How one Contiki tour changed a grubby backpacker

First published in Frankie magazine. 

"To make sure your travel to Contiki Resort is as smooth as possible please arrive at the airport departure terminal at least forty-five minutes prior to your flight departure time." It seemed like a simple request, but I'm late. Of course I'm late. I drive like a madman and somehow manage to get to the airport with fifteen minutes to take-off time.

Unbelievably, the long-term carpark is full, but with sweaty palms, I screech my way into a non-park, grab my bag and make a bolt for the check-in. Ten minutes to go. The arse of my car is hanging out a mile, right across a pedestrian exit so I am almost positive that it wont be there when I return in four days. But by now I don't care. I have to make this flight.

Check-in makes me weigh my laptop, camera and stuffed handbag. It comes to 12kg (12kg!!). I flash the lady pleading eyes, she nods her reluctant approval and I literally run to the gate.

Somehow, I make the boarding and even better,  I score a double row to myself. The propeller plane makes me slightly nervous but the glass of vino I happily scarf down manages to calm me somewhat. I fleetingly think of my car and it's hanging-out arse and decide to let fate take its hand in the matter. After all, I haven't had a holiday in 12 months, I haven't had a proper day off in months and bloody hell, after that introduction I need a break.

A short while later, the reality of what I'm about to do hits me. It's around about the time I check in for my Contiki Great Keppel Island package, and get ushered onto a bus with 30 horny and sweaty men, and a hyperactive man on a microphone starts playing games where we throw toilet paper around and compete to see who has the most condoms. I am hit with a panic attack. I don't do Contiki. I don't do anything like this. In fact, I absolutely pride myself on my methods of travel. I am not a tourist! I am a traveller. My filthy backpack, covered in patches of the third-world countries I have visited, gave this fact away when it was lined up neatly next to the smart wheely bags at the pick-up bus.

But here I am, on a bus, having condom-offs with footballers. Everything I suspected to be true about Contiki has been verified and I am not even on the island. I bang off a smug text to my Editor, lamenting the fact I have to attend a glow stick party on Saturday night. "You owe me." I finish smartly.

Fast-forward an hour and my hostile resolve is crumbling. A very kind waitress has slipped a chilled champagne in my hand, someone else is offering me tasty nibblies and I’m standing on a beach watching the sunset. OK, THIS I can do.

Let me just summarise the next day. Because it will make it easier to explain how I ended up where I ended up the following night. I kicked it off by sampling tropical fruit and champagne (again) for breakfast, before gorging myself on a hot feast (hash browns might not be classy but wow, they hit the spot). Then I do a spot of snorkelling in a crystal clear blue ocean and swim with some turtles. Then I go for a jet-ski ride. Then I hang out in the spa for a while. Then I go for a walk on a deserted beach. Then I do a bit of shopping and buy a gorgeous new dress. Then I go eat one of the best dinners I have ever had, only pausing to feed a friendly possum and her baby who popped by for a visit. That night, I rock out to a cool pub band. Things begin to get blurry, however I have a distinct memory of busting out some serious air guitar to Metallica's 'Enter Sandman'.

Day Two: I wake early, eat more fruit, drink more champagne, indulge in some archery and golf, go for another swim and have a bit of a sunbake before heading off for wine tasting. The sun sets and I watch it, wine in hand from the highest point of the island. Not a horny footballer in sight - just loads of perfect beach, perfect peace and perfect indulgence. It’s all been smoothly organised for me and all I had to do was show up. I had begun to appreciate the Contiki experience. I had warmed to the idea of having good wine and food and drinkable water and people who happily helped you, who you didn't have to barter with, and a lack of stress and uncertainty and a clean, comfortable bed. I have always enjoyed those things, found them necessary challenges to reach the much-earned reward. But now they weren’t there…. I was relaxed. I had warmed to Contiki. Hell, I loved Contiki.

Which is how I ended up with not one, but two glow sticks on my head, dancing with my arms held high and whooping loudly at a nightclub that night.

My new best friend, Rusty the proud NRL player from country NSW was plying me with drinks and I was nodding sympathetically as he told me how he and his NRL buddies had been forced to fight the AFL boys and bucks party idiots for the tennis rackets and courts earlier that day. (There was a bucks party here?? And AFL boys???)

I didn't want to leave. Really, I didn't. They might have been trying to impress me, and they may have been plying me with free alcohol, but clouded judgement aside, the place was freaking amazing. And even the punters who paid for their cocktail mixology courses and massages and alcohol were having a ball. I loved it all. Except it's gonna make my decidedly low-fi trip next month really… testing. (Oh, and just to top things off, my car was still there when I got back).