The East Coast Road Trip

by Steve Deeks

  Just as I was beginning to relax into my drink the peace was suddenly shattered. “What the fuck are you doing with that?” Mark blasted after walking in on me filling up the cup. I gave him a look like he had two heads, as I was unable to speak at that precise moment. I politely offered him some, but this time he looked at me with sorrow etched on his face. With a despairing shake of his head he trudged off.

  Following lunch we made our way across a pathway of endless wooden planks that left your feet feeling like they had been stood on burning hot coals. To save my rapidly frazzling feet I sprang on to any available grass when possible in a bid to get across this spiralled stretch, while also employing lightening quick foot movements when reaching some shadow or damp patches, presumably from some random person’s wet feet. Though, even had it been urine I wouldn’t have cared as long as it cooled down my blistering heels.

  Despite my pain and suffering I was still immensely proud of myself that I didn’t have to resort to wearing flip flops, like many of the “men” in our gathering. For me it was better to have the bottom of my feet scorned and barely able to walk on than to suffer a lifetime of mental anguish from knowing that I resorted to putting on a female fashion accessory. For some strange reason a nearby German male with a spare pair of flip-flops, spotted my pain and quickly threw down his rubber sandals while motioning for me to put them on. But due to my fierce pride I instantly declined, putting my hand up boldly like a traffic policeman who was ordering someone to stop.

  The German looked at me with a mixture of sympathy and astonishment, as though I had been declared insane for preferring to have my feet burn than to take up his generous offer. It was certainly not the first time I had been on the receiving end of one of these quizzical looks from a logically minded European and it didn’t take a genius to figure out his rationale that it was better to wear something on your feet if it stops them getting grilled. But clearly he had underestimated the feeling of revulsion I had toward such offensive footwear. “The joke’s on you for being a girl wearing those hideous things,” I grimaced.

  After my Herculean effort across the burning planks, I dipped my feet rewardingly into the water’s edge and let out a sigh of relief from the agony I had just endured. As the pain subsided I began to focus on what was before me and acknowledged the appropriateness of its name the Champagne Whirlpool, as wave after wave came crashing against the wall, spilling over into our giant bath-like area, leaving thick froth and a strong current which felt like you were being sucked down a plughole. Thankfully the deepest part only came up to my neck so my chances of drowning were at least minimal. I had brought my rum and coke into the pool and cautiously sauntered about making sure I kept it above water level at all times.

  Most people were splashing about, though most were way back from the front where it was at its roughest. I spotted Mark, Sam and Ben and just as I was wondering where Simon was, especially as he had been so elusively engaged the previous night, I spotted a familiar sight with his blindingly white buttocks reflecting in the sun as he drifted head down beneath the surface, occasionally freaking out the odd random backpacker who was unfortunate enough to get his glowing bum in their face after the current had thrown them together. Remaining tight-lipped, the Swede refused to give anything away on what he had been up to the previous night. “Was it nice and cheesy down there?” Mark asked laughing like a girl.

  “I thought I could smell tuna fish I but it was you wasn’t it Simon?” I added, hoping to prise a nugget of information out of him. But nothing.

  An American football had appeared so the Swedes naturally stole it and began launching it at each other as hard as they possibly could. I put the remainder of my drink on a rock and joined in the fun as we monopolised the whirlpool leaving innocent bystanders getting hit on the head by errant throws. In such situations everyone would automatically turn away and giggle like a naughty school child at that person’s misfortune, while celebrating that whoever threw the ball had to go and collect it from nearby the angry person who had been struck, naturally inviting them to a mouthful of expletives.

  This particular game was no different, as a variety of easily offended people made their feelings known either in the form of murderous scowls or simply through good old fashioned language. “Fuck off you prick,” an English freckle faced ginger girl bellowed after being smacked square in the face, causing her a significant amount of pain and embarrassment.

  Suddenly, out of nowhere, I launched a rocket which slapped against Ben’s considerable back after he had foolishly turned away for a few seconds. Unfortunately, though, the ball just bounced off him like a balloon, such was his bulky German frame. Mark, on the other hand, clearly had a higher pain threshold and hitting him from close range often bought a girlish scream, which provided all the incentive that was needed to then do it again when he was looking away.

  Such a game provided so much fun and entertainment and reminded me of my school days when we used to play “boot ball”, where anyone who got smacked by the football was then forced to run for their life and make contact with the playground fence. If they didn’t then unfortunately for the hapless individual they would have half the boys from the year group hounding them like a pack of lions before demobilising them and sticking in some tasty boots that made you wince from just looking at it. People would walk – no make that limp - away from such a beating a broken individual, both emotionally and physically. The game’s obvious benefit was of course getting someone you didn’t like, but it was also greatly entertaining to watch the faces of innocent people from a year - sometimes two years - above getting hit by the ball and initially making the mistake to think they were not in the game, before quickly realising they very much were, whether they liked it or not.

