by Steve Deeks
After Greg had removed his hand from the female’s lower region, causing her to wander off with a smile, he proudly thundered over and stuck the offending fingers up my nose. “You see that?” he said, eyes lighting up at his accomplishment.
Repulsed, and using all my might not to projectile vomit, I jumped away. “Get your fishy hand away from me,” I screeched.
“Fishy?” he replied, before taking a curious couple of sniffs. “You’re right, it does smell a bit tangy. Nice and juicy though, might give her a portion later,” he added beamingly, before fetching another drink from the bar.
And he was as good as his word, as by the end of the night he was back cavorting with the female man-mountain. “Right we’re off back to hers, see you later,” Greg announced with a wink, as we walked out the pub. I made my way up the street alone and was in bed by the very reasonable time of 3am. It had been an interesting first night out to say the least. I got the impression, though, for Greg it had all been pretty standard.
I awoke the next day at a little past 2pm, having slept for an impressive eleven hours. I felt jaded and had a mildly throbbing head from the previous night, which was not helped by the jetlag I was still coming to terms with. Despite feeling as heavy as a rock and having the energy of a dying snail, I forced myself out of bed, which had already begun to give me significant sharp pain in my lower back.
I then proceeded to the shower room where I turned on the trickling lukewarm (and that’s being generous) water and attempted to invigorate myself, while doing my best to ignore thoughts questioning why I had travelled across the globe at great expense to live like a peasant. “It will be a great life experience,” my positive internal voice would say encouragingly, before hastily being met with stiff opposition. “You’re a big fucking dick head,” my more critical side would yell, before demanding I get the first available flight back home. I knew, though, that pride alone would ensure I at least ground out being in Australia for a month or so. The alternative was to go home with my tail between my legs, which despite all the suffering I had already endured, I didn’t much fancy. Not yet at least.
In sloth-like mode, it took me over an hour and a half to get ready. But not having anything to get ready for it didn’t really matter too much. Zapped of energy and with the afternoon getting on I forced myself out to explore more of the city. After being subjected to the routine fleecing for food and coffee I ambled through the city before stumbling upon the Royal Botanic Gardens, a tropical paradise full of natural beauty with its idyllic water features, colourful plants and trees, and bizarre but engrossing wildlife. All of this with stunning views looking out over the harbour and just a short walk from the chaos of the city. It provided a peaceful sanctuary where people could escape the rigours of work and lay about idly on the pristine grass while breathing in the warm fragrant air.
Walking along I spotted a selection of strange, long beaked birds with fat bodies, supported by long thin stalk legs. Apart from reminding me of a friend who drank too much beer, it struck me how similar in character they were to pigeons, as they meandered about at the pace of a dawdling ant while munching on the smallest crumbs that were available to them. Although the strange creatures, known as Ibis birds, appeared harmless enough I didn’t much fancy getting too close to them. Unfortunately this is the problem when you come to Australia from England; you are taught to think that every bit of wildlife is a potential killer, even when it’s about as harmful as a gerbil. Still, I was taking no chances and cautiously sidestepped a menacing group of them.
A few moments later I heard some deafeningly loud screeching. I looked over to see who was being murdered. But after raising my head I spotted a load of birds, all of different colours who were darting about like spitfires from tree to tree. They seemed incredibly pissed off about something. As I got nearer I saw a few at ground level brazenly walking up to people, demanding they be given some food. At this point I realised they were none other than parrots. It was the punk style haircut that had given it away in the end.
After being tormented for years by an aggressive family parrot that would sadistically fly across the room and eyeball me having landed on my shoulder, before proceeding to peck painfully away at my face and teeth until I pleaded to be rescued, I thought it best to give them a wide birth as well and accelerated past while avoiding absolutely all eye contact. Nonetheless, it was a reminder of the incredibly exotic wildlife that inhabited the country, as opposed to the mundane seagulls and pigeons that we have to put up with back home.
