by Steve Deeks
Under a marquee that we had to share with another group, we began the task of making our steak and mash meal by peeling the potatoes. This was done while sitting in our foldaway tent chairs, which again had caused great jealousy among those nearby forced to slum it on the floor or stand up. “You two are like a couple of old women sat there peeling your spuds on your little chairs,” Kate, nearly perforating my eardrum, whaled. So in demand were our chairs that we had to form a mutual alliance, where if one of us got up to get a beer or some goon then the other had to protect the seat at all costs. While I appreciated the value of these luxury chairs, which included the added bonus of a drink holder for our beers, I must admit it did feel slightly over the top when some members of the other group started taking pictures of us. As I never left my spot I ended up doing most of the chair protecting but I didn’t mind this trade off as Mark rushed about attempting to juggle the making of our food while I sipped on my beer.
Just as dusk had turned to night the meal was ready, allowing us to tuck into a delightful feast, for which I felt perfectly entitled to claim every possible credit I could. “Mmm this is really good,” Becky said, summing up the mood, as everyone munched away.
“No problem, glad you liked it,” I replied proudly.
The Scouser laughed, “What you talking about Steve, you only peeled some potatoes.”
I shook my head in deep offence before calming myself. “I actually I did the potatoes and the vegetables - a vital part of the meal.” I was not about to let my efforts be ridiculed by anyone.
Feeling recharged after an enjoyable meal, everyone went to get ready for the night ahead. Though, I for one, couldn’t see the sense at all in getting glammed up to then sit your arse back down on the sand. I certainly wouldn’t be changing out of my shorts and underwear. On the way back to our luxury tent we bumped into the Swedes who were less than impressed with those in their group. “We have two nice people in our group but the rest are peasants,” Sam, spiting venom, declared. “They just sat there and expected us to do all the work for dinner. They are German, though, so I’m not surprised.” Whilst this made me appreciate the group I had been placed in, I was more proud of how Sam’s use of English slang was coming along.
Despite my reluctance I made some effort in getting ready and duly slipped into a relatively stain-free but thoroughly creased t-shirt. I even treated myself, and those nearby, to some sweet smelling spray-on deodorant in an attempt to mask the sweaty aroma that was emanating from my gorilla-esque armpits. However, I should add that it was nowhere near the repulsive level that leaves people gagging violently. I was also down to my final pair of trainers, which it’s fair to say had seen better days. Wearing these repeatedly without socks in hot and stuffy conditions had only added to the insanely vile stench of sweaty feet that was emitting from them, especially when removed. Already there had been mystified backpackers from nearby tents questioning what the smell was. “Has someone died and been buried around here?” asked one person.
“It does smell a bit doesn’t it come to think of it,” I replied quizzically, as if I knew nothing of the odour’s origin.
Inconspicuously putting my sweaty trainers on I walked over to the marquee where a mixture of people had congregated. Mark pulled out a four litre goon bag and we began the night time frivolities. Before long a drinking game – a fundamental pre-requisite for backpackers in such situations - was in full flow. I have no idea of the game we were playing, only that every time it was my turn I would say or do the wrong thing resulting in apparent humiliation that led to everyone shouting for me to “down it, down it”, which of course I was fine with, despite the difficulty of holding down the projectile that wanted to explode from my stomach.
A strange thing then happened as a large and brazen woman with strange facial features, claiming to be from Israel, wandered over and asked if she could join in. Following a hefty pause and a few raising of eyebrows she was, much to my dissatisfaction, granted access. Then, to make matters considerably worse and, I must strenuously add, before I had a chance to take in what was happening, I felt a sensual rubbing of my inner leg – and no I’m not, on this occasion at least, referring to my manhood. “Must be their friendly culture over in Israel,” I whispered to Mark after I awkwardly flicking her hand off my body.
Despite my abundantly clear rejection, the Israeli continued looking seductively at me. I felt her odd presence like a sledgehammer over the head and became increasingly concerned for my own safety, not just because she was twice my size, but also because of her forwardness and the fact she didn’t look like she was going to give in. “I’m going for a walk now,” she suddenly said, turning to me flicking her eyes, before, to my total horror adding, “You come with me?” I felt sick, like I didn’t have a choice in the matter and was some kind of sex slave to this hideous devil woman. Nonetheless, I summoned up all my courage to thwart her, once again. “I’m in the middle of the game so can’t I’m afraid but I’m sure Mark will,” I replied gingerly, trying to find an amicable get out for her. Her eyes turned, fixated on me, as she slowly climbed from her seat and began wandering off, before turning back. “See you soon,” she added chillingly. It goes without saying that this was the very opposite of what I actually wanted to occur. “If I never see you again, I will be an eternally happy man,” I muttered.
I had no idea what I’d done to deserve such treatment. With an involuntary shiver of my body I quickly reached for my goon and knocked back a cup in one go. “You were in there,” Mark then helpfully pointed out, as if I had just let Miss World slip through my fingers.
I shook my head sorrowfully. “If there was one place on earth that I would rather not be ‘in’ then it would be with that.” I spent the next half an hour in a state of horrified shock staring into space, trying desperately to erase the frightening images in my head of what the man-eating monster would have done to me.