  Suddenly a look of terror would appear on their faces when they realised a pack of snarling lads were charging toward them ready to dish out some lashings. And all for the vile crime of standing around talking to friends before getting a ball pinged against them. The game really was a great leveller; it didn’t matter who you were, nobody was immune and seeing some of the older boys humiliatingly run for their lives having tried to play it cool in front of the girls they were trying to impress never failed to bring a smile to our faces. Although our game in the Champagne Whirlpool could never match those dizzy heights it still shared the bonus of involving those innocently standing on the periphery minding their own business.

  Somewhat warn out from our high energy game we decided to relax for a bit in the fizzing water, before it was time to make our way back across the painful stretch of wooden planks to the trucks. I still had my rum and coke and although slightly regretting drinking it so early I poured another cup in the hope it would numb the recurring hangover pain I was now feeling having not had any for a while.

  We left in our convoy and after a short drive arrived at our next destination: a stream with healing fish. The place also had the distinctive benefit of some hutted toilets a short walk away. As the majority of people splashed about or studied the water I sensed my opportunity to finally relieve myself following my enforced constipation of nearly two days and casually wandered off when no one was looking. Thankfully there was no awkward queue where you have to partake in small talk as you frustratingly wait to unleash a turd of epic proportions. “So…you having a good time on the island?” you would say politely, expertly avoiding a potentially deafening silence.

  “Yes it’s a lot of fun. And you?” they would reply, somewhat distractedly, leaving you to then twiddle your thumbs before thinking of something else to say.

  “I really need a shit, it’s been two days nearly. What about you?”

  “Me too,” they would add, as if a huge weight has been lifted off their shoulders just through the mere fact of being able to talk about it. “Though it’s only been a day and a half for me. I can’t wait to get this beast out.” And then off you would both go to do what you had to do.

>   Fortunately I was spared this humiliation and couldn’t believe my luck as I sauntered into the empty toilet hut. People were fighting over the sparse number of toilets there were on this minimalist island at the other places we had stopped at so this really was a blessing. My patient waiting game had paid off and I was now ready to ambush the toilet without the added turmoil of having strangers overhearing my offloading. After blowing a kiss in the direction of God I opened the creaky wooden door and entered the murky room that was filled with cobwebs. My mind began to wonder with thoughts of what hideous killer spider had been in there or could be lurking. I peered down the toilet to make sure nothing with fangs was waiting beneath me and psyched myself up before getting down to business. I certainly didn’t hang about and without a second’s hesitation got out of there, scratching my back and head incessantly, in case a spider had nestled on me.

  I never thought in my entire life that I would long to use a hostel toilet and all that comes with it – urine, vomit, semen and a cluster of pubic hairs, as well as the outlines of a wide variety of people’s filthy cracks - but on this occasion I am not ashamed to say that I would have given anything to be in such luxury. The only good news was that this particular loo wasn’t suffering from a massive stockpile of poo, unlike the one I had seen the day before.

  I walked back toward the stream feeling like a new man, as well as feeling about half the weight I was before. Having got back to the water’s edge I noticed a string of people making their way to the toilet. The cat was out the bag now with people flocking to the cubicles to make the most of them. “Enjoy the queue,” I said to one, who had a poor grasp of English and just smiled in return. “You won’t be smiling in a minute,” I grinned smugly in return.

  Feeling especially proud of myself, I elected to announce to my friends that there was a secret toilet around the corner that no one was using and suggested that now was the ideal time to go while it was quiet. Simon and Ben, falling for it, immediately stomped off toward the hut. Sam and Mark had rightly decided not to trust me and were more than happy to join in the ribbing when Simon and Ben returned. “How was the toilet?” Sam asked cheekily.

  Simon wearily shook his head. “I thought you said no one was there? I had to queue for ages and then take a shit with everyone listening,” he said.

  “I couldn’t go knowing I had an audience. You are a bastard,” Ben said, pain etched on his face.

  “You must have got there too late because it was fine when I went in,” I smiled. “Oh well, just a day to wait now unless you go outside when we get back to the camp.”

  Ben grimaced. “My arse will explode by then.” I sensed his pain but felt grateful I was not him.

  We sat around on the edge of the stream laughing at some of the backpackers studiously pointing at the fish like they were aliens. Once everyone – apart from a cluster of geeks – were finally bored of this we headed for our trucks and made our way back to camp.

  Chapter 7 – Debauchery on Fraser

  Back at the tent I changed out of my filthy shorts and top into a pair of less dirty items after employing the sniff technique; a system whereby your nose allows you to measure just how disgusting the items are and if deodorant and aftershave are capable of masking the hideous odour. On this occasion it was touch and go, and the t-shirt still felt moist from the previous day’s sweat, but I elected to put the items on anyhow, as much for a change as anything else.

  It was other people’s turn to do the cooking tonight so I pulled up my portable camp chair and started lusciously swigging a beer. I was feeling tired from a day of drinking rum and was looking forward to having some food to sort me out, which arrived in good time. After scoffing down the chicken and potato meal quicker than an obese American eating a McDonalds, I felt like less of a corpse. Although it was my turn to help out with the washing I decided to leave this to others more deserving and sipped another beer before the drinking games – and goon - started again as darkness set in.

