Steve’s guide to the all-inclusive resort
Ladies and Gentlemen:
I humbly report to all of you that the concept of an all-inclusive resort remains the same no matter where you go or how much you pay. I believe I’ve had enough experiences (Varadero, Holguin, Nassau, Cozumel, Columbia, Puerto Plata, Hawaii, Venezuela and St. Martin) to realize I can begin stereotyping what I have experienced.
Allow me to systematically use arresting headlines to guide you, the reader, through the process.
Airport check-in
Please be prepared to feel the need to vomit upon sighting one of these in line. There will always be one man in the line up with a straw hat, shorts and tropical shirt. Airport personnel regard this character as “jumper of the gun.” They will do whatever they can to “accidentally” book this man on the first domestic flight to Yellowknife while losing his luggage in the process. Upon arrival in the Arctic, his balls will shrink to the size of small chickpeas within the inadequate warmth of his tacky Bermuda shorts.
There will also be an elegant lady in line with sunscreen already on. A comment such as, “why the hell does it smell like The Bay’s discounted perfume section just got bathed in rotten coconuts?” will usually send her to the nearest lavoratory to hose off.
Of course, the children will have no geographical knowledge whatsoever regarding where they were heading. I usually remind them that the “nice warm place” Mommy and Daddy are telling them about is infested with snakes, cockroaches and big hairy men in Speedos.
The flight
What irks me about this is people applaud whenever we land at our tropical destination. I’ve never heard them applaud when a flight lands despite 100 % fog or travels successfully halfway around the world. Everyone aboard must be a self-serving righteous prick who is actually applauding the fact that their miserable bodies have been successfully transported to their measly idea of paradise.
The customs
The first thing I usually witness is the long line of half-baked tourists waiting to board our plane to carry them back to The North. If looks could kill, we would not make it past customs without begin mauled by imaginary stone maracas. These tourists are easy to spot because they carry the most outrageous souvenirs deemed too precious to put in a suitcase. To me, a 2 foot wooden giraffe is firewood and nothing else.
Customs officers never look happy to see us and avoid eye contact wherever possible. One stall is usually set up to serve the 300 people from the flight. We have to produce THE TOURSIT CARD while men with only two hours of sleep rhythmically stamp away. Three quarters of the plane’s population of course has forgotten to fill out the card (or were too shy to ask their seatmate for a pen) resulting in further excruciating delays. Usually the card has the most predictable questions but occasionally we encounter a question such as, “have you resided in a prison within the past 10 days?”
The Shuttle Bus
If you thought you were alone in your paradise, the sight of thousands of shuttle
buses will shatter that illusion. The buses have the most garish interiors known to man. Even if you silently cheered that you made it through the customs line before all the rest of the evil imperial tourists, now you are stuck waiting for them all to board the shuttles. Complete strangers will grab your precious luggage and heave it into a compartment suspiciously looking like it doesn’t belong with the bus. Once the bus gets moving, you finally relax knowing your resort is within reach. Sadly, what the guide hasn’t told you is your resort is the last stop of twelve. Foul-coconut-smelling elegant lady gets the last laugh after all as she arrives at her resort first.
The Lobby Reception
If you are lucky, they will force you to sit down first and consume a god-awful concoction of alcohol that no one at the pool bar ever touches. Usually a very upbeat rep delivers some preliminary information (while cursing under her breath that this isn’t the dream job she signed up for) and then asks you to register at the front desk. After countless schmucks manage to weasel their way in front of you, you finally arrive only to be told to cough up a small fortune for a safety-deposit box.
A bellboy grabs your luggage without warning and literally runs through the resort to a room either closest to a garbage dumpster and/or the brilliantly lit loud entertainment stage. Predictably, the room will be on the second floor. This really tugs at your heartstrings as you watch the bellboy attempt to carry your entire luggage assortment up 20 stairs in one trip. Voila, you’ve spent $50.00 bucks already on a safety deposit box key and a hapless bellboy’s tip.
The Room
Don’t unpack…you’re probably going to want to move to a different room. Bellboys usually bribe the front desk to assign you the worst room on the resort so they can move your luggage again and make more in tips. In this temporary residence, you’ll find a half-eaten mango in a hidden corner (perhaps not consumed by a human), a toilet that probably takes 20 minutes to refill and an air-conditioning system that sounds similar to a jackhammer vainly attempting to puncture lead. Of course your room might not have a balcony but at least salt encrusted windows provide a view of that dumpster.
The Pool
Do not dive in; you will probably break your neck. Pools at all-inclusive resorts are usually only three feet deep maximum barely covering the pool bar seats. This cuts down on washroom trips dramatically for the sluggish drunks. Since most people in the pool are inebriated, the rest of the pool is designed to be much shallower creating an easy rescue if necessary.
