaming them. We should have printed our tickets beforehand, but a heads-up would have been appreciated.)

This rigmarole resulted in us frantically running around Kingsford Smith Airport – a huge airport by international expectations. By this time (12.50pm. We were flying at 1.55pm) we were panicking, especially as after a 30 minute wait on the phone to Pacific Blue HQ (I am now familiar with the new Kings of Leon LP) we were still unable to speak to anyone who could forward us our tickets. I should explain that I did actually have my ticket already saved in my email account, but Lysey had hers saved on her H-Drive on her work computer, which incidentally, had been crashing all week. Therefore, we needed to speak to someone at HQ so we could get our tickets. (I already had mine, so I was technically waiting on the woman).

Lo and behold, we eventually managed to speak to someone, and we eventually managed to print out our tickets. Our new problem, however, was collecting them. Sydney airport, it must be said, does not age-discriminate when it comes to their staff. Well aware that time was ticking, and check-in was due to close, we had to take directions from an old lady (she must have been in her 60’s), who had a momentary lapse and forgot where her office was. Eventually, with time even more against us, she managed to retrace the steps she has no doubt taken on a daily basis for the past 30 years of her life, and she pointed us in the right direction.

When we arrived at the office we were greeted by an even older chap (he was easily over 65. What is the retirement age in Australia?) who didn’t know how to turn the computer on. He enquired to know if I was computer savvy enough to figure it out, to which I abruptly replied, ‘yes’.

Bless them, it was our problem, but we eventually managed to get our print outs, and we managed to check in too – by 1.15pm. (The gate was about to close at this time.) I was extremely grateful to the old people at Kingsford Smith, whom I guess, it was just another day at the office for them.

Like I said, I seldom do stress. However, by this time I was raging! The only way I know how to deal with such emotions is to basically go into shutdown mode and not talk to anyone. This, it must be said, had an adverse affect on Lysey; by not communicating she was getting stressed, but I explained I needed five minutes to myself and I’d be fine. True to my word, as we were taxiing I was hunky-doory once more.

It didn’t last, mind. Our three-hour flight was extremely turbulent, meaning that for the duration of The Dark Knight, my choice of in-flight movie, I was often making the script up as the DVD kept skipping. Moreover, some people it seemed were holding on for dear life; one child, aged in his early teens, was sick and this almost started me off. I was getting annoyed with the child if I am honest, and because I have no affiliation towards him I don’t mind people knowing that. (He wasn’t stressing me out, however.)

It felt good to finally touch down in Fiji. It felt even better having my first taste of the local brew, Fijian Bitter, once we had checked into our hotel in Nadi. That night was justifiably spent relaxing as we had an early morning ferry to catch the next day (2/11) to the island of Waya.

Waya, located on the east of Fiji, belongs to the collective group of islands called Yasawa. Our resort, quoted as being ‘simply paradise’ by yours truly, was named Octopus Resort, and according to the Conde Nast Traveller, 1999 (yes, I’ve never heard of them/it/he/she either) the very beach was voted one of the world’s top ten beaches, so my quote seems justified. To put that accolade into achievement, I shall try: during my university days I frequently frequented Bournemouth beach, which, at the time, was voted Britain’s best beach. I bloody love Bournemouth, but it has never appeared in any Conde Nast Traveller top ten beaches to my knowledge. Therefore, it’s easy to see why I reached the opinion that the beach at Octopus Resort was sensational.

Whilst there (2 & 3/11) both Lysey and I managed to experience much more than the stunning beach. Monday saw a multi-national group of 30 of us head to the local village, Nalauwaki. This very village is home to the entire work force at Octopus, and the resort also supports their famers and their fisherman.

During our three-hour trip, the entire adult population of the village kept us entertained by firstly making us partake in the Fijian ritual of drinking kava. For anyone not in the know, kava is the root of the pepper tree and it is usually harvested for ten years. (It becomes stronger with age.) The root is ground by pounding it into a fine powder, which is then mixed with water to make a concoction that resembles muddied water. It acts as a natural anaesthetic, and after four ample portions (ample being four half full coconut shells worth) my neck, throat and head began to experience a numbing sensation.

The perfect cure for our new mental mindset was to watch those willing (mainly all the females of the village) dance for our enjoyment. To be perfectly honest, I found the situation a little embarrassing; they had clearly gone to so much effort and each dance was oozing with the enthusiasm expected from their first attempt. Judging by the ages of some – ten or so being over the age of 30 – and the fact they were completely faultless in their rendition, some had been doing this dance all their lives.

