by Steve Deeks
When I saw Greg the next day I asked him if he had used his powers of influence to extend my stay. “What’s that?” he said blankly, seemingly not having a clue what I was going on about, before something was triggered in that big skull of his. “Oh yeah that. Don’t worry it’s all good. I’m just saying you’re working with me.”
Confused, I paused for a second. “So you have told them?”
“I had a word with someone. Yeah I think everything’s cool.”
It didn’t sound incredibly convincing. “You think?”
“Well, I’d imagine they will let us know at some point. But because you’re helping me out we get special rates anyway.” It’s safe to say I didn’t have total faith in Greg’s powers of persuasion or his self-proclaimed indispensability to the hostel hierarchy. But, nonetheless, for some unknown reason I continued trusting the Kiwi.
Over the next few days things went smoothly, with the bed always remaining available. “I misjudged Greg,” I thought, having feared that he had done nothing in the way of sweet-talking the hostel. I wondered why I was so reluctant to leave this place, especially as I looked around the filthy room, where you could still not see the carpet from all the mess that was there, including the porno magazine that was now open on a different page from before. This time it was showing a woman bending over and smiling devilishly while holding a rampant rabbit.
Added to the fact I was living in a dive, I was sharing a room with a pervert in Steffan, an alcoholic who had no self respect in Greg and some other odd bloke, who I’d barely seen, but who, I was told, was the proprietor of the adult literature. And as if all this wasn’t enough, I noticed a mysterious large bald headed man with a nose ring and a giant beard had been taking advantage of sleeping on the couch that was in the corner of the room for the past couple of nights. None of us had a clue who he was or what he was doing in our room. He would appear late at night once the lights had gone out and would then be gone first thing in the morning before any of us had risen. It was an odd situation, but certainly not as odd as anything else I had already experienced in this strange existence that was now my life.
I sensed the individual may be exploiting an opportunity to live rent free. And after bumping into him I duly received confirmation. “There’s always somewhere to stay in this room,” he smiled.
“But how do you get in?” I queried.
“Well, when you guys actually lock the door – which is not that often – I just use a key from a friend who was staying here before. When he checked out they told him he was late so would keep his $20 deposit, so he said, ‘Fine, I’m keeping your key then’. He gave it to me when he left. Bet they wish they hadn’t robbed him of his money now huh?”
I figured that he was a kind of modern day Robin Hood, but of the hostel world. Clearly I was just one among many who had been ripped off by the hierarchy, so could only admire the way someone was fighting back against the establishment. “If you ever need the couch then just take it. I’ve got other rooms I can stay in if need be,” he kindly offered, before adding, “but if you do, then get out of the room before the cleaners come as they make a note of who’s in what bed.” I thanked him for imparting his inside knowledge and wished him good luck, though having not paid a dollar in rent for months I didn’t quite think he was in need of any.
All was seemingly well for a couple of days, with my mood significantly improved by Steffan’s departure. However, things took a turn for the worse when two snivelling French men suddenly moved in to the room. I checked with Greg to ascertain my status in the room but only received a shrug of the shoulders. “Must be some kind of mix up,” he said casually, which really didn’t help me at all. Aloof and snooty, the whispering new pair looked on in abject disgust at the state of the room. “How you live like this?” one, appearing as though he was about to be sick with revulsion, mocked.
“Well, you know it’s a hostel and not The Hilton don’t you?” I replied, with a gentle sprinkling of sarcasm. They both looked at me with a hatred I hadn’t witnessed since I locked someone in a cupboard at school who had it in for me. I sensed the high maintenance Frenchmen could be difficult and that it would be best to maintain a low profile, especially with Greg being circumspect about my entitlement to be there.
Unfortunately when the Kiwi and I returned, somewhat inebriated later that night, matters descended to a new low. While lying on his bed and mumbling something about not feeling too good, the New Zealander, without any warning, unleashed a vile torrent of projectile vomit that sprayed out of his mouth like water from a fireman’s hose and splattered relentlessly against the white wall before rolling down onto the carpet. Then, nonchalantly, and without uttering a single word, he rolled over and went to sleep, leaving a colourful pattern on the wall and an iffy smell lingering in the room.
