by Steve Deeks
It was getting harder to hear yourself as on stage a bunch of intellectually challenged male backpackers were attempting to outdo a couple of Olympic female athletes – or at least they looked like they were compared to the chubby, uncoordinated, beer slurping male oaths - playing the “how low can you go?” game, otherwise known as limbo dancing. And all this to win a trip to the Blue Mountains, which you could happily pay for yourself with a few bucks, without having to endure such pain and humiliation.
Every round that you survive, the pole gets lowered slightly until your legs buckle and you are left crumpled on the stage with your head by your groin, or some other variation, as the men, one by one, were here, leaving me shaking my head, unable to hide my disgust. “They know they’re not going to beat that skinny gymnast who was doing the splits in the warm up.”
“Calm down old man,” Mark replied.
Finally, after having Reggae music and some twerp on the microphone blasted into my ear for a good hour, it came down to the finalists, which not so surprisingly was the two girls whom you could have bet your house on being there in the first place. Inevitably it was the female who performed perfect horizontal splits that took the prestigious award. As she was handed her prize I felt moved to stand up from my chair close to the stage and perform a loud and hearty clap to acknowledge my appreciation of her valiant efforts and, indeed, the glittering competition as a whole. Not long after, once my chocolate cocktails had been finished, it was time for bed. I couldn’t wait to get back to my room.
I woke up feeling like a herd of elephants had just trampled over me, but still nonetheless a good deal better than I did the previous evening. I knocked myself up some scrambled eggs on toast, which someone had thoughtfully left out for me, before paying a sizeable chunk of my life savings to use the internet for half an hour. Just as I was replying to an email from home informing me that I would be taken to court unless I paid an extra £500 for my flat’s service charge within three days, despite having already paid £450, my session suddenly expired. With no further change on me I returned to the room to get my wallet, but on my way back was unable to find it having looked in my rucksack and on my bed where I thought I had left it. At this point I instinctively knew Mark and the Scousers were behind it going missing, though getting them to hand it over proved more difficult. “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” came the reply.
I was kicking myself that I had left myself open for a revenge attack and was forced to grind it out for two hours until the German girl, Sarah, handed it back to me, much to my relief. I checked everything was inside it as normal. “Good job you had it and not the Scousers, otherwise there wouldn’t be any cash left in here,” I joked, only to be met by a blank face (on reflection I’m not sure if Germans are fully aware of the English thieving stereotype I was hinting at, let alone the slang name for that particular region of the country). I walked casually back in the room where the Scousers and Mark were and continued the banter. “That must have gone against every instinct in your bodies not to take those notes out my wallet,” I told Becky and Kate triumphantly, safely clutching my wallet.
As time continued to tick by everyone gradually started leaving. Myself and Mark said goodbye to the Scousers after one final check that none of our stuff had been stolen by them and went and sat with the Swedes, Ben and some other people who looked like they had seen better days. As I peered through the glass into the bar area the miserable tour organiser was giving the identical speech about safety – in particular the council stitching him up by making them supervise more because people had been dying - that he had given to us three days earlier. Now I realised why he was so fed up. After all, it would get monotonous doing that every day of your life, especially when you know that as soon as your back is turned the “little shits” would do as they pleased anyhow.
We packed our stuff into the car and climbed aboard Stevo once more, taking up our uncomfortable positions in the overloaded vehicle. We had all reverted to type with Mark driving, myself in the front and the Swedes and Julie, whom we had nearly left behind after forgetting about, in the back. Back on the road once more we headed south.
Chapter 8 – Noosa Heads
We rolled into Noosa Heads and pulled up on the side of the road before gingerly dismounting while trying to avoid being knocked down by vehicles on the busy street. Wandering across the road lost and disorientated we stumbled across the tourist information centre where we were given directions to some of the nearby camping sites. Before heading off in search of shelter we decided to take it easy for a bit and walked through a short pathway that brought us out onto the beach. It was a surprisingly small enclave predominately designed, it seemed, for surfers. Though there was a splattering of people sitting on the narrow beach watching the impressively sized waves crashing in as surfers and body borders made the most of the murky conditions, which were rapidly deteriorating as drizzle began to sprinkle down. After opting, somewhat oddly perhaps, for some ice cream - and with the rain worsening - we decided to go and find somewhere to stay. “This beach is shit,” Sam observed as we left, summing up the mood.
Having been advised there would be nowhere near the centre on our measly budget, which even by backpacker standards would make a homeless man look wealthy, we ventured further afield to seek refuge for the night as twilight was setting in. We stopped off at four places, undergoing the annoying ritual of parking up around the corner to let the Swedes and Julie hop out, before Mark and myself went to reception to see if they had some spare land for us to pitch up our tent - as long as it came within our strict budget conditions of $7 for the night, of course.
I was never really sure why I went in with Mark to reception on these occasions, as he and I both fully knew he would be the one doing the talking while I skulked around in the background. I think the modus operandi behind it was that by my being present I gave a sense of added credibility to our sinister operation, as if to prove to these gullible fools that there was just two of us looking to stay rather than five, which would have proved prohibitive for our enforced limited means by doubling our costs. Still, I was sure that despite the credit crunch we could have afforded the extra $7 a night. Nonetheless, by now, I fully understood the group culture and was very much committed to its pre-eminent cause of going to extreme lengths to save money wherever and however possible, even if it was just a dollar, before then celebrating wildly like we’d scooped the national lottery jackpot.
