Sweet Sweat
Welcome to Fiji, where the air is as moist as pure moisture.
Upon stepping off the plane I felt like I was hit in the face by a giant wet pizza oven. Like I had just walked into the reptile house at the local zoo. You could eat the air with a fork here, hell, probably even with a pair of chopsticks. So I'm adjusting.
I checked myself into this dodgy-as-fuck hold up of backpackers. It's full of the typical Aussies and Kiwis, littered with cigarette butts and empty beer bottles, testament to a good time had. Eminem plays on the radio. The walls are stained with something fluid in nature, I'm left wondering what. There's no air conditioning, no maid service, no room service, no balcony or anything else even remotely posh. This place is border-line dump and yes, I'm loving it already. To be back on the road is an unbelievable rush of emotion. To be on the road rivals almost all other forms of human pleasure. To me, to do anything else at this point in my life would be nuts. The road is like an enduring climactic orgasm for the soul.