The only saving grace was that the sick was by Greg’s bed and with it dark the French wouldn’t see it, though there was every chance they would smell it. The next morning having remembered the wall had been defiled the night before, I urged the Kiwi to clean his mess up before popping out. On my return, however, I was met by a whaling noise coming from the uglier one of the two Frenchmen. “Look at this, it is disgusting. Completely unacceptable,” he snivelled, pointing at the sick with fury. Not only had Greg failed to clear his own mess up, but he had also had the cheek to leave me to deal with the moaning onion gropers. I decided to play dumb. “What is it?”
The Frenchman vigorously frowned and pointed again at the mess. “It is sick, look. I go to get someone to clean this up.” And in the blink of an eye they both stormed past me, bumping my shoulder on the way. I thought it might be best to make myself scarce.
The following day, just when it appeared relations couldn’t get any worse, a member of staff was called to the room by the French who were this time complaining of an insect infestation. “No, no, it’s no good. Look at my leg,” one of them sobbed, gesticulating toward some miniscule red mark.
“I’ve never noticed anything bad in here,” Greg added dazedly. Nonetheless, with the concerned member of staff thinking better of the Kiwi’s views, a specialist inspection team dressed like the Ghostbusters were immediately called out on request of the French.
After a thorough inspection the official diagnosis was that an outbreak of bedbugs had spread throughout the room. With the subsequent frenzy among our two Gallic friends, and to a lesser extent the staff, it would have been easy to make the honest mistake that the plague had made a dramatic comeback. This was especially so, as they whipped crime scene tape - or something of a remarkably similar appearance - outside the room, before hurriedly fumigating the area to ensure the evil bugs would not spread. But out of bad comes good and following the highly dangerous incident the two Frenchmen moved to a different dorm after citing the room as “somewhere not good enough for a dirty rat”.
With all that had gone on, our room had become the talking point of the hostel. It was not quite the low profile I had hoped for. I began to grow increasingly suspicious of Greg. In particular, of his work ethic, and more importantly whether I could believe a word that came out of his bumbling mouth. This was especially so after a series of notes started getting placed on the door stating he owed rent for $450, which increased on a daily basis.
But as so often was the case, drinking took precedence to everything else. None more so than when the much hyped Mardi Gras festival – one of the biggest celebrations of gay people on the planet, that is attended by hundreds of thousands from Australia and abroad – was upon us. To me it seemed like the whole city saw this as one almighty excuse to get blind drunk. Main streets were closed off with scores off colourfully dressed people flocking to Oxford Street – the gay suburb – to watch the vast array of floats and acts that were performing, though thankfully none of these were of a sexual nature. Well, none that were taking place on the street in broad daylight that I could see anyway.
I had never witnessed so many unusual costumes or homosexuals congre
gated in a single area before and so, cautiously, I made my way through the city with Greg and some others from the hostel to see what all the fuss was about after being told it was a “must see” event. I didn’t seem to have the same rampant enthusiasm that everyone else did, however.
Stopping off at various bars before the parade, we swung by a place that was heaving full of drag queens. I assumed that it wasn’t deemed too masculine to drink beer on such a day and gingerly placed my order. While waiting I felt the eyes of a giant man-come-woman stood near me. I focused on the bar in front of me, desperate to avoid any eye contact in case I was apprehended. I clenched my buttocks and put my hands in my back pockets before bracing myself. And as sure as night turns to day, the inevitable approach soon followed. “Hello darling,” came the overly flirtatious voice behind me, before I felt a gentle rubbing on my arm.