Our austerity, however, as well as bringing great pride to us all, also provided tangible benefits, such as bonus biscuits, burgers and sausages that we wouldn’t otherwise have splashed out on had it not been for all those seven dollars or so we had saved from each camping site we had duped. For this reason I happily overlooked the short term aggravation and potential humiliation of participating in this strategy should we be caught red-handed in the invidious predicament of having lied and cheated to avoid paying a meagre bit of a throw away change, which worked out as about the same amount as buying a scooner and a half of beer. And between five of us it’s fair to say that paying this extra wager wouldn’t have broken the bank, with each of us only having to stump up an extra dollar and a half on top of the dollar and a half we had already paid.
Our search for somewhere to stay wasn’t going very well with everywhere fully booked. But as we pulled up at the fifth camp site feeling tired and restless, the prospect we may have to pitch our tents up on someone’s garden was beginning to look more appealing by the second, especially as there were strict signs everywhere warning people they could face a lifetime prison sentence, or be stoned to death for camping on perfect open grass areas (Ok I may be exaggerating a bit but I got the distinct impression you didn’t want to be messing with the camping police).
After strolling up to the campsite we were told there was space, leaving myself and Mark in a state of near delirium before our excitement was crushed as we were told a space would cost a whopping
$9. “Just a minute,” Mark said to the receptionist, as we turned away and huddled round to discuss whether to take the extortionate offer that was available or try our luck at the umpteenth place – that’s if there was one within 100 miles, of course. “I’m not sure mate, it’s a lot of money. We normally get it for two dollars less than that,” Mark added anxiously.
It was undoubtedly a strong argument and I couldn’t deny we would be paying over the odds, but the harsh reality was that this was the first place we had found where there was space. “Look, I think we should take it,” I declared boldly, as the receptionist was beginning to look at us like we were slightly demented. “I know it’s a lot more than we normally pay but individually it only works out as just under an extra fifty cents each. Otherwise we might have to camp on someone’s back garden.” Grudgingly, Mark agreed and handed over the cash to the receptionist. He looked gutted but ultimately knew it had to be done. “We didn’t have a choice. You win some you lose some,” I said reassuringly.
“Bloody rip-off merchants,” he hissed, as we drove round to our spot and started to unpack.
With rain now bucketing it down, it wasn’t long before thunder and lightening followed as we raced around in the dark to get our tents up before they became wringing wet, especially with mini flooding gushing down two footpaths just feet from us. Having checked the sturdiness of our tent we sprinted the short distance to the outdoor shelter and kitchen area where we ruffled up our traditional dish of hot dogs and burgers.
As we munched down our food and started to feel vaguely replenished it was agreed that we would have a few drinks before checking out the local nightlife scene. Yearning for something other than goon or beer we agreed we should go for something that could actually be enjoyed and opted for milk chocolate with vodka. We already had the hot chocolate powder but needed vodka and milk, so without any delay, with the rain slightly relenting, we went to the site’s shop and purchased our goods and then started making our lovely concoctions, which we poured into our large cups. Mark, being unusually restrained, wasn’t coming out with us while Simon was in the shower; so myself, Sam and Julie got started with the drinking. I took my first swig and nearly spat it out with it tasting like half my cup had been filled up with the spirit. I poured some more chocolate powder and milk into the cup and found the blend far more agreeable.
“Skol…tastes good,” Sam said, raising his large cup looking like a man who couldn’t have been happier with life.
“Ummm very good,” I replied, banging my cup into his. Julie looked like she was having a good time too and said something to testify her delight, or at least we assumed she had. Nonetheless, she seemed to be enjoying herself as she got stuck into her chocolate vodka.
We were into our second drinks when Simon appeared. Determined to make up for lost time he poured himself a cupful with a healthy lump of chocolate and began slurping away like a man who had been stranded without water on a desert for days. Before long he was on his second one and by the time we were on our third cups so was he. “You’re enjoying this drink?” I observed.
“Beeeaaauuuutiful,” he replied raising his cup, before knocking back some more. Although I hadn’t been convinced that milk and vodka would go together I had no hesitation now, especially being a chocolate fiend, which made all the difference. And with my tastes buds now barely noticing the vodka it was like drinking milk shakes.
The Swedes suggested we go to a nearby backpackers venue, which was where Ben and a load of others from the Fraser Island trip would be. “I wonder if there will be lots of cheesy music and dancing on tables?” I said dryly, unable to hold back my mocking of the plethora of identical travellers’ bars. As we were a few miles away from the place Mark kindly drove us down, with spirits now particularly high, especially considering we had just been on a tiring three day tour that had left our livers on the point of collapse. As we approached the centre, Simon, now transformed into a force of nature, was showcasing his bare buttocks out of the window, while Sam and myself were using various forms of sign language to communicate with those on the street. Julie was singing the words to a strange song and was being encouraged by Simon to join him in revealing flesh. “Come on, get them out…it will be fun,” he urged but she was not budging.
