Bridget Jones in Ilha Grande. Part 1.

Ilha Grande - Part 1

Thursday 18th May 2013

Noon. On-route to Ilha Grande.

Sat on mini bus from Rio to Ilha Grande in front of two Canadian fuckwits talking about their previous night’s conquests.

“Oh my God, do you remember her slag tat?” one said with a dirty laugh.

“Fuck, I know!” the other replied. “And later on I took her down the beach and just, like, ripped off her bra. Such a slut. She’s not as hot as my girl back home though.”

“No, your girl’s way hotter,” the first agreed.

No wonder I am both single and paranoid at the age of 23.


Oh well, in few hours will be surrounded by white sand, blue seas and palm trees. Fully intend to use up all daily calories on tropical cocktails whilst gaining a glorious tan.

Will post pictures on Facebook so as to make it clear to any fuckwits I dislike that my life is marvellous. This is the main use of these modern day social media websites, after all.


Took the ferry crossing to Ilha Grande in the midst of a storm. Suddenly all images of me lying on a beach in new white bikini dwindled into nothingness…hours of shopping in Debenhams for a bikini set that didn’t show how small my tits were flashed before my eyes. Instead was sat on the ferry wrapped in the anorak my father gave me when I was 15.

No wonder the flights were so bloody cheap.

Met two British girls, Jasmine and Becky, on the bus from Rio so at least am not alone in this misery. Very happy to also have female company after the fuckwit conversation overheard on bus.

However, still did not change the fact that we were all on a dodgy-looking boat being tossed about by heaving waves. Or the fact that it smells suspiciously like vomit down below deck.


Somehow made it to the “tropical” island. Was meant to stay at a hostel recommended to me by a girl in Rio but I couldn’t face walking miles in the rain – already starting to look like the girl from The Ring. Instead, I dove into Chelegato Hostel where Becky had already made a reservation.

The hostel’s reception and communal area was white, clean and dry. Suddenly had visions of wrapping myself up in a duvet after a hot shower….I would even use the nice conditioner I was saving for emergencies (being stuck on an island in a storm definitely qualified as emergency.)

Becky had problems with her reservation and so had to wait in reception whilst they sorted it out, but nice English-speaking reception man assured me we would be in the same dorm, and then showed me to my room.

‘Lovely, lovely man bringing me home to warmth and shelter,’ I thought as we trudged up the stairs with my 15kg bag.


Was not greeted by warm bedding and fresh shower, but instead put in a foul-smelling four bed dorm alone with a couple sleeping naked together in a tangle of sheets. Couple were so tanned and tousle haired that they looked like that teen couple, Emmeline and Michael, in that disturbing film The Blue Lagoon starring Brook Shields.

All of their things were strewn across the floor. Wasn’t sure where to put my bags for fear of stepping on a used condom. Tried to make my way to the bathroom by tip-toeing round the debris but inevitably stood on a bra.

Additionally wasn’t sure if bad smell was part of the room or just a consequence of the couple’s unwashed laundry, which did seem to be emanating a strange odour all of it’s own. I nudged their mildew-covered towel away from my bed and tucked my bag into one of the only available spaces against the wall at the end of my bed.

“Ah fuck,” the guy groaned in his sleep and rolled towards his girlfriend, his sun bleached hair disappearing in between her long brown locks. The girl made a soft moaning noise in response as one would expect in a soft porn movie.

I hung my towel at the end of my bunk bed so as to offer both of us some privacy and quietly left the room for the downstairs communal area.


Hurrah for wifi! Managed to Facebook friends and family. Decided against posting status update about the pissing rain on tropical island scenario. There are awful people on Facebook who will take pleasure in my misery and I simply refuse to give them satisfaction.

Started writing latest post for travel blog. Must keep blog as intelligent and up to date as possible in case am spotted as a telling and relatable travel writer. One must always be prepared for potential budding career.

Will read other travel blogs for inspiration.


Somehow ended up on the Daily Mail celeb pages whilst searching for travel blogs.

Kate Middleton is still up the duff and the Prime Minister’s hairline is still receding. Good to know.


Becky came down to also use the Wifi. She had spent the best part of half an hour trying to sort out her reservation only to be put in a different room to me. Her room did not come with a complimentary naked couple. I don’t think she was particularly impressed.

As I explained, at least I was getting free live porn included in the price.


Felt so disheartened by the weather that I didn’t even feel like drinking any cocktails. Cocktails are for sunshine and fun; red wine and neat vodka on the rocks are for the desolation of being stuck on an island in a storm. I don’t presume they have a local Spar selling wine for £3.70.

Settled for the idea of seeking out some good Brazilian food – any calories consumed will be cancelled out by the calories burned through anxiety from the ferry and the naked couple.


Why, oh, why did we decide to go out for food? Becky and I found ourselves walking along the wet sand with the rain soaking through our raincoats. My flip-flops flipped up approximately two tonnes of wet sand onto the backs of my legs.

Navigating the backstreets in such awful weather was not the easiest, but after some helpful directions from a few local people, we stumbled into a restaurant. Wasn’t sure of its name or its menu, but frankly did not care – needed a hearty drink and a plate of food to harden me against the misery.

Was going to order a standard plate of spaghetti bolognaise but instead decided to order something I didn’t even know the name of – when abroad it’s important to embrace different cultures and try their cuisine rather than sticking to old faves.


The waiter brought me my plate of chicken and fries.


To make up for lack of Brazilian food, Becky and I cracked open a bottle of Brazilian beer.

Discussed ex boyfriends. This is what women do in times of great distress – we go over every detail of Relationships Past and talk about the fuckwits who we hate. Oddly, this makes us feel quite satisfied, particularly if we’re shit-faced when talking.

After hearing about a lovely mainland European man Becky met in Africa, I have decided I may need to move to mainland Europe if I am ever to find anyone half decent. This much is becoming apparent to me. Especially because it is becoming increasingly unlikely I will find anyone on this island given that I am sporting my beige raincoat and wearing sand in my granny pants.


Returned to the hostel where everyone was dancing on the terrace to songs I recalled from my Zumba classes. I could see the naked couple in a corner drinking cocktails by themselves. Fortunately, they were fully clothed this time. Considered showing everyone my Louis Spence walk, but I was tired and drained from the day so retired – like an old person – to bed.


Just heard the couple return to our room with ‘shhh’s and giggles. I swear i even heard a bra unclip.

I have put my headphones in and am watching ‘Twilight’. It’s too humiliating to even contemplate.

This is what my travels as a singleton have become: am a tragic spinster resorting to teen romance films on holiday at the age of 23.




(Don’t forget to read Part 2 of the story!)


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