Under attack, I knew the best thing I could do was not give him/her any hope. I stood torturously waiting for what felt like an eternity for my beer, before I was struck by the next wave of attack. “Oooo cute bottom Mr,” the voice said cheekily, before I felt a squeeze on my right buttock. That was it. This was going too far, even for someone as liberal as me. I had no choice but to stand my ground. “Do you mind sexually assaulting me?” I raged, before turning round to see a drag queen with seven-inch heels towering over me like I was a small dwarf.
I didn’t much fancy my chances of emerging alive if things turned nasty, so cooled my rant and opted for a daring stare instead. “Oooo darling I would love to sexually assault you. If only you would let me?” the strange voice responded. I felt like a bit of meat. But then, thank god, my beer was ready. I grabbed it and walked quicker then I had ever walked, leaving my admirer shouting at me as I motored away, still clutching my buttocks.
After drinking my beer in a state of deep anxiety, while maintaining a high alert and ensuring my behind remained firmly against the wall, we waited for what seemed like hours for the parade, which frankly, I couldn’t have given a shit about, especially having been violated by one of their members in the bar. Even when the show began it was almost impossible to see anything through the sea of bodies, while squashed on the side of the street as opulent drag queens flaunted and flirted their way through the crowds. I was not having the best of times. But when told by a policeman to pour my bottle of beer away as it was not permitted on the street, that was the final straw. Not wanting to waste any more of my life looking at giant dolled-up men dressed as women, I made my excuses and wandered off, before finding the comfort of my own space and several scooners of beer in a side street pub.
It took me a good day to recover from Mardi Gras – both mentally and physically. But in an attempt to cleanse myself I knew I had to get back on the wagon and put aside all fearful thoughts of drag queens, before hitting the city the following night. After drinking at the hostel we made our way into city, where we found ourselves stood outside the heaving Cheers Bar on the corner of Liverpool Street when a taxi pulled up outside. The window wound down. “Hey lads you fancy coming to this place we know,” a drunk, dishevelled woman who must have been in her late 50s shouted, appearing to look in our direction. I glanced behind me, before realising the question was indeed directed at us. I assumed she was one of Greg’s friends, especially as by the time I had a chance to look round at him he was half in the car. “What are you doing?” I asked him in amazement.
“Come on Steven it will be fun,” Greg insisted.
“You know her right?” I whispered.
“No,” Greg said with a grin on his face.
“Oh brilliant, here we go,” I muttered as I boarded the taxi to god knows where, half expecting to be taken to a desolate place before being robbed and murdered.
After a short journey we arrived at a strange local bar on the outskirts of the city where everyone seemed to be staring menacingly at us as we entered. Greg, unsurprisingly, got a drink and immediately went off with the odd lady. Before long he was lobbing her about on the dance floor in his customary way. Meanwhile I got cornered by a bearded alcoholic propping up the bar who began to tell me his life story, that largely centred around his drug addiction that started when he became a teenager. I nodded politely for a solid hour, hoping that eventually he would become bored of his own voice.
As the night unfolded in this sinister place, the only surprise was that I avoided an unjust beating from one of the onlooking hostile patrons, many of whom seemed to be bikers, with arms as wide as my thighs. Not enjoying the vibe or the company in the place I pulled off a minor miracle when persuading Greg we leave while the woman had popped to the toilet, with the New Zealander therefore foregoing whatever delights he may have had coming from her. As we sped through the city after hauling down a taxi I decided I couldn’t carry on like this and needed to make drastic changes in my new backpacker-style life.
My worst fear was realised the following day when I returned to the room to discover my backpack was no longer there. Strangely, Greg’s stuff had been taken as well. To add to the confusion the door was wide open and the cleaners had changed all the beds. Something was going on. I feared it may have something to do with Greg’s non-show for work - again.
