Hilarious Confessions of a Bewildered Backpacker

by Steve Deeks

  After doing enough rounds of drink to leave me in serious danger of collapsing, a group of us decided to hit the town. But such was my state of inebriation that my last recollection of the night was of me holding a heated discussion with a total stranger at the bar. For some reason I was lecturing him on how he had let himself down with his over-zealous drinking. Swaying like a small tree in a gale force wind, while banging my hand down forcefully to make my point, I demanded that he should take greater personal responsibility with his drinking. “What like you?” the cheeky individual countered, highlighting the irony of such a statement coming from someone who could barely stand up.

  “Ah yes,” I spluttered decisively, spraying saliva gloriously all across his face. “But I’m not a bell-end.” With the argument won I strolled off victoriously to the bar for another drink.

  That little chat was the last thing I could recall from the night as I woke up in a state of some disorientation. This was compounded as I wearily lifted my head and looked around wondering where I was before slowly realising that, for some bizarre reason, I was actually in the television room in the hostel where I had just fled the day before. Parts of my memory slowly started coming back from the previous night, as I remembered my phone running out of battery and then losing everyone, before deciding that my best option for shelter, unless under a cardboard box on the street, was to crash on the comfy bean bags in the television room of the hostel.

  As I sat up I noticed there were four others sprawled out. It appeared they too were not there to watch television, and were in fact also utilising the hostel’s amenities, which would have been a generous gesture by the place had they been aware of what was happening.

  To make matters worse Veiko was one of the people. After spotting me he was straight over, causing the pain in my head to worsen. “I’ve got no money so I’m staying in the TV room for a while,” he said slowly, in that crazy voice of his, eyes looking pained by his sorrowful existence. “Then I’m going to work on a farm. But if I can’t then I will punch someone so I can get arrested and they will deport me. At least I won’t have to pay for the flight home.”

  Unfortunately I found myself, yet again, stuck with the Finn. He informed me that Greg was now finally doing the IT work to pay off his debt to the hostel and would be heading up to Brisbane once he had served his time.

  After grabbing something to eat from the free food section in the kitchen and lazing about watching some of the worst television programs ever screened, boredom kicked in, inevitably prompting the purchase of a four litre box of goon and another afternoon and night of drinking. My plans to resolve my accommodation crisis had once again been shelved so I could get slaughtered.

  The pattern was repeated the following day as I woke in the TV room with the usual assortment of vagrants and drunks. Not wanting to go a third night of rough sleeping I declared that my major objective for the day was to find somewhere to stay and get out of the clothes I had been in for half a week – enough, I’m sure to have fully qualified me as homeless.

  During my drinking exploits, I had stumbled across a tacky old bar which proudly announced on a sign outside its grubby entrance as having the cheapest beers in Sydney – “Dirt cheap drinks all day every day,” it read proudly, or words to that effect, sending alcoholics across the city into a fever pitch of excitement. Intriguingly, there was also a sign for a hostel, no doubt equally as glamorous, above it. I figured this would make the ideal place for me to live.

  I made my way to the hostel where I approached reception. My hopes were quickly crushed after I was told there was no space for a couple of weeks. However, I could stay in their sister hostel down the road until then. At $20 a night it was one of the cheapest places around, so naturally I jumped at the chance to move in and reunite with a bed and shower.

  I made my way up the windy staircase and walked gingerly toward my room. It was at the end of a corridor where a TV and a few chairs were, which struck me as odd. I noticed a note on the wall, indicating that this area was in fact the TV room. With no space for a real television room they had imaginatively decided to dump a few chairs and a screen in the middle of a hallway. “Classy,” I thought, as it quickly began to sink in why it was just about the cheapest place around.

  To add to its uniqueness, it was eerily quiet and even though it was only midday there was a gloominess created by the serious shortage of windows and the economy light bulbs. I decided to take the plunge and enter my four bed dorm. Or I would have but for the fact I couldn’t figure out how to get in. Reception had given me a key card, which I reasoned went into the small slot by the handle. The only trouble was that every time I slipped it in there was nothing but a red light that showed. After a solid 20 minutes of frantically trying I was finally granted a green light and entered the room.

  I threw my backpack on the floor and looked around the room. It was basic but clean. There appeared to be two free beds so I opted for the one nearest the door in case I had to make a quick getaway from any perverts. No one was there so I took the opportunity of peering out the window, with it somehow feeling like a massive luxury to have a view. But as I stuck my head out of the window I realised it was not. In every direction I looked there was nothing but towering concrete buildings, including one overlooking me. The only difference between staying in this room and being in prison was that at least prison was free. And quite possibly had better views.

  I went out to the hallway to use the bathroom when I noticed two strange women who were speaking secretively in French. One had several rings through her nose, while the other had a skinhead. When they started putting their tongues done each other’s throat it dawned on me that they were lesbians. I quickly moved on to the kitchen area, which looked like no one had washed up or cleaned for several months. The plates had stale food on them and rubbish was spread around the room. As if that wasn’t bad enough I spotted three cockroaches on the floor, revelling in the filth of the place.