There was a noticeable chill in the air as dusk began to kick in, with the sky turning red from the sunset. With more screeching coming from the sky I looked up, in a state of some discomfort and shock, as I quickly realised it was not from the parrots, but from a colony of giant bats that were flying dangerously close to my head, or at least it felt as though they were. I had never seen anything like it. While ducking down in case any landed on me, I stood open mouthed as this never-ending flock streamed over the gardens and across the city. It was incredible to watch, even if it did feel like I was in the midst of the film Gremlins.
What disturbed me most was that the flying foxes - as they are known, presumably because they were not far off as big as foxes and had unfortunate ginger heads – were massive, with a wingspan of about three feet. In England we are lucky if our bats have a wingspan of three inches. And besides you never see them. Yet here in Sydney there they were brashly flying about like they owned the city. As I walked anxiously through a section of the gardens where no other human was, in typical melodramatic fashion, I started to get horrific images of hungry bats suddenly darting down from above and eating me alive, or carrying me off to wherever they were headed before alleviating their hunger on me like a pack of lions on a water buffalo. “Hopefully they’ve eaten,” I thought, as I picked up the pace, maintaining a fearful eye on them.
Despite what experts say you just never know what can happen with wildlife. And as it turns out there have been several cases in Australia of humans being attacked by these bats, including a brutal case of a Brisbane woman who had the terrifying misfortune to be set upon by a well oiled team of three flying foxes, where one attempted to pull her off balance by going for her lower leg, while the other two wrapped themselves around her head, viciously attacking and spitting on her.
In another case, a Sydney man turned around in his swimming pool to see a whooshing flying fox coming towards him, before crashing into his head, forcing him under water. The bat then paddled to the side of the pool and sat perched sinisterly on a lounger, deadly still with its red eye glaze seemingly waiting to pounce again, before eventually flying off to the man’s great relief. There have been other such cases where people have been attacked for no reason, including a woman who was left with a three inch gash after finally thwarting an angry flying fox that kept coming back for more. A woman also died after rescuing a child that had one on its back.
If you are still braving going to Sydney, though, then perhaps in light of the above you will be pleased to know that since my time in the city the 22,000 flying foxes have been evicted from the gardens and relocated elsewhere after the federal government decided they were destroying important species of trees and palms.
Chapter 3 – Hostel debauchery
With my explorations in the city and being so far from England, I felt strangely liberated, if not a little confused as to my purpose there. I had escaped the mundane normality of daily life back home and replaced it with a diet of daily survival where getting food and eating it felt like a major accomplishment.
As I continued to settle into hostel life it began to feel that my reason for being there, as well as experiencing a new culture and way of life in a city and country I had never been to before, was primarily to get drunk. After my first chaotic night out I had yet to see Greg, until he cumbersomely crashed into the room that afternoon. “You give her a portion then?” I asked, referring to his exploits with the not so beautiful lady. Although
there really was no need, as his smirking face gave it all away. “She definitely got her filling. I thought she was having a heart attack at one point,” he said triumphantly.
I shook my head in sorrow. “Well I’m sure that had more to do with the fact she’s the size of a hippo than anything you did.”
Greg laughed. “She dined out on some prime sausage, that’s all I will say.” The Kiwi had no shame.
Over the next few days we varied going to Scruffy’s, as it was affectionately known, with another nearby place called Shark Hotel. And much to my anguish we now had one of Greg’s friends to accompany us; a Finnish man with alternately painted red and black hand and toenails called Veiko, who always looked like he just injected a large dose of heroin into his arm. Again, he was not the blueprint of someone I would ordinarily choose to mix with – in fact in normal life I would be tempted to throw a bucket of disinfectant over him – but I somehow found a way of looking past his disturbing appearance and the fact people would now mistake us as friends when out in public.