When the Kiwi turned up, bleary eyed, we bumbled down the stairs to have it out with reception. Or rather Greg did. I thought it better if I stayed out the way. I hung back around the corner pretending I was looking at the notice board as my friend proceeded to work his magic. However, it didn’t seem to be going too well for him. “You haven’t paid any rent yet and still haven’t done the IT work we asked of you,” a female voice snarled. “We’ve got all the stuff locked away and have changed the lock to the room. You can have your belongings when you either pay us or do the work you’re meant to do.” It began to kick in that, just as I had suspected, Greg was not quite on top of things as he had been suggesting. But more importantly I now knew they had my backpack, including my passport and valuables.
There was, though, a window of opportunity to regain my possessions when Greg, after much begging, was granted the opportunity to get his stuff and go to a new room. But only after the aggressive woman insisted he handed over his passport, presumably as a precaution against the wily Kiwi absconding without payment.
The frothing female, who I could only assume was the manager, ordered a handyman with keys to the storage room to let Greg get his stuff. Sensing my opportunity, I slyly followed them both down, where a door was unlocked. I was staggered by the amount of backpacks and bags sprawled across the room floor, which made walking about as easy as if you were embarking on an army assault course. “They confiscate a lot of people’s stuff, “ I said under my breath, before realising this was in fact the area where travellers had paid to leave their stuff, or could drop it for a few hours while waiting to depart.
To my surprise the man with the keys – a six foot plus northern Englishman, who was as round as he was tall – made his way over to a corner of the area where he unlocked another, far smaller room. “Ah this must be the confiscated storage,” I mumbled, as I casually sauntered over, pretending I was a random lost soul who happened to be trying to locate his misplaced luggage. I completely ignored Greg, making sure I made absolutely no eye contact in order to preserve the false impression that I did not know him. After all, if he was going down then I was damned if he would take me with him, especially after he had put me in this predicament by not fulfilling his obligations.
With the hefty Englishman twiddling on his phone and Greg lumbering about at the pace of a stoned giant, I nipped into the small room where I spotted my hideous backpack on a rail. I had never been so happy to see this glorified dustbin bag. I discreetly grabbed it, not even bothering to put it on my back. Instead, holding it firmly with both of my hands - like you would a newborn baby - and marched out, repeatedly defying gravity by not falling over all the backpacks along the way. I briefly met eyes with the handyman, who performed a suspicious second take in my direction. I wished him a good day and steamed
past, thus preventing a possible interrogation about who I was and what the hell I was doing emerging from the confiscated storage cupboard with a backpack.
After using every fibre of muscle to climb the stairs, I finally made it to the top. With sweat pouring down my face, I took in a gulp of musky air and checked the coast was clear, before slowly easing my way past reception and out of the hostel without anyone blinking an eye. I had made it.
I had left as I had arrived: perplexed and in considerable discomfort. The only difference being that I was now officially homeless in a far away land, an issue I would need to address with some urgency, unless I fancied sleeping rough on a park bench.
Chapter 4 – Homeless
With all the non-stop drinking and exploring I had been engaged in since I swept into the country I had almost forgotten I had a sister living a few blocks away. Being homeless, this seemed like the ideal time to get in touch and have a catch up. I explained my predicament to her on the phone before being invited over to the nearby apartment block by Central station where she was staying with her boyfriend. And, as I quickly realised, an army of other people. They were in a two bed apartment that overlooked the city. But there must have been at least 12 others that lived in this grubby excuse of a flat, which came complete with thick mould and dirt - not least on the pile of unwashed plates and pans that had food scolded fiercely onto them from previous months.
With all the bodies everywhere, I thought I was back in an 18th century British halfway house for a second, especially as each of the rooms had two bunk beds. With four in each room, it meant there was an impressive eight individual’s sleeping within the space of a few feet, plus any guests or partners that would frequently be over as well. Then, there was a further two staying on the couch in the lounge.
This was the natural progression of a backpacker, I was told: you start off slumming it in hostels where you meet people, before branching out into the luxury of an apartment. But as far as I could see it was simply living just as you would in a hostel, but in a flat with people that, on the whole, were not all total strangers. Where you would normally see a stranger’s bare arse hanging out while they were asleep, this was merely replaced with the buttocks of someone you knew.
