The Resort

"We don't create a fantasy world to escape reality. We create it to be able to stay." (Lynda Barry,

What It Is

)

"When someone told me I lived in a fantasy land, I nearly fell off my unicorn." (Anonymous)

"Welcome to Fantasy Island." (

Fantasy Island

, Spelling--Goldberg Productions)

Day One. Arrival

Dear Sarah,

I am pleased to confirm your appointment as an assistant Park Ranger at the Aranea Island Resort, commencing on the first of March this year. In addition to your primary role as described in the staff handbook, your responsibilities will include providing advice and service to visitors, and supporting your fellow Rangers and other resort personnel.

As discussed in your interview, you will serve a three-month probationary period as a Cadet Ranger in order to familiarize yourself with all aspects of our operations. Remuneration and other entitlements are set out in the staff handbook. These include reimbursement of costs and fees for your university studies where these relate to your Park Ranger duties. Accommodation, meals and uniforms are provided free of charge.

It is understood that if you choose to accept this offer, you agree to abide by all the conditions of employment as set out in the handbook. Please read and review these carefully before confirming your acceptance.

-- Director of Human Resources and Staff Operations, Aranea Island Resort

***

As our plane started on its final approach in a wide arc high above the Coral Sea, I watched a tiny speck of emerald and gold emerge from the blue horizon. It grew steadily bigger until it filled the window. We were descending towards Aranea -- Spider Island.

From the air, it looks spectacular, and somewhat creepy, like a monstrous, misshapen, jade-coloured tarantula. Of course, this is merely the effect created by the yawning bays which cut in on all sides, creating a series of verdant peninsulas that radiate from the central volcanic peak. And indeed, as we got closer, from out of the arachnian grotesquery there bloomed a tropical paradise. The surrounding waters were crystalline clear and teeming with activity, the larger inlets dotted with sailing yachts and fishing boats. Just inside the entrance to the southernmost one, a medium-sized cruise ship lay at anchor. A flotilla of small craft left sparkling wakes on the glistening surface, ferrying passengers to the marina located at the eastern extremity of the bay. Following the curve of the sandy shore, the neat rows and tiers of Resort Village gleamed in golden sunlight as they rose up the forested hills which enclosed the bay.

The flight had taken a little under four hours. For most of the trip we had nothing but monotonously flat ocean to look at outside, and not much was happening inside either. There were two dozen other passengers, mostly young couples. There was a group of six girls and guys, aged twenty-something, at the rear of the cabin. They were in a party mood, although they weren't causing any trouble. One of the guys could not wait until we got to our destination and had started tying up one of the girls; but the flight attendant quickly put a stop to that. Safety regulations, she explained. They just laughed and shrugged it off.

There was a buzz of anticipation in the cabin as the whine of the engines began to change pitch, signalling our descent. Our objective was the broadest of the headlands, located on the north-western side of the island. A grass airstrip runs along the spine. It looks hair-raisingly narrow from above, which made me feel just a little queasy, especially when we passed through some turbulence from the air currents rising and curling over the mountain summit. Nevertheless, we touched down with hardly a bump, and all passengers broke into spontaneous applause. As we began to file out, the pilot emerged from the cockpit to wish us a happy stay. Her self-assured, no-nonsense tone convinced me that we had been in good hands.

Meanwhile, one of the flight attendants had spoken quietly to Rachel, and the four of us held back as the rest of the passengers disembarked. By the time we stepped onto the tarmac, the others were already being ushered into the terminal. It was just on mid-day, and a blazing sun was blasting its way through a haze of high cloud. We were greeted by a young lady in her late twenties, slim and tanned, with auburn, caramel-streaked hair and expressive hazel eyes. She introduced herself as Kate, "your hostess." She had a crisp, professional style, not at all compromised by what she was wearing, a flimsy floral sarong secured by a knot nestled perilously low in her cleavage. Encircling her throat was a black leather collar, buckled at the rear, with a ring in front -- looking for all the world like an elegant dog collar. In addition, she wore lavender-coloured leather bracelets and anklets. Attached to the band around her left wrist was a miniature padlock.