People were gradually dispersing away from the marquee so after a few more rounds of goon and having stabilised myself following my ordeal, I made my way to the beach where groups of people were sat drinking around campfires. It was hard to make out who was who in the flickering lights across the beach. After saying my hellos, I plonked myself down with a group of strange Germans, thinking it was Ben and the Swedes, before quickly making off to avoid further embarrassment, hoping to find those I knew. Awkwardly I went up to a variety of groups, studying each member intently while trying to see if I recognised them, just as a drunken tramp generally does, before I eventually came across some of my friends.
Sam and Ben were sat with a group of people I had never laid eyes on before. Mark was nowhere to be seen and neither was Simon. “He’s in the tent with a German girl,” Sam grinned.
“He’s fucking her,” Ben quipped, in his robotic voice, revelling in the bluntness of his observation, particularly as it was in front of a group of startled girls.
The Scousers suddenly appeared with Mark, who was holding another four litre box of goon. He didn’t look like someone who needed any more alcohol but that didn’t stop him knocking it back. As everyone became more inebriated the various groups on the beach started to merge. My heart sank when I spotted the Israeli girl nearby and decided now was a perfect time to relieve my bladder. Walking as fast as I could in the other direction I found an isolated spot, partially covered by bushes. Looking from side to side I decided the coast was clear and began unleashing a fierce trajectory of pee that was splattering joyously away on the sand. Just as I had finished and was tucking myself away I heard some female giggling from behind the bushes. They had clearly seen a good deal more of me than I had of them. “Hope I didn’t get it in your face,” I whispered to the mysterious backpackers beyond the bush and continued back to the group.
On returning I cautiously looked around to see if the Israeli predator was near and gave a sigh of relief when I felt the coast was clear. I sought out confirmation just in case, though.
“The one who looked like an Elephant Man? She left and went that way,” Ben said pointing down the beach.
“Thank god for that,” I replied, as a profound feeling of peace came over me. “Where’s Mark?” I asked. No one was sure of his whereabouts, though someone said a person matching his description had headed down the beach moments earlier. I looked at Sam and Ben. Knowing Mark as we did, we instinctively burst out into laughter. “He isn’t,” I said in disbelief.
“You know what Mark is like,” Sam said with a knowing look.
“He really doesn’t care what he fucks does he?” Ben shouted.
“Well he’s done me a favour and she obviously listened to my advice about going for a walk with him.” I was grateful that my friend had taken one for the team, though in reality I knew there was a large dollop of self interest in his actions.
The thought of Mark fumbling with the strange Israeli made my night and I eagerly awaited his return to interrogate him. Within half an hour he trudged over as though nothing had happened. “Here he is… where have you been then?” I bellowed, ensuring anyone within a mile radius could hear. Evidently feeling shame and humiliation, Mark remained coy under mounting pressure, giving nothing away to begin with before finally cracking under further questioning. “So did you probe that animal?” I asked, as just the two of us walked to the marquee to fetch some more booze.
“Well, yeah, kind of,” he curiously replied. Determined not to let him palm this off I pushed hard for further information, before he continued, “I don’t know what I was thinking.” The guilt at performing such a despicable act was showing. And rightfully so.
After a further grimace, Mark roused himself to continue, “We went for a stroll up the beach to find a spot…I was smashing her out when I realised a couple of blokes behind me were watching…so I told them to ‘fuck off’.” The tension was almost too much to bear; I couldn’t help but let out an involuntary belly laugh at my friend’s self-imposed misfortune
“You can’t be happy about that?” I teasingly asked.
“Fuck off,” he said sharply, before continuing with the sordid, sorrowful tale. “We moved somewhere else and I was riding her like Zorro when the same two blokes threw sand all over us. I managed to spunk my load but I got sand stuck all over my helmet and she got it all up her vag.”
As traumatised by the whole thing as Mark clearly was, I couldn’t help but show my appreciation for his self-sacrificing efforts. “I’m really grateful for what you did for me there, taking one on the chin like that and saving me. I never thought you would go this far, but I do really appreciate it,” I said, giving him a manly pat on the back.
“Don’t go thinking I did it for you mate,” he bullishly hit back. “At least it’s another notch – 208 now – so it’s not all bad.” Still looking dazed by his ordeal, he offered one final revelation of his romantic encounter. “She was weird though…she kept talking non stop in Israeli. But when she went to stick a couple of fingers up my back passage I nearly dragged her in the sea to drown her. She stunk like a fishmongers downstairs too.”
I somehow managed to fight back vomit from the horrific images that were replaying agonisingly in my mind as we made our way back to the gathering. Naturally, the others were chomping at the bit to get the juicy details. “You have a whale of a time Mark?” Sam, now expertly deploying English puns, said cheekily. To his credit Mark fronted up and admitted his appalling crime, though incredibly brushed it off like you would a crumb stuck to your shirt. “I cut my balls off with a carving knife if I do that,” Ben said disapprovingly.
“I would kill myself,” Sam added forcefully.