The following day (4/11) we took the ferry north to the island of Navati, where our next resort – Manta Ray Island – was located. Initially, I wasn’t (Lysey was) won over by the resort, largely because they were competing against our previous paradise. However, after one afternoon spent lazing in a hammock overlooking the ocean, I was won over. Furthermore, the snorkelling that we both experienced was of equal enjoyment to that of Octopus. I cannot provide you with the scientific names (either in Fijian or English) but we both witnessed a plethora of different fish and corals. Sadly, neither of us managed to spot any sharks (I am longing to see one again after I spotted one snorkelling in Ko Tao, Thailand), but Lysey managed to spot a manta ray despite it being out of season. Sadly, as I didn’t spot one I can’t explain what she saw, but apparently they are worth spotting. Moreover, venomous sea snakes lurk in these waters, and although neither of us spotted one, others within the resort did. Apparently, the snakes are docile and unable to open their mouths wide enough to bite a human, but they’re packed with enough venom to kill ten cobras!

During our two-day stop off, I, along with an Irish lass and a Scottish chap went fishing deep in the South Pacific Ocean. (There was an Englishman, Irishman and Scottishman in a boat jokes spring to mind, but I know of none) Initially, our skipper, a Fijian in his 40’s called Levi, was reluctant to head out simply because it was “too fucking hot”. Indeed, for a Fijian to complain about the climate gives some indication of how hot it was, not only on the aforementioned day, but also for the duration of our holiday. (My first day I managed to burn and for the remainder of my time in Fiji I was peeling like a leper.) Anyway, with some gentle persuasion and our hand reels at the ready we soon headed out, and within our allotted hour I managed to catch three different fish (a snapper; a poisonous fish which unsurprisingly would make one ill if digested, and another one which resembled something from the tropical fish section at Water Mart). However, the Irish lass had the catch of the day – a dum dum fish that would have fed five! The skipper, however, soon had his eyes on it, and a swap was negotiated involving a brown trout, which us three fisherman enjoyed that evening at dinner. (For the record, my three fish were kept for bait, and the Scottish lad caught nothing.)

Our two nights at Manta Ray, as was the case at all other resorts, proved to be troublesome come nightfall. Lysey, to her misfortune, was covered in bites of some descript, so every night we both slept under mosquito nets, which increased the temperature ten fold. I, in comparison, suffered no bites, but I had to also sleep under the net, making the night even stuffier. Indeed, I would regularly wake up hot, bothered and sweaty – all whilst tangled in the net like a dolphin tied up in a fishing net. To vent my frustration I wouldn’t make those sad dolphin drones you hear on wildlife programmes, but instead go for a walk to cool down. I would describe myself as not being materialistic whilst travelling (I even left my laptop at home for example), but I crave air-conditioning in such climates. Perhaps I qualify as being a ‘flash packer’ with such demands as the majority of people we met on the islands were lodging in dorms, often housing dozens with nothing more than a fan between them.

Our final island destination was located on Tavewa, and the resort was amusingly called Otto’s and Fanny’s. (Amusing I can see why, and every time we informed people of our location they would giggle like school kids.) The setting was fantastic and it was made better as Lysey and I were their only guests. Indeed, auntie Fanny (the resort owner) was most hospitable; for our one night stay (6/11) she laid on an amazing spread consisting of fish fillets, fresh vegetables, and various rich sauces. Aunt Fanny, it seemed, took great pride in her presentation, as all the meals looked fantastic prior to eating, and they of equal stature when digested.

The one downside of being the sole guest was that there wasn’t much to do. Moreover, the resort had last received diesel a fortnight ago so all electricity was cut off at 10.30pm. Therefore, we had nothing to do in the evening bar sleep, which given the climate, wasn’t gratefully received by yours truly.

However, on our day of departure (7/11) Lysey had the grand idea of visiting the Sawa-I-Lav Caves, which were located on a limestone volcanic island some 45 minutes from the main cluster of islands. In order to reach the caves we had to get a ‘taxi’, and our water chauffers for the trip were an organisation called Joe’s Water Taxi’s. Initially, one could argue that Joe’s consideration for the safety of his patrons was non-existent as our 45-minute journey took over an hour, presumably because he had overloaded the boat. Designed to hold eight, we had crammed 14 people onto our boat, so we were making snail-paced knots across the ocean. Alas, however, Joe soon arrived with another taxi, where seven of us (Lysey and I included) changed boats mid-ocean.