Kate recited the standard "I hope you enjoyed your flight" and "Don't hesitate to ask" formalities, and as we followed her to the building she gave us a concise rundown on the resort's highlights, information about our short-term accommodation and an update of our agenda for the next few days. My aunt and uncle listened dutifully, although there wasn't anything really new being said. My cousin's attention was focused more on Kate's sleek legs and décolletage. I was distracted by her bondage accoutrements but managed to heed most of her words. She led us past the terminal. Inside, our fellow passengers awaiting the unloading of their luggage gave us curious looks, no doubt wondering who we were and why we were getting the VIP treatment. I felt a sudden surge of self-importance. However, our hostess quickly and slickly deflated my

amour-propre

with an indulgent smile, the kind that says: "Welcome to the team, but remember, you're the newbie."

To convey everyone to Resort Village, which is about three kilometres from the airfield, parked outside the terminal was a small convoy of taxis. These are golf-cart type buggies which Kate explained serve as the principal form of transport on the island. There are almost no conventional automobiles, the exceptions being emergency vehicles, a handful of electric-powered shuttle buses, a few delivery vans and some heavier trucks for construction and maintenance. We piled into the cart at the end of the queue. It was the only one without an assigned driver and Kate took the wheel. We drove at a sedate pace along a winding, single-lane road, skirting ridges and gullies and grazing the edge of some scarily precipitous coastal cliffs. Kate calmly negotiated the twists and turns, and any misgivings I had about her driving skills were quickly dispelled. All the while she acted as tour guide, with commentary on all the notable features of the landscape -- the imposing charcoal grey monolith of Granite Peak off to our left, Pirates' Cove on the right, the aptly named Razorback Ridge, and so on.

Near the end of our journey, on the western edge of the town, we pulled into a tree-lined cul-de-sac in the midst of a cluster of low, salmon-pink and cream-coloured buildings. They were of stark design, softened somewhat by trimmings of tidy gardens and neat hedges.

"This is the staff residential district," Kate informed us. "We call it the Oasis. After your orientation this will be your home."

It appeared a lot smaller than I would have expected for a self-contained community with amenities and services for five hundred employees. It's far from luxurious, although no worse than some of the places where my family have stayed and paid. However, today's destination lay beyond, so we drove on into Resort Village. This is a compact, fully functioning town, nestled within the great southern bay, flanked by craggy headlands and hemmed in by steep, forest-shrouded hillsides. Most of the buildings in the centre are high-rise, but on the periphery are picturesque, white-washed cottages and bungalows. The beach is wide and its sands are almost unnaturally white, like they've been bleached, with here and there the sprinkled pink hue of crushed coral. Lying some distance off the eastern cape is barren, dune-capped Frigate Island, which shelters Resort Bay from the winds and waves of the open sea.

The streets shimmered in the early afternoon heat; the beach was deserted; the footpaths were almost empty and the cafeterias we passed seemed abandoned. Kate assured us that appearances can be deceiving. At the peak of the holiday period the resort accommodates up to two thousand guests, and even now, towards the end of the tourist season, there are at least half that number. Indeed, as we turned onto a broad avenue in its very heart, the traffic increased dramatically. But the streets of the Village are used by pedestrians as well as vehicles, and the former have right-of-way, so we meandered through the throng at a pace slower than walking.

It might be a beach resort like any other, with women in pert sundresses and barely-there bikinis, men in loud shirts and silly hats. Yet two differences are immediately obvious. The first is the range of ages. I saw no children. Aranea is, of course, an adult-themed resort. And yet the oldest guests appear to be in their forties, maybe early fifties. So it's not your usual demographics.

The second difference is, of course, the number one attraction of Aranea Island. Almost all the women were bound in some way, with hands in front or hands behind the back, or arms pinioned at the side. Some shuffled past us with shackles around their ankles or hobbles on their knees. Many wore collars, of metal or leather, and a few were being led about on leashes. A lot were gagged. Some were blindfolded, but not many (because that would be too extreme, since to deprive a woman of her sight in such a bountiful shopping precinct is akin to torture).