After just one drink at Shark Hotel, Greg was off performing his variety of twists and twirls on the dance floor, which meant I was stuck with Veiko at the bar drinking beer. It was far from ideal being marooned with such a freak, especially when he looked suspiciously like a prolific axe murderer. I longed for normal company but instead found my ear getting bent by a strange, curly haired Finn. “I like fat girls too man,” he announced suddenly, in a nostalgic voice, having jealously spotted Greg lifting a large woman. “They are a lot easier to fuck and when I run out of money I usually just hook up with one and stay at her place for a few weeks. It’s a lot cheaper for me that way.”
I looked at him as if he was joking, but his deadly serious expression confirmed he was anything but. “Well, I guess you’re doing the right thing to think about saving your money,” I replied gingerly.
“If I don’t do this,” the Finn continued, just when I thought the conversation had ran its course, “then I have to sleep on a park bench.” I could see his dilemma. If someone else had made the same declaration it wouldn’t have appeared as bad, it was just that with Veiko he seemed to have an evilness about him. Certainly he was not one to give to charity. He would more likely rob the funds.
As with the first night out, Greg ended up going back to a humongous girl’s place for a nightcap. I started to get a sense that he had a thing for rather large women, who also seemed to have the unlucky distinguishing features of looking like they were creatures from horror films. Perhaps it was his antics on the dance floor combined with the fact he was no oil painting himself that led to a mutual understanding with these women, I pondered.
The following night while all three of us were drinking in the room, Greg, having knocked up two of these rather big girls in a matter of days, proudly proclaimed, out of the blue, that he was on course for the “Fat-trick”. He seemed to be thriving on his challenge of getting the “Big Three”. And in this mood it would have taken a brave man to bet against him. As we knocked back our goon, Greg became the focal point of attention and was built up in the manner of a boxer going into a crunch world title fight. Veiko, with his admiration for ladies of a larger persuasion, was leading the way with encouragement. “Make sure you get the fattest one you can man,” he demanded.
“Don’t you worry about that,” Greg quipped, bristling with anticipatory pride.
Feeling intoxicated after coming to the end of our four-litre goon bag, we made our way downstairs to the common area. Not half an hour had passed when, as if by magic, Greg found himself involved in deep conversation with a girl, who it’s fair to say would have needed her clothes to be specially made. With drinking no longer allowed on the premises a whole crowd ended up going outside and congregating down a side street adjacent to the hostel. I glanced over and saw Greg sitting on the floor with his arm around the girl - a notable achievement in itself, such was her body width. The happy couple smiled and larked about for photos, with the Kiwi giving the thumbs up to the camera, as he honed in on his target.
A while later, I glanced round and noticed Greg had disappeared. I instinctively thought he was fulfilling his self-imposed challenge. With everyone else ready to embark on a pub-crawl I quickly ran upstairs to fetch a jumper. As I turned down the corridor to my room I suddenly heard noises that sounded distinctly like someone being tortured. The intermittent screeches got louder the further down the hallway I got, before trailing off. I put it down to high-spirited drunks.
It turned out I was right, but not in the way I had quite envisaged. I swung open the room door where, unexpectedly, I encountered another horrific deed taking place. “What are you doing Steven?” came the startled voice. It was Greg. He quickly yanked a duvet from the bed above in a desperate attempt to cover both himself and the woman up, which, in the latter’s case, was proving almost impossible.
Having unfortunately caught sight of them both, I was instantly reminded of wildlife programs I’d seen where two elephants mate. This was fine in a zoo but not in a hostel room where I had the misfortune of staying. No person should have to witness such a monstrosity, though it was amusing. “I’m getting my jumper,” I smirked. “I didn’t think you’d be here – you normally go to theirs,” I added, without thinking how this may have reflected on Greg, with his lothario exploits now exposed before his latest conquest. Then again, I’m sure it wouldn’t have made much difference to a female with such standards who, in any event, was too preoccupied with trying to cover herself up.
