I've been away for 10 days doing the most sublime thing a human being can do.
Absolutely nothing.Despite the bad press that welfare beneficiaries give it, the whole art of doing nothing is actually extremely complex.
First it helps to do absolutely nothing with others. For that we had a solid team of five willing participants. It helps to each have a villa with a private pool per villa in order to do nothing with. Next up it is crucial to bring your own duty free supply in a country insistent on taxing the proverbial shit out of doing absolutely nothing.
The art of doing absolutely nothing involves getting up at the crack of dawn every morning and is not for the faint hearted.
First at a resort the breakfast doubles as lunch in its veracity but what the untrained eye like Pork Chop would fail to recognise is that the food is secondary. The most important feature of getting to the buffet means you have fair crack amongst punters for the most important item in doing absolutely nothing - the deck chair.
The more exclusive the resort the keener the demand will be as these are people used to a competitive market. Faster, smarter, stronger. The richer the person the less likely they want to share a chair or the prime position of the chair.
The deck chair can never be overrated. For even at a resort with separate villas each with their own pool perfect for rolling two circumferences out of bed naked into and subsequent pre-bedtime splashes, doing nothing requires the ability to perve at others doing absolutely nothing.
So around a massive beachfront pool at the beautiful resort overlooking a beautiful scenic beach that is absolutely and utterly useless for swimming in as described a "polluted warm milky bath", the deckchair is a status symbol. It means you are a type A personality. You have won a battle against the strongest of the strongest. It says:
"Fuck you despite many hours last night of doing absolutely nothing, we were hard enough to get here first".At the resort the best position was front row to the beach. Not only did you enjoy the cooling breeze, you also were in the unique position of lying backwards and not looking like as the front rowers to the pool did - a dirty pervert.
One day I even had the temerity to secure the Crown Prince of seats - the swinging double day bed. Never has there been a finer seat to share with a friends 7 year old and his Nintendo dreaming that the hunk in eyeshot in the speedos burning in the sun would come over and replace the 7 yo at an appropriate mid-afternoon time.
As a K1W1 (Kiwi) I have a strong sense of fairness for the deckchair. There is a certain etiquette that we devised on this holiday primarily to combat appalling behaviour from fellow travellers:
1: If away for more than 30 minutes (ie. The time it takes for a toilet stop/cooling dip/to secure alcoholic supply/small mid-day cleansing shag back in room) then the chair is available for public distribution. One suggested a timing mechanism activated by weight so the timer starts when you remove yourself from it.
2: A cheap magazine placed mid-range on the chair while you have breakfast cannot secure supply. Such an attempt deserves derision. Magazine should be flung into the ocean, or if gossip magazine promptly read and buried as far as possible in the sand. This rule of course doesn't apply to The Spectator or Metro Magazine scratch edition which was imported from NZ especially for the occasion.
3: Unless physically or mentally handicapped, under no circumstances can a child or baby be allocated a deckchair. Children spend 58 minutes out of an hour in the pool or chasing other children. Added to that they are children staying on their fathers room rate. They don't deserve a bloody chair, nor have they paid suitable compensation for such.
4. None of the rules above apply to Russian gangster types. Observe where they prefer to sit and stay the fuck away. It will be on outlying areas away from others in places that wire taps and satellite ears cannot detect.
Sadly in order the worst races are as follows:
Germans - WW style invasion without the back-up. Typically the stickability of cost accountants. Boring bastards who bring Blackberry/i-phone to beach while wife works on tan in sun 20m away wishing the kids would just fuck off and leave her to it. Males disappear to room late afternoon to work. Constant appliers of sunblock.
Chinese - complete with Filipina maid who by mid-pm has "accidentally" dived into the pool fully clothed with nappy wearing infants she is charged with looking after. Can't blame her really as its 40 friggin degrees poolside. Croc and Mickey mouse t-shirt wearers.
Italians - prissy fuckers. Unfortunately look the best in bikinis and speedos so worth it just for that. Women disappear during day at regular intervals for spa treatments leaving preening males to bask on the chairs usually with legs wide open. Delightful.
Dutch - rude, aggressive but ultimately utter pussys in the fight for the chairs.
Finns - too white to stay long in the sun. Gone by 2pm as genetically unsuited for sunlight past this hour.
French - cheese eating surrender monkeys. Lacking in deodorant which rears an ugly turn after 20 minutes of sweating in the sun. Don't sit near them.
Russians - leave well alone. No bullshit operators. Likely to shoot up your villa while absent. Robe and slipper wearers around entire resort. Never know if that's an AK47 up that robe or they are pleased to see the Italian women in costume.
Newly weds - easy. Come to beach for 20 minutes maximum, check out each others sparkly rings adjusting every minute. Then disappear for the day to root. Perfect guests in the deck chair rumble.
The English - not many at the resort. Standard position for them seemed to be around the pool shaded by trees applying SPF120 wearing fake football shirts later in the day purchased at the markets.