Although most people were in couples, there were a few larger groups. One which drew my attention was a party of seven swimsuit-clad young women, shambling along in single file with a lone male in the lead. The girls were bound, gagged and blindfolded, tethered close up to one another with a rope looped around their necks. The young man was carefully guiding his captives down the street, using what looked like a coded sequence of tugs on the front girl's halter to steer them around and past obstacles, albeit not with complete success. Every so often as I watched, I winced as one of his prisoners collided with sidewalk café furniture or a potted plant or something, and she protested with a muffled whimper through her gag.

"Sorry about that," he would respond with unconvincing sincerity; but they were moving too slowly for any real damage to be done.

Kate noticed that we were staring and explained that the women were medical students celebrating their recent graduation. Since their arrival a few days ago, they have made quite an impression, memorable even by the singular standards of Aranea Island. The sole male leading the pack was wearing the uniform of a resort employee.

"Lucky guy," Daniel said.

"Lucky gals," I said to myself. But I must have made some noise, because both Kate and Rachel looked at me with eloquent grins.

Further along the avenue, two girls were attempting to make their way through the crowd unaccompanied. One was blindfolded, her companion gagged. The latter's hands were locked behind her head, so they each had to assist the other, one navigating a path, the other clearing it. Nearby, three women, their arms pinned to their sides with rope, were being led on a triple-strand leash by a fresh-faced and very self-satisfied young man. They were naked but for microscopic g-strings. Kate informed us that nudity is not forbidden (for females, anyway), and bare breasts are not infrequent, although such displays are normally confined to the beaches and parks.

Naturally Daniel proclaimed that bare boobs should be compulsory. We all ignored him so he was forced to continue.

"Except for you, Sarah. What would be the point?"

"Small things amuse small minds," I replied.

My cousin laughed and thought about what he'd said, shrugged it off and turned his attention elsewhere. Neither of us had come out of that exchange with dignity.

Members of the resort staff were easy to spot. The males were smartly turned out in beige trousers and floral-pattern shirts. The women wore skimpy sarongs identical to Kate's, worn either full-length as a strapless minidress or folded and tied on the hips as a skirt. They -- the females that is -- were also fitted with the collar, bracelets and anklets ensemble. Some were gagged, the ball variety by far the most popular. None of these accessories seemed to affect how they went about their duties.

Daniel nodded his approval. He turned to my aunt to gauge her reaction, but Rachel remained impassive. So he looked at me with a silly smirk, and I just rolled my eyes and turned away. We veered off the main street and continued through the Village's outskirts. We were driving by a vacant lot where construction work was in progress. There was a party of two dozen or more labourers, of both sexes. They were bent over rakes and hoes and shovels, busily clearing the ground of debris and detritus. The girls were strung out in a line. Like their male counterparts they were dressed in overalls, with caps, work boots and gloves; but unlike the men they were manacled hand and foot, as well as shackled together, with thick cables running from heavy metal collars -- just like a chain gang. As we passed, one of the prisoners paused to wipe the perspiration off her brow. Her face was begrimed, her hair unkempt, her overalls darkened with sweaty patches. She was hunched over, her body bowed from fatigue or by the weight of her fetters. She saw us and smiled, before returning to her task.

Just beyond the building site was a small park where several couples were picnicking. All the females were hog-tied or frog-tied, prostrate in spreadeagle or dangling in strappado strung from tree limbs. A young man was tormenting two women, one his own age, the other who appeared a few years older. His playthings were lying on their sides, tied back-to-back with hands bound over their heads, and they were wriggling and writhing on the grass, shrieking and laughing through bulbous ball-gags as their captor harassed them with a leafy tree branch. Nearby, a middle-aged man watched them with amused indulgence as he applied the finishing touches of an elaborate and awkward looking lotus-tie to his own partner.