Then comes the activity pool where the only activity is human slugs adjusting their precarious tanning positions. The third is a serenity pool were most drunk British men congregate after being banished by their wives over at the first pool. Only the sun seems to regulate any pool temperature. This results in even the most buff patron suffering a mild heart attack upon a dramatic entrance. The ocean at this point usually beckons but first you have to cross…
The Beach
And of course the beach isn’t what you dreamed of while pouring over those glossy brochures. Usually you can cross it within two strides and end up in water so choked with seaweed the Japanese have set up a sushi bar. If you manage to force yourself to enter these malicious waters, the pristine sandy bottom is so rocky recent unforeseen tectonic activity must have taken place.
The beach chairs all have wet, musty towels draped over them by non-existent owners. You may spot a lonely chair in the distance but a local stray dog in heat has already claimed it. Even if you manage to spread a towel over the sand, travelling local vendors will disrupt your solitude by trying to sell you that two- foot wooden giraffe.
The Food
The first day is deliciously overwhelming. You want to sample everything you see in the buffet so you do. You soon realize subsequent days offer the exact same fare albeit covered in different sauces. You book the a-la-carte meals for a change only to discover that same buffet food suspiciously arranged in a more professional manner on your plate.
The Alcohol
The beer is so light para gliders deliver the kegs. The house wine tastes so bad grandpa’s toxic home brew appears on the wine lists with an extra charge. And the hard liquor is so strong your drunkenness helps you forget that it all tastes like four year old sugar cubes.
The Activities
Patrons don’t come to these all-inclusive resorts to exercise unless they want to show off their bodies. Therefore, activities turn into one gigantic stare-fest as googly eyed horn dogs drool over sculpted bodies contorting during extreme yoga. If these seemingly immobile guests do haul their butts out of the chairs, the resulting calamities keep the travel insurance providers occupied for weeks.
The Entertainment
If Michael Jackson impersonations or guests participating in a game of musical chairs while impersonating Michael Jackson does not appeal to you, it is best to retreat to your room. Usually the Playboy channel dubbed in Spanish is far more entertaining.
The Excursions
Your own travel provider usually triples the price of the same excursion sold locally down the street. Whatever your fancy, be wary of venturing outside the resort for a taste of local life in a city tour. This usually means visiting tourist traps (i.e. tacky gift shops) cleverly disguised as museums, factories or brothels.
Jeep tours usually consist of testing every speed bump (the only traffic control measure in these countries) along a pre-determined tropical route littered with over-priced bars. Snorkelling tours usually involve a two-hour commute to a beach that closely resembles the one where you resort is located.
The People
Since I risk insulting someone while describing the people we see, allow me to start with myself.
I’m the overweight white guy with the hairy back who has a beautiful women latched onto him wherever he goes. I’m the type of guy people look at and say, “how the hell did he get a girl like that?” I’m the reason those para gliders keep having to bring in more of that beer. I’m the reason the buffet doesn’t make a profit when raw oysters and mussels are on the menu. Finally, I’m the reason the swimming pool clears out. Okay, fair enough? Now its time to make fun of the other people…
My wife…imagine the most dazzling goddess Greek mythology has ever spoken of. Her radiance shimmers across every reflective pool of chlorine in the resort. As she enters and exits these artificial bodies of heavenly water, gasps can be heard from every beach chair lucky to be within sight of her. You may only catch a glimpse of such a women once in an all-inclusive week. Be aware…be very aware.
Back to those Speedo dudes. Why must we be subject to the immensity of their testicular outline? Why must we involuntarily calculate the ratio of gut to spandex?
Of course there are the topless women. Correct me if I’m wrong but how can a charred nipple be anything but comfortable? And why is it that the breasts men can finally witness live have either already succumbed to gravity or have nipples the size of pancakes?
What about those teenagers with access to unlimited alcohol? Shouldn’t restrictions regarding their behaviour be put in place when we witness them engaging in sand swallowing contests?
And those small children who run blindly across the beach knocking over the pyramid of Coronas you have just precariously managed to balance?
Then there are the less conspicuous ones…like the elderly couples who silently stalk the buffet line before it opens hoping to snag the freshest cut of pork.
Or the drunk elderly woman at the swim-up bar who misinterprets the standard question, “How are you doing?” and answers triumphantly, “who am I doing?…anyone that will do it with me!”
Of course you can’t forget the tanners who slather on so much lotion they can’t seem to secure a position in their chairs that prevents them from sliding into the pool…
Alternatively, how about the young couple locked together in the throes of passion ignorantly blocking the stairs leading into the pool?…
And what about the drunk guy that talks to everyone no matter how hostile their body language is?
Or the pack of young bucks who show up at an adults-only all-inclusive looking to score only to discover everyone here is a couple?
Or the perpetual complainers that seem like death has warmed them over when asked if they are having a good time?
Steve’s Final Word: (otherwise known as the disclaimer)
Folks, Mary and I have been to over 8 all-inclusive resorts within the past four years during our Christmas and March Break holidays. We plan to attend many more in the future. The entire above-mentioned events did occur but were insignificant in determining our satisfaction level during our vacations. We actually laughed the same way you hopefully did when faced with the above abnormalities. I can honestly say that the all-inclusive resort is the best remedy for the stressed out mind and body. If you haven’t booked one yet, give it a try.
Until next time, adios! J
