My expectations were not dashed as I turned the last corner of my journey to see the majestic lake glistening in the sunlight like a jewel in a crown. After a bout of some serious camera-clacking, I set off on a lap of the sky-blue lagoon, stopping to clack some more every couple of minutes. Halfway round I felt it was time for a spot of tan-topping and picked a patch of grass among some slumbersome sight-seers. I thought I'd fit in well here. In typical fashion, I was comatose in seconds and quite happy in my dreamworld until I was boorishly awoken by the sound of screaming children, who proceeded to skip past and drip all over me. My discontent soon turned to gratification however, as I quickly noted that since I had nodded off, a sight to rival the lake itself had plonked itself down next to me; a page-3 look-a-like stunner, who was busy posing for pictures in nothing but her underwear. Her burly, meat-headed boyfriend behind the lens muttered something followed by a deep grunting noise that I believe was his laugh when he noticed me failing terribly in my efforts not to look. Discretion most definitely isn't my forté.
By 3 o'clock, the sweltering sunlight had taken me to melting point, so I duly dove into the lake and paddled around for a good half hour. Shortly afterwards, I resumed my lap and promptly stumbled across the most rigorously fun-looking rope swing I'd ever seen. I stood back and watched as a British girl perhaps only a couple of years younger than me clutched on to the thing for about five minutes before talking herself out of it. A child of no more than eleven years assumed the role of superman and launched himself into the lake, gaining a good 20ft of air before crashing back down to the water. That was my cue, I thought. Can't have him stealing all the thunder. I instructed an observer to take a picture of me and nonchalantly took the wet stick from the boy's hands and readied myself for a victorious swoop. Disaster. I barely made it more than a foot over the water before losing my grip and falling pathetically into the shallows. 'I must be too heavy', 'It's harder for taller people' I exclaimed as I shamefully climbed back up the banking. Evidently, it wasn't as I quickly and expertly failed again, and again. Suitably embarrassed, I handed the swing back to the kid, who waited for a crowd to gather and then casually boshed out a perfect-10 somersault. Fuck off. Little shit. My blood boiled, and my cheeks flushed. I can't have this, I thought. I snatched the swing back from him and prepared myself for one last attempt, this time, taking the swing with my forearms facing inward. I took a deep breath and counted to three... Success! I cleared the banking in true Tarzan style and swung miles higher than that little backflipping fucker, and I even screamed 'I'm Batman' in the process. This got a laugh as well as a cheer. Bet that kid was kicking the dirt in jealous rage. Ha. Live and learn little one, live and learn.
Following my gallant victory, I spent the rest of the afternoon wandering the quaint village as a shirtless backpack-wearing wanker, feeling all manly and heroic. I later realised the implications of this ill-fated decision after showering at the hostel revealed that my torso had been victim to an unmerciful foray of now presumably very fat mosquitos. Copious amounts of scratching ensued for the rest of the evening- the badly bitten right nipple receiving particular attention, which now looks like a squashed cherry tomato.
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