There were other strange sights and exotic tableaux. We encountered a quartet of Roman soldiers leading about two dozen girls half-dressed in white tunics. They could have been performers on their way to a show, or guests

en route

to a costume party. The slavegirls were heavily shackled at the neck, waist, wrists and ankles. The arms of the first in line were pinioned behind her back and secured to the wrists of the second, whose hands were shackled in front. This pairing pattern was repeated down the column. The women trudged languidly by us; yet they looked much more at ease than their four escorts, who were clad in the full leather-and-metal regalia and sweating under the scorching sun.

Farther along, a dozen guys and squealing girls were wrestling under the fronds of a huge pandanus palm on the side of the road. Two of the young women broke loose and made a dash for freedom, heading in our direction. One was quickly recaptured and subdued, but the other was very athletic and outpaced her pursuers. But when she looked back and saw her friend being pinned to the ground, she returned with her hands up in surrender, and knelt beside her fellow damsels to receive her ropes. Not far away, on a different patch of grass, a woman was being very roughly hog-tied by two males, while a second woman, unbound, knelt nearby watching them anxiously and awaiting her turn. The victims wore staff bikinis and the first woman was crudely blindfolded with her sarong wrapped around her head. A buggy like ours was parked close by. I had no idea if the men were resort employees, but they were not in uniform. Kate drove on without comment as Daniel and I continued to gape. Rachel and Richard tried to be more nonchalant but were also staring in open-mouthed silence.

I was still mulling over these weird and wonderful sights as we proceeded up a steep roadway leading to the high ground behind the Village, past a sign proclaiming "Hotel Andromeda." This, Kate announced, is to be our home for the next seven days. It sits atop a low hill and provides a magnificent view of the entire sweep of the bay. It is built in a graceful but unpretentious colonial style, set amidst manicured lawns, carefully tended gardens and lush groves of palms and pine trees. On a marble plinth flanking the portico there is a bronze sculpture, larger-than-life, of a naked woman bound to a rock with chains, gazing forlornly to the heavens.

"That's Andromeda," Daniel informed us.

"We know, sweetie," Rachel replied, smiling benignly.

"She was a sacrifice to a sea monster," he continued undeterred.

The lecture petered out as we ground to a halt on the gravel driveway. As we disembarked, chips of fractured granite crunched cheerily underfoot. Richard collected our bags from the buggy. We hadn't brought much so he didn't need help. Kate took her leave, arranging to meet up with us again tomorrow morning, and we went inside. The lobby was empty but for us and the receptionist. She is a tall, fine-looking, mahogany-skinned girl, impeccably groomed with a radiant smile. Her tiny sarong clung precariously to spectacular breasts. It was a miniature masterpiece of structural engineering to stay in place with such modest load-bearing support. Richard's professional curiosity got the better of him (being an engineer by vocation), and he could not take his eyes off it.

"Don't you worry, dear," Rachel said, "I'll take care of this," as she signed the register and received our keys.

We went upstairs. The tone of the hotel is genteel, cosy and informal. There is no doorman, no attendant to carry your bags and no lift operator. There are signs all about saying things like "No room service available" and "Please do not tip the staff." Our suite, located on the fourth floor, is spacious though more comfortable than plush. There are three bedrooms, a living room, kitchen and bathroom. It has a small balcony, from which the view is truly breath-taking. Beyond the Village and the bay, the sea and sky are so clear and blue that when you look out towards the horizon, it's hard to tell where one ends and the other begins.

We are here for a week, and not all staff members get a chance to enjoy the guest experience. However, as the philosophers say, rank has its privileges.

Daniel, charging in ahead of us, tried to requisition the best of the bedrooms but his choice of the one with the king-size bed was naturally countermanded by Richard. By the time my contumacious cousin had returned to the living room, I was set to sequester the more salubrious of the two smaller rooms. (Its window has a south-easterly outlook, over the beach and bay.) He glowered at me, and I decided that, since he will have many opportunities over the next seven days to exact vengeance, it was not in my best interest to press my claim. In other words, it would be unwise to antagonize him... at least with more than the usual chastisements. Anyhow, my room isn't so bad. The outside view is a vista of the hotel grounds, but the gardens are pretty.

Shortly thereafter we all reconvened in the living room. Richard said, "Well, now that we've settled in, how about we go and get something to eat... and maybe take a stroll to look around?"