How a phallic rugby statuette made my trip to Fiji

The anticipation of meeting new journalists on a press trip can often be just as stressful as the trip itself. While I am grateful for my job as a food and travel writer, which comes with only a few gripes like jam-packed schedules and ultra-long flights, there is an initial awkwardness of traveling with strangers, sometimes over a week at a time. You quickly learn their personality quirks, anxiety triggers, and even phobias, some being easy to deal with, others.

Well, let’s just say that I’ve found myself pounding dirty martinis at the hotel bar after more trying days. 

While I’ve certainly experienced legacy magazine editor egos and outrageous influencer demands, most media folk are typically lovely and make for great people to network with (or at least bitch with) in a particularly challenging industry. As budgets are slashed and AI takes over writing assignments, trips outside of the U.S. are now considered luxuries instead of legitimate research opportunities to produce substantive articles. 

In light of this trend, I immediately accepted an invitation to attend the Fiji Tourism Exchange (FTE) in Nadi. Billed as an annual conference for travel agents, the tourism board chose to bring in consumer-facing reporters so that we could meet with local business owners in hospitality as inspiration for upcoming content. Leading up to the event, we were also treated to two private island excursions for a more intimate look at what the beloved Oceania destination has to offer. 

Pack your bags, we’re going on an adventure

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The first stop, Lomani Resort & Spa on Malolo Lailai Island, started with five of us, including one PR rep who planned and oversaw the entire itinerary. We laughed over fruity cocktails at floating bar Cloud 9, bonded over dolphin acrobats on an afternoon boat tour, and rallied around one journalist who lost (and found!) her cellphone in a van. Things were going swimmingly, quite literally, as we also snorkeled through coral farms and swam through the sun-drenched Pacific at sunset. Fiji quickly proved that it was worth the long trek, no matter the company. 

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The next stop required a short flight from the domestic airport, where we stumbled into a terminal gift shop, lined with trinkets and souvenirs from relaxing kava powder to coconut-based beauty products. But there was one display that caught my queer eye: shelves cock—err—err-err-chock-full of what appeared to be wood-carved butt plugs in various shapes, colors, and sizes. I was perplexed, yet intrigued. 

Naturally, I snapped a quick photo, put it on my Instagram Stories, and provided zero context to get my followers talking. And yet, I wouldn’t dare mention it to the group for fear of immediately stereotyping myself as a hyper-sexual gay who always has dick on the brain. 

Upon arriving at Savusavu Island’s Savasi Resort, the downing of a piña colada armored me with the courage to open my phone’s album and ask, “Does anyone know what these are?” My initial assumption was that there may be an artistic nod to some ancient pestle used for medicinal herbs and spices. 

Our fearless leader, through laughs, not only revealed that they were rugby balls but that her husband was also the owner of the store (and that she couldn’t disclose this factoid right away out of conflict of interest). 

I was gobsmacked. The statuettes, which, in my defense as a homosexual who has a surprisingly robust knowledge of sports, looked nothing like standard or even partially deflated rugby balls. Displaying them upright instead of on their side or tilted was also, in the great words of drag queen Tatiana, “a choice” — the artist had to be in on the joke, constructing an array of skinny, long, short, and stubby varieties that resembled the diversity of human schlongs (some more appealing than others, based on personal preference). Honestly, I was surprised that some didn’t come with foreskin. 

What transpired for the rest of the trip tickled me as a gay man who adores dirty puns, metaphors, and indecent conversation. Our entire group — men and women, straight and queer, married and single — could not stop talking about them and weaving them into practically every moment. 

We discussed picking the perfect shape, the hypothetical exchange with customs, hiding the rugby ball in various orifices, pranking an editor’s panel by asking a rugby-themed question, etc. During a Vavavi cooking class (one of my favorite activities during our stay), I even proclaimed that I wanted my wrapped meat parcel to resemble the form of a rugby ball. Everything was rooted in the joke about these oh-so-simple, yet oh-so-stupid statuettes, and I needed to memorialize the trip by purchasing one for myself. 

Fiji’s natural beauty makes it easy to go home with foraged shells and intricately-woven palm leaf art, but I was dead-set on finding the perfect ball — not too big, not too small, as if I was the newfound Goldilocks of phallic figurines. After picking the ideal pecker, I was so embarrassed by it being the only item in my shopping cart that I threw in a John Varvatos cologne to curb any potential awkwardness. If anything, it made it seem like I was preparing for a date with me and my new find, yet the cashier smiled as she scanned its shaft, wrapped it delicately, and handed it to me with its receipt in the bag. 
Now, the piece sits proudly and prettily on a bedroom shelf, reminding me of the shared laughs from a place that was already so magical without the sexual innuendos. I’ve already been asked if I’ve considered rubbing it with lube and having my way with it.

And while it’s something I’ve thought about (how can you not?), I’m A-OK with what it symbolizes instead: memories of a place with new friends and the reminder that I do have the best job ever.

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