The K1W1's observed such rules strictly. Male K1W1 resorted to female K1W1 to secure supply. This was wise as a) females as you all know have selective hearing, b) females also can only be attacked by other females and c) moving this female is impossible once seated and drinks are ordered.
There were only two K1W1's at this resort (a sign of a superior resort if I ever had one for a travel review magazine). There was no "oh where are you from love? Do you know Brian Smith from Rangiora, good bloke?". The sort of patter of K1W1 diction that the poor bastards at Hilton Denarau are putting up with presently as they seethe waiting for Strategic Finance to piss on the moratorium.
We never spotted even a stray Australian or a relative of Busted Blondes the entire time.
This K1W1 has a special liking to nicknaming every foreigner with a special K1W1 term ie. Gilda (the well-dressed fake tanned, fake boobed stroppy lady with designer beachwear and heels especially for sand), Little Jimmy (their good looking but bratty son who received a lesson in soccer skills from myself so he never returned to the adults area), A Nigel, Sergei, Boris, Stellenbosch (the big strapping, good natured Yarpie with the wife whom he seemed to rub oil on at least 5 hours a day), we even found a Ricardo a Whaleoil and a Kiwiblog Penguin. Bless. Whaleoil sported curly hair and like the original spent hours playing with his children. Kiwiblog seemed more intent on burning his head than his fingers on a keyboard however.
Back to the chairs, the staff at the resort pretended to have a booking system for the chairs but a) the nation is so utterly corrupt that financial reward won't compensate, b) the staff were all the size of 8 year old New Zealand school children with unfortunately the IQ and c) the currency more crucial than anything appeared to be your propensity to run up massive bar bills. Blissfully even in such a competitive environment c) qualified me for no issues at all let alone my 4 travel companions, 7 yo inclusive.
Behind the Russian mobsters, our group excelled in doing absolutely nothing and running up commensurate bar bills in performing such crucial function. After 3 full days and approximately 27 orders, the staff still had difficulty performing their role of mixing a sufficient simple strawberry daiquiri despite circling of the menu of the order in its own foreign language. Their ineptitude knew no bounds.
So the deckchair rumble goes a little like this.7am Wake up call. Think about going to gym. Remember you are on holiday and can do that when back at the four letter word starting with w (not "wife") and basking in a coma of misery. Holidays are happy times.
7.25am Naked dip in ones own villa pool.
7.58am Change into beachwear.
8.04am Commence breakfast. Fight with chef over undercooked eggs. First tipple of "sparkling wine" complimentary with buffet.
8.15am Repeat "sparkling wine".
8.22am One last "sparkling wine". Now fit to be around children as nerves calmed sufficiently to block their high pitched squeals.
8.30am Lie down on deckchair. Apply appropriate sunblock, insect repellent and repel all small children around over to the pool.
8.35am Check out all other competitors looking especially for speedos on well formed men.
9am Engage in reading material while offering to rub sunblock on back of every male in eyeshot. Slight snooze as 7am is a bloody early time to get up.
10am First drinks at bar.
10.15am Send first drinks back as insufficient ice in daiquiri. Swear and mutter that you don't drink cosmo-bloody-politans.
10.30am Consume.
10.35am Next order...
10.36am Stroll down promenade to check on suntans of other patrons
Repeat every half hour.Midday - Forget you haven't eaten a thing since breakfast. Strawberry Daiquiris cover all main food groups in any instance. Repel pesky waiter who insists on bringing the docket to sign every bloody drink. Repeat after me midget "we are running a tab"!
1.30pm - Afternoon nap in deck chair after exhausting morning program.
3pm - Awaken from nap by children returning from Kids Club.
3.30pm Repel hawker pleading for patronage along beachfront as security guards asleep.
4pm Laugh at silly banker type foreigner and adult daughter in kayak stone cold sober and they were close to tipping out. Clap them when exiting water.
4.15pm Late afternoon snack. Wrong order, send back.
5pm Happy hour. K1W1 catches staff watering down wine. Manager insists it must have been a victim of being in an ice bucket and overflow. Confused looks as used to locals lying through their teeth.
6pm Retire to villa for rations of duty free champagne with friends while laughing at the extortionate taxed prices that literally made the place more expensive than Jimmys in Monaco.
7.30pm Dinner with ball kicking chillis. Avoid chillis as genetically unsuited for consumption.
11pm Go to bed and dream of all the exceptional sexual activity you could partake in had you not consumed so much from the hours of 8.04am to 10.30pm while out on the deck chair.
By day three you realise that all the back pain, foot pain, creaks and strains you carry all year are related to sitting all day in front of a computer and wearing uncomfortable shoes.
Quitting w*** contemplated until you receive the bill on check-out and quick reality shot that without the four letter word starting with "w", you could not afford to do absolutely nothing in such a fashion anymore.
Which is where I will be tomorrow. Back at w***.