I marched out the room with my jumper, delighted to be out the firing line, but concerned about my uncanny knack of walking in on people in the most compromising of circumstances. Of course they were to blame, not me, but still I wished my timing wasn’t so bad, or good, depending on how you looked at it. From there on the night was one big blur, though I do vaguely recall returning to the room at around 4am after copious amounts of alcohol and being relieved that no one was either masturbating or being shagged.
I awoke sluggishly the next morning just before ten with a substantial hangover. I was supposed to be checking out – within the next 15 minutes in fact - but had taken the decision the previous day I would stay at the hostel. Not because I liked it, far from it – I thought it was a shithole - but to avoid having to move my cumbersome backpack, which felt like I was carrying a piano on my back.
I dawdled my way down to reception and requested re-booking for a week, assuming this would be nothing more than a formality. The man pushed a few buttons and looked blankly at his screen. “Sorry mate no more space,” he said abruptly, as if it was no big deal. I wasn’t quite able to take in what he meant at first, before it suddenly became clear that he literally meant what he said. “Are you sure there’s not a single bed in the entire building?” I responded suspiciously, after a lengthy pause. I found it hard to believe that in a hostel of about 400 rooms there wasn’t one free bed, especially when there had occasionally been space in our room, which surely meant the same applied elsewhere. He pushed a few more buttons, staring vacantly at the computer some more. “No nothing at all mate. Sorry buddy”.
I shook my head in total disgust. “Oh great I’m homeless already,” I blurted desperately, hoping my sorrowful plight might pull on his heartstrings and force a dramatic rethink. But I was hit by nothing more than a wall of silence.
He then twisted the knife in some more, “Can I have your key please?” I looked at him in shock. Shock that I, an honourable paying customer, could be so easily discarded onto the streets with no thought for my well-being. After standing open mouthed for a lengthy period I begrudgingly handed over the key in an almighty sulk. But at least I would be reimbursed my $20 deposit to cushion the blow of my exit. Or so I thought. “Umm sorry mate,” he announced apologetically, looking up at the clock. “As you’ve checked out after ten we can’t give you your deposit back now.”
I wanted this cheerful person to be struck by lightening right now. “But it’s only ten past. And besides I
was down before ten but there was a queue and then you were trying to find me a bed, so really it’s your fault I’m late,” I replied thumping my index finger on the desk.
He shrugged his shoulders. “Sorry dude, it’s out of my hands.”
Somehow, I bit my tongue, perhaps fearing being arrested by the police had I opened my mouth, and instead shook my head very slowly while looking into his eyes to express my deep displeasure, before storming off to the room.
I woke Greg, who had been asleep sprawled over the bed with half his hairy bum sticking out, and told him my predicament. “Oh take no notice of them,” he said reassuringly. “I do IT work for the hostel so I’ll have a word with them and sort it out later. Anyway there’s nearly always a spare bed in the room. Just leave your stuff here and don’t worry about it.” I looked at Greg, who was clearly in extreme pain with yet another hangover, and wondered if he was the kind of person I could really turn to in a crisis. I also found it curious that someone on planet earth was bold enough to employ him and wondered how he managed to fit any IT work around his drinking, especially as I’d never seen any evidence of him lifting a finger, apart from when pouring goon down his throat, of course. Nonetheless, with options limited, I went with his proposal and left matters in his trusty hands.
After going out for a stroll and eating some food I returned to the room, which Greg said he would leave open from now on with me keyless. The Kiwi was nowhere to be seen, but trusting he had resolved my situation I made myself comfortable in the vacant bed as the clock hit 10pm. I felt aggrieved that the hostel had told me there was absolutely no space anywhere yet there was a perfectly good available bed in the room I had been staying. Feeling exhausted after the last few big nights out I closed my heavy eyes and drifted off to sleep, hoping a new arrival didn’t suddenly turn up at some ungodly hour and demand my bed.