  After three days without a wash I psyched myself up and headed for the shower. I luxuriated in the dribbling water, cleansing myself both physically as well as psychologically, in the hope I could rid myself of some of the mental scars I had acquired from this primitive existence I now found myself in. My relative enjoyment under the hose was rudely interrupted when yet another cockroach appeared from beneath the shower, and began meandering dangerously close to my foot. I flicked a bucket load of water in its direction forcing the little fucker to scuttle off.

  Feeling slightly less filthy I climbed cautiously out of the shower and made my way via the television room/corridor with nothing more than my towel on for protection, where a selection of assembled odd guests were sitting around. I thought about revealing my hairy backside to them all, as a kind of protest against the hostel, but decided against it after fearing it may have sent out the wrong signals to a couple of the watching men. Plus they knew what room I was in now and you could never be sure what kind of types inhabit such a seedy hovel.

  Not wanting to dwell in the hostel I quickly changed and went out for a walk. I returned a couple of hours later with it dark outside. But as it was only 8pm I was somewhat taken aback that the light was already off in the room, with a guy in the far top bunk happily snoring away. It occurred to me that this may not be much of a party room. Indeed, the hostel itself, where people were rarely spotted and didn’t dare speak above a whisper, led me to believe that this whole place had less life than a morgue.

  As I scrambled desperately about the room in the pitch black with nothing more than my tiny crap mobile phone as a light, I rummaged through my bag to find my contact lens solution as peacefully as I could, in fear of disturbing the sleeping beauty in the corner. It was a strange scenario and, as a newcomer to the hostel world, I wondered what the etiquette was in such circumstances. After all it was relatively early and still daylight outside so was I entitled to switch the light on, or would this have breached the other guy’s apparent right having been in the room first? Con
versely was it acceptable to inflict a totalitarian style of rule over the others, as this guy was doing to everyone else? Or was it the case that the democratic will of the majority would prevail in such circumstances?

  Above and beyond this there were a myriad of other issues to contend with, such as, was it ok for me to hang my tops over the bar that separated the top and bottom bunks? Could I speak on the phone when others were in the room and could hear the entire conversation? And what about sex? Was it permitted in the room when others were there? Or was there a code of conduct, such as where slow quiet lovemaking was allowed, but loud energetic sex was outlawed when others were present? Although I had already had my eyes opened to some of the antics that went on, it was clear this was a very different environment. And in any case the room didn’t have Greg, who in fairness was a bit of a one off.

  I had already taken the decision that unless the room was empty I would not change into a pair of boxer shorts, as I didn’t particularly want to expose my lower regions to a host of strangers who may come storming into the room at any one time. Even if no one was about it became pretty apparent that you could not afford to dawdle or miss the hole you put your legs through, as it was likely you may stumble and fall, being left to roll around humiliatingly like a beach whale on the floor nakedly stranded as one of your roommates enter. To share such personal activities that you would normally do in the confines of your own private room with total strangers was not something everyone could handle. Myself included. But here I was in amongst a raft of perverts, thieves and god only knew what else.

  It wasn’t for a couple of days before I finally spoke to someone in the room. An awkward silence descended as a large skinhead guy, aged about 40, walked in late that afternoon. I sat on my bed trying to look busy while he got changed out of his workman’s attire. All eye contact had been avoided at all costs, before we both accidentally caught each other’s glare, prompting a manly raising of our eyebrows in acknowledgement of one another. This was masculine etiquette and allowed us to communicate through non-verbal means that could not be mistaken for a homosexual advance. Not that I have anything against those who like to brown the wicket, as it were, it’s just I wouldn’t want to be mistaken as someone who bats for the other team.

  He sparked up a conversation after spotting a football shirt by my bag. It was a safe subject and put us at ease, as we got to know each other. Just like Greg, Troy, as he was known, was also a big Kiwi. But rather than having a dumb look about him he had a psychotic gaze in his eyes. Apart from the obvious fact that he was not someone to mess with, he was actually a friendly bloke. He had a wicked sense of humour, too, with it soon apparent he disliked just about everyone. “We had this filthy stinking guy - think he was from Pakistan or somewhere - in here a few weeks ago who sucked all the fresh oxygen out of the place with his stench. I told him, ‘You better go before I make you go’. It seemed to do the trick”. He shook his head as he recalled the painful memory, before revealing he had also held a Chinese man captive in the room, who he caught going through other people’s stuff, until the police arrived and took him away after finding numerous stolen credit cards on him.

  Quirky and enigmatic, he was a fountain of anecdotes and useless information and before long he was giving me the benefit of his experiences of living in Sydney and all the various nuances and customs that Australia – “Our fifth state”, he stated without flinching – had. Topics ranged from beer to immigration and cheese. Suddenly, he pulled something out of his bag. “You want some Coon Cheese,” he said, with a straight face, showing me a block of cheese with such a title. I was speechless that there could be such a brand. “Told you the Aussies are thick fuckers,” he continued, looking smug at getting one over on his local rivals.