  With spirits high a bundle erupted between myself, Mark and the Scousers. I relished rubbing people’s heads into the sand and fending off the attempted onslaughts. As usual poor Mark bore the brunt of it all. I performed an elbow drop on his head before administering a solid knee to the back, which seemed to finish him off as he lay motionless face down in the sand. “Victory,” I declared with one foot resting on his face, positioned in a triumphant pose. I felt a bit sorry for Becky whose pair of glasses got smashed in the melee, rendering her virtually blind for the rest of the trip. “At least you’re only missing out on a morning of seeing stuff,” I said helpfully, doing my best to put a positive spin on matters and save myself some guilt.

  “Thanks Steve for that,” came the sarcastic, slightly miffed, response.

  “Well if you want to play with the big boys then you’ll get hurt,” I said, helping her to see that, in fact, it was really her fault. “I think it was Mark who broke them when he jumped on you though,” I added, attempting to soften the blow and divert attention away from me. Apportioning blame didn’t seem to make her feel any better but at least I could look in the mirror knowing I had tried.

  By now a load of campfires had been set up and people were huddled in groups drinking and chatting just like the night before. With no bars or clubs this was as good as it got with the nightlife. But people really were making the most of their limited options. An amorous couple, who had probably known each other for all of five minutes, had been spotted by Sam cementing their relationship just over a mound where they thought no one would see them.

  “Quickly come over here,” the Swede shouted. Instantly we all knew what was happening. After running over we were greeted by the sight of a white bottom glowing in the starlet sky while thrusting up and down between a woman’s legs. Turning to Mark I asked the obvious question, “Do you think that’s your Israeli girl from last night?”

  He paused with a look of deep concentration and manoeuvred his head to an angle to try and get a better look. “Nah she’s blond,” he said, eyes firmly focused on the action.

  “Yeah come to think about it, your one was a lot bigger,” I replied thoughtfully.

  Mark shrugged his shoulders, “I don’t care. I got my end away didn’t I?”

  If only we’d had some comfy chairs and popcorn it would have added to the experience but in Sam we had the next best thing, as he started filming on his mobile phone to capture the events. “I don’t think I will be showing this to my parents,” he said, as he shuffled a few steps to the side to get a better vantage point. Not wanting to miss out, Simon quickly pulled out his mobile phone and started recording like a veteran cameramen. “I think I will put this on the internet,” he said thoughtfully, as the female rolled over on top and began straddling the man.

  “She has a hairy arse no?” Ben asked bluntly.

  It was all getting too much for Mark, though, who had broken out into a sweat and was chewing like someone who had just overdosed on amphetamine. “Look at her go,” he said, saliva dripping from his mouth like a dog being teased of its bone.

  “Go and ask if you can join in then,” I suggested helpfully.

  “That’s not a bad idea,” he said rubbing his hands, as the man started indiscriminately slapping the woman’s bum. Seconds later a shocked bypassing couple also stumbled upon the horrific scenes before being pulled into watching.

  But with every passing second it was getting harder to repress the laughter and before long the sniggers had finally given way to a rendition of “we know what you’re doing.” Yet oddly the couple continued about their business as if they were in the privacy of their own home. Their blatant snub angered Ben, who by now had seen enough. Taking everyone by surprise he marched up to the gyrating male, who was now back on top, and whacked his bum with the back of his hand as hard as he could, resulting in a loud slapping noise that reverberated through the dark night. “What the fuck are you doing?” the man
squealed as he instantly jumped up, having gone from pleasure to agony and humiliation all in the space of a nanosecond.

  “I slap your bottom...why you ask?” Ben asked with a straight face, as if he had done nothing wrong.

  “Coz I haven’t finished you wanker,” the English freestyler yelled, pointing to the girl, before steadying himself and suddenly, taking everyone by surprise, throwing a right hook. And all this, I regretfully have to admit, with his manhood on display.

  Fortunately for Ben the pathetic power of the punch was aptly reflected by his downstairs package. It struck me as an unusual sight; a bare man who had just been in the midst of lust trying to fight a fully clothed individual. Unluckily for the sexual deviant, though, Ben was a lot bigger and blocked his soft jab before instantly knocking him to the ground. “You don’t hit me,” the German shouted, towering over the exposed man, whose humiliation was now utterly complete, particularly with his flaccid anatomy resembling a small chipalarter sausage. Amazingly though, perhaps out of sense of deep frustration and injustice, the man suddenly rallied and landed a solid kick on Ben’s leg, causing him to slightly wobble, before regaining his balance and squashing his victim’s head firmly into the sand.

  “Careful Ben, you don’t want to get spunk on your leg,” I shouted thoughtfully, showing commendable concern for my friend. This was always going to be one of the dangers of scrapping with an individual who had been nearing climax and, therefore, inevitably leaking like an oil can with a hole in it.

  The female, now covered up, looked stunned at how she had gone from being penetrated to suddenly being a figure of fun in front of a group of strangers. “You want me to finish you off love?” Mark, never one to miss an opportunity, kindly offered.