Matters then took a turn for the worse, as sensitive information was coincidentally obtained from a passing stranger that Mark would probably rather not have heard. “This guy over here,” Ben began, pointing at some random fellow wearing sandals with missing teeth. “He says he fucked some weird, horrible Israeli girl earlier tonight too…much earlier tonight.” After various descriptions were put forward it became clear there was a remarkable likeness. “Sounds like you had sloppy seconds,” the toothless individual said, with a huge grin on his face. Mark’s face dropped.
The reality that not only had he gone through hell, but that he had also been somewhere a short while after some other grubby individual had already left his mark on her, as it were, was clearly hitting home judging by the disturbed look on his face.
“Well, that explains the fishy smell,” I said helpfully, attempting to clear that little mystery up.
“At least you weren’t the only one to have a go,” Sam chipped in.
“You better hope your knob doesn’t fall off,” I added.
“You must feel good in a way,” Ben added, sensing the outpouring of solidarity. “At least now you know someone else thinks she’s worth putting his cock inside.”
“I think he may also have been blind,” Sam added.
It was odd to find Mark speechless but this was one of those rare priceless occasions and I was determined to savour every minute as he wallowed in self-pity and recrimination. Intentionally or not, he had done me a big favour and for this I would be eternally grateful, while also ensuring I would constantly remind him of his heroic endeavour. “Bet you’re knackered after your night’s work?” I asked, sensing he was heading to bed as much through drunken tiredness at his hefty conquest, as acute embarrassment. “Good job you didn’t bring her back to the tent – would have been a nightmare trying to fit her in,” I added sympathetically. Managing only a despondent raising of the eyebrows he finally was able to squeeze out a few words. “Look just don’t tell the Scousers, I don’t want to blow my chances with either of them,” he muttered. It said a lot for the man that at this time of deep soul searching he still maintained an appreciation of his circumstances and thoughts toward his next potential victim(s). I agreed to his request before tucking myself up and getting some well deserved sleep.
The next morning I was rudely awoken by Mark snoring in my ear and feeling like I was in Vietnam such was the stuffiness and sweat that was pouring off me in our tight-knit tent, which was more like a steam room. Like someone drowning who was gasping for air I yanked down the zip and inhaled. With my tongue feeling like a burnt potato - such were my levels of dehydration - I knocked back a litre of bottled water that had almost self boiled itself such was the scorching heat in our make-shift home. With the energy of a dying flea I wandered over to the marquee where some of our group were already relaxing eating breakfast. I helped myself to a coffee and some toast and staved off the aching feeling in my stomach that you have when your body is totally depleted having taken an almighty battering the night before.
Our Gestapo style tour guide had instructed everyone the previous evening that he wanted us to be on the road – or sand – early to ensure we got to see our fix of places that the world’s biggest sand island had to offer. Unfortunately for him nothing was happening very quickly as scruffy backpackers, who had seen better days, gradually appeared to make themselves breakfast, before stumbling off pain etched on their faces to wash ankle deep in the sea.
Chapter 6 – Deep in Fraser Island
As we made our way across the beach in our poorly padded vehicle, I was left bumping around in the backseat like a pinball. I self-consciously noted that I was now just one of three people yet to take the wheel in our group. We stopped off for supplies at what we were told was the main area of the island; a selection of shops, apartments and bars with a swimming pool and glorious surrounding lakes. This, our guide added, was the place to be. “So why the fuck did you make us stay on the opposite side of the island?” I thought I said in my head, but apparently broadcast out loud, much to the disapproval of the killjoy head of operations, who seemed wonderfully oblivious to the irony of his revelation. This was even more so with our exotic location having the not so enviable option of relieving ourselves in the great outdoors, just feet awa
y from passing strangers and dingoes.
Having been granted permission to buy ice creams before leaving, we slurped away like a gang of children out on their first school visit. By the time it was midday my throbbing hangover was still no nearer to dispersing. So I did what any reasonable person would do in such circumstances, particularly if they were from the Caribbean, and reached for the rum and coke as soon as we pulled up at our next destination, which was aptly named the Champagne Whirlpool.
Whilst all the different groups were helping each other to prepare lunch I was alone in the back of our truck measuring out a large dose of rum to go with my splattering of coke. It occurred to me that should anyone have seen this then I would have looked suspiciously like an alcoholic. But I brushed aside such nonsense and gulped down half the cup before coming agonisingly close to vomiting all over everyone’s stuff. Not for the first time since I began binge drinking when I was 15 had my stomach muscles saved me from unleashing a vile substance that yearned to come hurtling out like lava from a volcano.
After riding the storm I slowly started to adjust to the taste and was able to drink far more fluently. Before long my state was something between being mildly intoxicated - in a sickly sort of way - crossed with unrelenting waves of pain and heart palpitations. Although far from perfect it was a step in the direction. While it was anything but easy knocking back such a disgusting dry drink in boiling conditions with a mouth like a desert, it also had the added advantage that it ruled me out of driving and immediately slammed the door shut to any possible jibes about my not doing so. After all, you wouldn’t want someone who had been knocking back such a lethal spirit in the baking sun to drive you around would you?
