Tahiti - where every prospect pleases and only man is vile...

Leaving South America was bittersweet - the 2 months there seemed to have passed in a blur, and despite having a few points (ie: any time spent in La Paz) when I was counting the hours until I could be in a non-challenging beach resort, the amazing sights, experiences, tastes, scents (& smells), people and general life-enriching moments vastly overpowered the couple of negative memories.

Anyway, never mind the bollocks: WE WERE GOING TO TAHITI! One last Pisco Sour before take off and we were westward-ho. After a brief stop off at Easter Island (no, didn't see the stone head thingies. I'm sure they mysterious and wonderous, but frankly we just wanted to get to a sunny beach ASAP), we arrived at Papeete Airport, weather still hot and humid at 11:30pm. Point of interest: as a EU passport holder you don't get a entry stamp for Tahiti. Bloody French: I wanted a glamourous passport stamp!

Everybody else on the plane seemed to have smiling Polynesians waiting for them with their names reassuringly on boards and leis of frangipani. Us: not so much. As there were no ferries over to Moorea til the next morning we were staying at the Pension Puea, the most budget option on Tahiti, short of sleeping in the gutter, at $70. They had forgotton to come and collect us so hopped in a laughably expensive taxi and got a crumpled looking and grumpy lady out of bed so we could get into our palace for the night. Now I'm not saying it's the worst hotel/pension/grief hole I've stayed in, not by a long way, but it's the worst one without a private bathroom and lino on the floor that I've paid $70 for.

Enough bitching, it was only one night and IN TAHITI.

Early next morning caught the catamaran over to Moorea. We looked slightly out of place at the Sheraton (rich honeymooner's heaven) arriving with our dusty backpacks and plastic bags clinking with bottles of Chilean wine and duty free hard liquor. Plus, Paul was quietly despising me for still having my $8 Bolivian sleeping bag strapped to the bottom of my pack, claiming that it made us look "pikey". To be honest I think we had bigger worries than just the sleeping bag...

Despite this being a free points stay I think we were secretly harbouring hopes of an SPG Platinum upgrade to an over water bungalow but no dice (maybe because of the sleeping bag?). But our Garden Bungalow "Natu" (Polynesian for "business traveller who spends 20 nights a year in his own home") was just perfect. Very deep and luxurious bathtub, which has become very important to me after 2 months of tepid trickling showers.

Apparently there are not that many actual beaches on Moorea, but the has one, so better and better! Got into the water PDQ so that I really felt I was "on holiday", then took some time to appreciate the beauty around us.

Of course all this beauty must come at a price, and that price is approx $20 for a Croque Monsieur. Spent a diverting hour or so trading comments along the lines of "F*cking hell, have you seen how much X costs? (Insert exhorbitant price here)".

We had predicted this somewhat though, hence the arrival with plenty of duty free booze. Buy a bottle of pineapple juice, get a bucket of ice, add your rum, and the rest of the day just eases by...

However, the rum didn't help the transition from habitually trying to speak terrible Spanish, to having a go at GCSE level French, mixed with plenty of English with hand gestures. Excellent, I can now look a perfect idiot in 3 languages simultaneously!

In terms of "activites" not much to report really. Unless you would like to hear in detail about sitting in the sunshine, sleeping in hammocks, swimming and reading (my choice of literature: "Roughing It" by Mark Twain. No, the irony didn't escape me). Big props to Paul though for reading a book (those who know him will know this isn't condecending) - John Peel's "Margrave of the Marshes".

Actually, the swimming was intereasting. The lagoon was teeming with sealife: fish, corals, molluscs, all that kind of business. As the water was so shallow at any time you had fish swarming around you. Being intelligent people we worked out that if you went snorkelling with a sturdy bread roll purloined from the breakfast buffet you could excite considerable piscine interest. I fact, I would go as far as to say a feeding frenzy. Which is all very cool, interesting and unique until, say, you get THE FEAR at being totally surrounded by aggressive hungry fish that are effing nipping at you to get the last sodden crumbs. Extra terror-inducing points go to the little pointy barracuda that swim menacingly at the surface.

So really just what you's expect from a week on a tiny French Polynesian Island. Gorgeous, relaxing, sunny and achingly expensive.

The only other incident that stands out was a night out we had at Alfredo's Restaurant, that had been recommended on the strength of it's cuisine and live jazz. Food: excellent, jazz: more along the lines of Country & Western and All American classics. Now a bit of duty free gin had been consumed that day so I was enthusiastically joining in with "The Gambler" before the appetizers arrived...

Restaurants on the island run shuttle taxis to the main hotels, so while everyone left in the restaurant was roaring along to "Hotel California" Paul and I left. Unfortunatly in a shuttle to the wrong hotel. Undeterred, I entertained a minibus full of credulous holidaymakers with some frankly libelous (and possibly true) stories about Eric Clapton. Not sure how I got onto that topic, but I'll say no more in case Slow Hand's lawyers are reading this.

Auckland, New Zealand was to be the next port of call, and a visit with the lovely Ryan, my old University friend, and his wonderful boyfriend Cyril. As you can probably tell from my use of highly positive adjectives we were very much looking forward to seeing them!