Swimming With The Sharks, Or
Stupid Tourist Tricks

Bora Bora is unquestionably the most beautiful and mythical of the Pacific islands. Seen from the air, Bora Bora has been compared to that of a tiny emerald in a setting of turquoise, encircled by a sheltering necklace of sparkling pearls . It’s a short hop over from Tahiti (about 45 minutes by air) but that hop is far too short as you fly over and past the other isles that make up French Polynesia.

Bora Bora’s airport is located on a palm fringed motu about 20 minutes by boat from the main village of Vaitape. Yep, no cabs on this trip, instead off you go via a Boston Whaler. Nice intro to the island as you get a picture perfect view and a splendid ride through the lagoon and its amazing range of hues of blue and turquoise.

Met at the dock by a lovely young lady from the hotel, I and my other fellow guests were loaded on the hotel’s bus and quickly deposited at the hotel’s lobby. Now hotels on Bora Bora are not cheap. In fact, they are quite pricey. My advice, if you are going to over pay for a room, do it with style. And in this case that meant the Hotel Bora Bora and a room built out over the lagoon. Great way to wake in the morning, order up some coffee and sit on your own private balcony outside of your own thatched hut sipping in the caffeine while the ocean waters turn from indigo to turquoise as the sun rises over the sea.

The island is small enough to circumnavigate in an afternoon. Which I did by bicycle. Seemed an idyllic mode of transport for my excursion. And it was, but having not been on a bike in like 20 years, my ass and crotch were major sore the next day . . . but you probably didn’t need to hear that.

Now there’s not a lot to do on Bora Bora, which is part of its charm, but the locals know that touri look for a way to spend their cash and are only too willing to help you do so. And so, in addition to sail boat rides and outrigger rides around the lagoon, swimming with the sharks has become a popular island pastime. (Not to be confused with swimming with Stingrays in the Cayman Islands, a much safer undertaking!)

It sounds crazy, but on Bora Bora it’s not an unusual activity—the sharks are supposedly harmless and not interested in people. Out to the outer reef via outrigger canoe (that was a lot of outs), the guides began whooping and hollering and calling the sharks as they threw raw (bloody) fish into the water. Not sure if chumming and starting a feeding frenzy is the sanest method of introducing touri to the local sharks, but what the heck, doing stupid things while on holiday is part of the charm of travel.

Within minutes the sharks have arrived and you slip into the crystal blue water with your snorkel and mask and watch Tahitian divers hand feed the back-tip reef sharks right before your eyes. Like a foot or two before your eyes. During the feeding you have to hold on to a rope in order to keep some distance between you and the sharks. But after their feeding, the tour guides invite you to go past the rope and swim with the creatures.

Now my fellow touri were a bit apprehensive at this point, probably wondering just who it was that decided the sharks were done eating. But I figured a piece of rope isn’t much of a barrier in the first place, at least not to a hungry shark, and that the sharks probably have this routine down and don’t want to screw up the free dinner they get daily, so I immediately scooted out into the blue. Since the crazy American did it, my fellow touri joined in until the sharks had had enough and took off. Guess they are not overly fond of German touri, either.

Way cool, outing. Makes for a great tale when boring friends with travel yarns. And with the exception of a drunken night at Bloody Mary’s, was the highlight of my trip to Bora Bora.

Living The Life In The Big Easy, or
Staying Drunk On Bourbon Street

New Orleans. The Big Easy. Bourbon Street. Cajun Cooking (which seems to revolve around biting the head off of crayfish and suckin’ their guts out . . . no thanks!) A town celebrated for its debauchery, well it’s probably celebrated for other things too, but debauchery is a major draw for me!

We were in Chicago for a business trip and looking for another place to visit before heading home. New Orleans called, as I’d never been there before and it sounded like a good finish to the trip. We’d done the blues clubs of Chi Town and stepped around the puke in the gutters along Rush Street, and figured a comparison of the blues clubs in New Orleans and the puke in the gutters of Bourbon Street was in order, so off we flew.

Now as many of my tales begin, this one starts at the airport and the taxi hired to get into town. Short story. Big gun. The lady cab driver needed to move a bit of stuff around in the trunk to fit all of our bags and in doing so pulled out one of the largest pistols I’ve ever seen. OK, New Orleans promises to be a fun town . . .

Staying in the French Quarter, naturally, the clerk at the hotel’s check in desk gave us the key to the room along with a small map of the immediate area with large portions blocked off in black. He explained that those areas were not safe during the day and down right deadly at night. Hey, these folk from New Orleans really know how to make you feel welcome! But then I’ve survived some pretty seedy allies in South East Asia, so what the heck.

Continued . . .

Ramble On . . .

Mosey On Back . . .

Entrance To The Rabbit Hole . . .

SIGHTS OF:

Bora Bora

New Orleans