A Fortnight In

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Snorkel Notes

Chinese kid losing cell phone. Turned boat around to fetch it. Kept boat waiting for 35 minutes. He moped horribly when he got back on board. Wept, shivering in inner tube on the water, filling his goggles up with tears. Eventually had to be carried off by his friends. One should never invest that much into inanimate objects.

Karaoke in drag, coconut bras and a makeshift 4-piece whose drums were soup pots and flattened hub caps.

Snorkeling tour becomes a dance party with drunken Canadians and German girls whose monkey toes gripped the boat planks with long, knuckled feet, terrible American pop music blaring across the bay as we sail pointlessly to islands which no one leaves to visit. Ain’t no Black Eyed Peas on any of them islands!

Body bashed against rocks slick and barnacled, the snorkeling was less like a tropical excursion and more like a choppy battle against waves splashing down through the top of the tube.

All the fish went home for Tét, anyway.

What What?

The absurdity of the club lifestyle while touring internationally is wondrous. Subsidized by faraway parents and unsavory menial temporary jobs, those who party as if they were back home ride that transcendent level of douche untouched by cultural relativity. The consumer-driven mentality of chest bumps, popped collars and jäger shots is truly worldwide.

(I actually LOVE Pitbull.)