Because we initially overloaded we only had 20 minutes to explore the caves and its various chambers. The waters inside, however, were much cooler than that of the sea; moreover, we managed to find our way around by the flicker of natural light emanating between the rocks, plus a torch provided by our guide and taxi mate, Joe. For the duration of our dip we had to tread water as the caves were some 10-15 meters deep. Naturally, I was pretty tired, but I still managed to read some of the undistinguishable carvings made on the wall, and I also explored one of the adjoining chambers. (To find this chamber we had to duck, hold our breathe for five seconds, and swim north. As soon as we felt Joe’s hand on our head it was safe to rise and tread water once more.)

Whilst exploring the islands, one becomes attuned to the adage ‘Fiji time’. Fiji time, it must be said, wouldn’t be tolerated in the west; everything, from pouring a pint, to taking a food order, was done at a canter, and I for one appreciated their relaxed attitude. (They would, however, soon be picking up their P45’s back home if they adopted such an approach.) Moreover, I would go as far to say that the Fijians are the most hospitable people I have ever come across. Without asking, they literally do everything for and expect nothing in return. During our sails around the islands I did not lift my rucksack once as someone was always on hand to do it for me. Like I said, they expect nothing in return. In Asia, such behaviour wasn’t uncommon, but once someone had taken care of your bag they would expect you to stay in their hotel. On the islands of Fiji they do not play ‘I’ll scratch your back if you scratch mine’ – they do all the scratching for you. Indeed, the only time I had to think for myself was when I was relaxing in one of the many hammocks. I do not know why, but I was always uneasy lying horizontal with a bunch of coconuts perched directly above my noggin’.

We arrived back on the mainland too late on the Friday (7/11) to do anything worthwhile, apart from find Lysey some medication for her various bites, and to catch up on all things news and sport related. The following day (Saturday 8th) saw us take in a pinch of mainland Fiji as we explored the coastal resort, and the place where all tourists arrive, Nadi. For some unknown reason, the town is pronounced Nandi, but I do not know why they omit the second ‘n’, especially as English is their first language.

Our first port of call was the Hindu temple of Sri Siva Subramaniya Swami (it rolls off the tongue). On my travels I have paid homage to many a temple of all religions, but this was my first inside a Hindu place of worship. Like any temple, the intricate artwork was stunning, and both Lysey and I were allowed to explore the grounds to get a closer look, and to watch the on-going rituals. One ritual that caught my eye was the smashing of the coconut; apparently, it brings safe fortunes to those embarking on foreign travel (something to do with the flesh and milk, but I know no more. Excuse my ignorance). The previous day a woman managed to crack 108 coconuts, which was no mean feat considering the stifling climate. Indeed, we both struggled in the climate, as we were required to walk around the grounds in barefoot. The Indo-Fijians worshipping managed this with no problems, but Lysey and I were literally sprinting from one shaded area to another.

Amusingly, every time I was approached in downtown Nadi (or is it Nandi?) I was asked about my nationality. Upon informing the would be enquirer I was English, I was always greeted with the same response: “I have a friend who lives in Guildford in Surry”. I do not know why this was the case; Nadi was a big place so I ruled out coincidence. After the second time, however, I cottoned on to their blatant attempts to chaperon me into their shop to buy some high quality Fijian souvenirs. Not wishing to disappoint, I would always lie and tell them I’d pop back later. Lysey, however, played it with a straight bat; she’d practically tell them to leave her alone.

I did, however, manage to make a few purchases (happy Christmas mum and dad, your presents will soon be in the post), but I encountered a fair amount of grief for my efforts. As we strolled the streets we were constantly being harassed by the ethnic Fijians, who would practically demand we spend money in one of their shops, and not that of an Indo-Fijian. The pleas, almost xenophobic despite the fact that Indo-Fijians had lived on the land since the 19th century, were blatantly racist, and ethnic tensions are still rife in Fiji. Throw in a couple of military coups and you still have an on-going problem, even today.

The first of these military coups occurred in 1987, when Sitiveni Rabuka prevented the Indian-dominated coalition party from taking power. Consequently, the coup caused an exodus of thousands of Fijians of Indian origin who suffered ethnic discrimination.

In countenance, a new constitution was drafted in 1998 in an attempt to provide a multicultural cabinet as the previous constitution guaranteed dominance to ethnic Fijians. As a result, Fiji’s first ethnic Indian prime minister, Makendra Chaudhry, took office in 1999. However, his tenure was a short-lived one.

Clearly annoyed, ethnic Fijian businessman George Speight, along with a group of armed soldiers, stormed parliament on My 19th, 2000 demanding Chaudhry’s resignation. For two months, Speight held 30 hostages captive (can you imagine a hostage stand-off in any western government taking so long to resolve?) until Chaudhry, who had suffered the odd broken rib or two for his stubborn behaviour, resigned. On the streets of Fiji support for Speight was widespread, but his bubble was soon burst after he got his wish and martial law was implemented. Following his arrest, in 2002 he was sentenced to death for treason, but this was later commuted to life in prison for fear of exacerbating the situation.