  This Australian stereotype of being obscenely laidback was further bolstered when listening on one occasion to a prime time radio station where the presenters were repeatedly swearing – “Mick you silly fuck head,” one said casually. However, one female broadcaster did take things a step too far when she called someone “a cunt” on live air during a breakfast show. Naturally, she was only given a slap on the wrist and told to tone it down a bit by her producer. In England she would have been sacked as soon as she put down the microphone and never worked in radio again, as well as being disowned by anyone who ever had anything remotely to do with her. Yet I found the casual liberalism a breath of fresh air, especially coming from the UK where you couldn’t cough without offending the majority of the population.

  Troy went on to tell me a couple had moved in just before I had arrived, with his eyes lighting up with delight that they were rarely about. Perhaps they had sensed this wasn’t really the place for romance, unless they had a death wish. However, the next day I was lying on my bed waiting to go to sleep when the couple came into the room and climbed on their bed and began whispering. Warning signals were beginning to go off in my head as I attempted to get to sleep, though after what Troy had told me I didn’t feel in too much danger of anything untoward happening.

  But sadly my confidence was badly misplaced, as after a few minutes, just when I had convinced myself they were playing safe and not indulging in anything more than a gentle fumble below the sheets, I suddenly got wind of a very slow but definite rhythmical squeaking noise that was emanating suspiciously from their bed. I desperately tried to pretend I couldn’t hear anything, before forcing myself to think it was a random noise from the building. But as the bouncing became more vigorous - with the odd quiet groan thrown in for good measure - I could not deny it any more.

  I felt strangely violated. Not in a physical way, thankfully, but in a mental capacity. There I was one minute happily minding my own business before suddenly being thrown into the intimate depravity of a strange couple I did not know. I wasn’t handing over my hard earned $20 a night to be thrust into a voyeur porn movie. Not without my permission, at least. I had certainly endured my fix of such scenarios, having heard my older sister having sex many times – it was impossible for our friends and I not to, even if we were a couple of rooms away. I found this equally repugnant. There was just something quite creepy about knowing two complete strangers’ genitalia were in direct contact just a few feet away from your head, with the guilty pair being totally at ease with you being in attendance.

  Nonetheless, I gave the couple the benefit of the doubt as they were clearly trying to keep noise to a minimum, therefore showing some appreciation of their surroundings, which counted in their favour when weighing up whether to launch a shoe in their direction or not. It struck me that it wasn’t the cleverest thing doing to do it above Troy, who must have been gently rocking to their sweet rhythm. But fortunately for the pair Troy was a deep sleeper and was oblivious to the sordid happenings. Having put a pillow over my face I eventually drifted off to sleep.

  I recounted my experience to Troy the next day. He rolled his eyes, not impressed at such liberties being taken. “If I’m awake or catch them doing it while I’m here, I’ll sling one up her too,” he declared, eyes bulging out of his head.

  In amongst drinking, exploring and surviving hostel life, I had gradually developed a routine of sorts and was doing some football coaching for an academy and a school to help slow down my leaking bank balance – a reality all backpackers inevitably face. Deep down, though, I knew that with the way I was throwing away money I would have to do more than just a few hours a week of this.

  My boss was a Chilean with the apt name of Franco, though I do not believe he was any relation to the notorious former Spanish dictator. He was a strange dichotomy: uncompromising and arrogant one minute and the next he couldn’t do enough for you. Living in Australia for 30 years, this round shaped man was, frankly, a bit mad. And that’s being generous.

  After my first training session he had kindly offered to give me a lift back to the city. While in heavy traffic waiting for a green light he suddenly demanded I open the door and hop out his van to look under a seat and try and find a pen so I
could write down my address. “Go. Get out. Find pen. Go now,” he shouted aggressively, leaving my ear bells ringing, and with little choice but to jump out onto the packed freeway with vehicles as far as you could see, revving as the lights began to change. When I jumped back inside - having narrowly avoided getting mowed down by a tsunami of motorists - he grabbed my jaw with a vice like grip. “When we have problem…we find solution,” he snorted, before patting me so hard on the cheek that I was left with an effervescent red slap mark.

  Times were hard with cash but I was already beginning to question whether they were so hard that I had to do this job. In a bizarre way I knew he meant well, but as hard as I tried, I couldn’t escape the burning truth; that he was a bit of a prick. As we made our way into the city he slightly redeemed himself when he announced that I would be taking a privileged role in the academy. “You look after the good players yes, don’t worry about the spastic players,” he said nonchalantly. As honoured as I was that he thought so highly of me I was getting the impression Franco was not too concerned with political correctness.

  Despite this, just as I knew they would, things inevitably went down hill very quickly between us. At the next training session, in front of mums and dads, Franco gave me a public dressing down for starting training one minute late; all because I had to persuade a bunch of massive rugby players to leave the pitch that we were meant to be training on. “Steven, you start the fucking training session late, this is no good for me. Never again,” he yelled while exasperatedly waving his arms around. “Fuck off you fat tosser,” I mumbled angrily in return.