We arrived at the place and jumped out of Stevo. “Thanks dad,” we shouted to Mark and made our way purposely towards the entrance, avoiding all eye contact with the bouncers in case they took a dislike to us, which wouldn’t have been difficult, before striding to the bar. Simon, in particular, was like a man possessed as he pushed through a crowd of backpackers and forced his way to the front, leaving a trail of angry looking people in his wake. “Five vodka and lemonades and five vodkas and coke,” he shouted demandingly to the bar maid above the loud music. She looked at him curiously before smiling and pouring out the drinks. “Can I have five tequila shots as well,” Simon then added, in a deadpan voice. The girl’s look now turned to one of sorrow. “Is he ok?” she said to me.
“He’s alright, don’t worry not all the drinks are for him,” I replied reassuringly with a fatherly roll of the eyes.
Unfortunately my attempts to disarm her fears were not helped when the Swede then knocked back each one of his tequilas like a cowboy out of a Wild West film. I shrugged my shoulders and grabbed some of the drinks while ushering the Swede quickly away from the bar in case she realised she had significantly breached the Australian government’s Responsible Service of Alcohol law. By my reckoning there couldn’t have been a more open and shut case in history than this one but somehow Simon, with my support, had pulled it off.
We found Sam after pushing through a sea of sweaty bodies. He was with Ben and several others jiving on the busy dance floor. Armed with all his drinks Simon excitedly thrust his way into the centre of the group, assuming the role of hero with his vast array of concoctions taking on the role of medals. He continued pouring the alcohol down his throat as if it were water. “He’s thirsty,” Sam joked.
“It’s good to refresh yourself,” I replied, as we stood back and watched Simon rip up the dance floor.
Suddenly out of nowhere while bouncing about like a human bumper car he brought out what could only be described as a Nazi style dance; whereby two fingers were put above his lip while his arm stretched out in the salute position. All while he continued knocking people flying. It was hard to know what was going through his head but I could only imagine the presence of Ben and a variety of other Germans had sparked something that somehow made it seem like the obvious thing to do.
Before long, those within the group had caught the bug and were doing the “Nazi Dance” too, including Ben and his fellow countrymen, much to my surprise. It was a sight I never thought I would see. I rubbed my eyes to seek confirmation I was not imagining it, before shrugging my shoulders and piling in to the thick of things with Sam. Even those outside of our immediate gathering were now imitating the dance as its popularity spread like wildfire across the dance floor, including to the stage where some of the revellers now were.
It was a surreal sight and to say Simon was enjoying the spotlight would have been the understatement of the century, as he bobbed around like a cockerel on amphetamines, accidentally elbowing people in the face and landing on their sandal wearing bare feet. A gap in the centre of the dance floor had been created, allowing him to bounce his way through the middle still saluting, much to everyone’s delight, as all about him clapped in time.
The rigours of his dancing, though, forced the Swede to take a breather and get some more drinks. He knocked down a couple more shots and what appeared to be a straight vodka – I hoped it might have been water but judging by the grimace I think it’s safe to say it was at least 40 per cent proof alcohol – and then made his way to the toilet. I felt like an overprotective parent and followed him as he made his way with all the balance of a toddler who had just taken his first steps. Committing a clear stumble just as
we approached the bouncers, before exiting the main room, I thought there was no way they would let him back in. But they must have fallen for my falsely outraged facial expression as I looked at the carpet and attempted to convince them the blame for the stumble was due to the grimy floor as opposed to Simon being blind drunk.
Looking like someone who no longer knew his own name, the Swede was standing at the urinal swaying like he had just got back to his feet after being knocked down in a boxing fight. He was spraying pee everywhere but the basin and visibly irritated a couple of men next to him when he accidentally soaked their shorts after a wobble. Fortunately, though, they were French and were not prepared to take things further.
We came out of the toilet and headed back for the main room. But just as we approached the doormen Simon’s body had decided enough was enough and like a demolished building he gave way to gravity and, as if in slow motion, smashed his head against a wall as I caught him on the way down, preventing a further blow on the floor. “I think he’s had enough for tonight,” the towering doorman announced sternly.
“Yeah one too many,” I said, as I dragged him outside having been forced to put my arm round him to support his far from lightweight body.
I foolishly thought the fresh air and getting him to lean against a wall would soon sober him up, despite the fact he had lost the ability to speak. “Simon, you ok?” I asked. But his eyes were rolling around uncontrollably. If he was aware of my presence then he was doing a very good job not to show it. Suddenly just as I thought things couldn’t get any worse, they did. A sea of projectile vomit poured from his mouth and lashed against the wall before he collapsed in a puddle from his own insides and curled up into the foetus position. “Simon, come on get up, you’re lying in your own puke,” I said urgently, knowing it would take a miracle to get him on his feet again. My fears were confirmed when he angled his head away from me and covered his face. It was not the response I had hoped for and gave the strongest impression yet that he would be in this heap for some considerable time.