Troubles continue to remain ever since. Soon after the 2000 coup, the deposed prime minister and his democratically elected government were not restored to power. Instead, the military appointed an interim government dominated by ethnic Fijians. However, in an attempt to restore democracy, elections were held once more in 2001, but no party achieved a majority. The interim government at the time secured 31 of the 71 seats, and the leader, Laisenia Qarase, was sworn in. But, two years later his ‘victory’ and his party was declared unconstitutional, largely because his cabinet consisted entirely of ethnic Fijians. Moreover, attempts to rectify the situation failed, as one year later in 2004 efforts to create a multiethnic cabinet failed because of political infighting.

To the further annoyance of Qarase’s party, four prominent figures within his cabinet were imprisoned for their roles in the 2000 coup, and one year later he backed a bill that allowed an amnesty clause for the 2000 coup instigators. Despite his views, he was re-elected, democratically, for another five years in 2006.

However, his political past soon caught up with him as in December of that year, Fiji’s military commander, Frank Bainimarama, undemocratically deposed Qarase, and appointed Jona Senilagakadi, a medical doctor by trade, as interim prime minister – and this is how the current political landscape of Fiji lies (after their fourth military coup since 1987). Qarase’s downfall, if you’re wandering, was his level of leniency he showed towards those who orchestrated the 2000 coup.

Who says politics is boring? In essence, I can see why I received so much grief for choosing to buy in an Indo-Fijian shop, but it wasn’t going to deter me. There should be no room for politics when purchasing souvenirs.

Before departing Nadi for the nation’s capital, Savu, Lysey and I had a night out on the tiles that very evening. Beginning with a Japanese banquet (not very Fijian I know), we ended the night in a back street pub where locals, both ethnics and Indo-Fijians, and backpackers mingled and drank the night away. I was more than happy to sink a few pints, as it had been a while since my last knees-up.

Our four-hour bus journey to Savu the following day was a picturesque trip; the coral coast of Fiji’s south was scattered with either forests or desolate beaches. Savu, in comparison, wasn’t nearly as easy-on-the-eye, and because it was a Sunday (9/11) the entire city had gone into shutdown mode.

Almost shamefully, Lysey and I visited the cinema twice that day. I am no movie buff, and I seldom visit the cinema twice in one month, let alone one day, but there simply was nothing to do. (The new James Bond comes out soon, so I will no doubt make it three trips inside one month.) On our first trip we watched Rock N’ Rolla, and I’d definitely recommend it – especially if films like Lock, Stock rub your tea cosy. Our second trip saw us pay good money to watch Traitor – a film about an Islamic terrorist who works for the Americans, but he keeps blowing up targets to keep his identity. Confused? The patchy script isn’t any clearer, so don’t bother watching it is my advice.

Sandwiched between our films, we opted to take a stroll around Savu, all with the intention of doing it before nightfall. According to the Lonely Planet, and our various taxi drivers, Savu is not safe to wonder at night, but it’s fine to do so by daylight. As we made our way, acting as the ugly tourist with our guidebooks and maps, we bumped into a local who gave us a guided tour and offered us some brief history behind some of the landmarks on our horizon. He pointed out the grey, and oafish, government building that saw the first military coup in 1987; he also pointed out the plaques that commemorated the Queen’s last visit (the year escapes me, but he informed us he was about five years old. Considering he looked to be in his early 50’s, I’d hazard a guess Liz landed in Fiji some 45 years ago or so). Finally, he showed us the spot that celebrates Australian aviator, Robert Kingsford Smith, arrival. Flying from Hawaii to Sydney, Kingsford Smith stopped en route.

We both enjoyed his brief synopsis on his country, and as we parted ways, he gave both Lysey and I present. He informed us that he used to work within the local council, but since the coup (he didn’t say which one) he had been unemployed. To make ends meet, however, he began making Fijian woodcraft, which he sells on the street. He gave us both an inscribed piece each, something that will remind me of my time in Fiji.

Like any city in any country in the world, Savu comes to life on a Monday (10th). For our rain-affected day we headed firstly to the Fiji museum. This place, much like the rest of the capital, really needed a lick of paint; the beauty of the Yasawa Islands seemed like a million miles from the dreary Savu. (In fact, they were about five hours away via a boat and a bus.) Inside the museum there was plenty of information about the early settlements, from the Tongan and Samoan Warriors in AD1000 to the arrival of the Missionary Society sent from London in the 18th century. (Incidentally, in 1774, Captain Cook arrived hearing the country was called ‘Viti’. However, he pronounced it as ‘Fiji’ and the name has stuck ever since).

Following my escapades with the natives and the Indo-Fijians during my souvenir purchasing in Nadi, and add the research made regarding the coups, I wanted to find out more about the Indian arrival. In 1878, on the promise of a better life, indentured labour supplied courtesy of India began to arrive. As part of the deal those arriving were contracted to work for five years, and then return, or if they desired, remain in Fiji. As it happened, 60% of those who made the trip remained, but for their efforts they had to endure extremely tough labour.

However, by 1917, they began to uprise about their squalid conditions, with their working hours and living conditions being their main annexes. A deal was struck soon after to stop the indenture for two years, plus one more year so concentration could be diverted on supporting the allies in World War I. (Fiji, at the time, was part of the British empire). Come 1920, however, indenture was scrapped, and the remaining Indians no longer had to slave to find their way.

Finally, before we headed back to Nadi to spend a couple of days resting and relaxing by a pool (11& 12/11. We had gone over budget by now so our hands were tied) we ventured to the newly built Fiji Parliament. Sadly, we weren’t allowed inside, but we were allowed to explore the grounds, which by their grand design and beauty stood out in Savu like the proverbial sour thumb. That very morning a cruise shipping containing mostly Americans had arrived in Savu, and like any tourists’, they were doing the rounds and taking in the sites. The significance of this was that prior to exploring the grounds we had to inform the security guard of our nationality and the name of our resort. As Savu is such a small city (Truro, not the county town of Cornwall – that honour goes to Bodmin – is larger in my opinion) he seemed convinced when we explained our respective nationalities and the name of our hotel. I do not know for sure, but I assume they were instructed to not allow Fob’s (fresh off the boat) in as he immediately asked us if we had just come off the boat.

And finally, I shall share my two cents on my time in Fiji. Like most holidays I have ever taken, I have enjoyed exploring the various parts of Fiji and discovering its history. For a place so small, yet so big (it is made up of 330 islands, but only 100 are habitable for example) the country has so many different ways of life. From the islands where the ‘chief’ is still regarded as the Almighty to the capital Savu and its various coups, Fiji is a mixed bag at best – and that makes it even more enjoyable to explore.

I also salute the fact they seem to have their own identity, and that the outside almost seems alien. For example, during their news coverage, the Fijian news would take precedence over any international news – and this included the American election. (The election was always referenced in ‘and in other news’ section.) Moreover, walking down the streets of either Nadi or Savu, you do not find locals donned in cheap and imitable Premier League jerseys. Rugby is the national sport, and every other person on the street can be seen wearing a rugby top. Indeed, upon informing a local I was from England, the usual response I received was ‘Johnny Wilkinson’, and not ‘Beckham’ or ‘Rooney’, which was a custom in Asia. (After England failed to qualify for Euro ’08 I intended to visit Fiji in order to escape the furore of football for four weeks, and with hindsight I would have had a result. Unfortunately, my bank balance said ‘no’).

I salute the Fijians for having their own sense of identity, I really do. However, as an English mad football fan, it not only came as a surprise, but also as a nuisance. I waited two days to find out the Tottenham score for our match against Liverpool, as I had to track down a Fiji Times – not an easy feat on the islands. Indeed, every country I have ever visited I have always attempted to take in a slice of the local football scene, but Ba, Fiji’s top team, were located some 30 km’s away from Nadi (Savu or Nadi, the two biggest cities did not have a representative). Moreover, they ply their trade in the O-League, which is abbreviated as the Oceanic League; opposition is made up from neighbouring countries such as the Solomon Islands, Tonga, Samoa etc, so following them was tricky. In stark comparison, every spare piece of green land comes with the structure of rugby posts, and according to the locals and the media, every town and village has a team. Even though egg chasing isn’t my sport, I salute them for having their own identity and no bowing to any western sporting agenda.

To my surprise, both Lysey and I found Fiji to be more expensive than we had budgeted for. Luckily, Lysey isn’t the sort who can sit beside a beach all day, and I am of the same ilk, so we were always on the go. However, as we had run out of money we had no option but to sun ourselves by the pool for our last two days. We both came away with what we considered to be more than enough money, but the accommodation, and in particular, the resort costs (these resorts have a monopoly on the islands as each island tends to have no alternatives) were more expensive than we had envisaged. Nevertheless, we both had an enjoyable break, but we also felt that ‘we have been there, done that’, so I can’t see myself returning.

Nonetheless, I say a Fijian thank you, ‘vinaka’, for the experience.