The East Coast Road Trip

by Steve Deeks

  Mark appeared to be coming out of his slumber when suddenly there was a stern male voice from outside, followed by an abrupt patting on the tent. “Open up, open up,” the deep voice demanded. We both looked at each other anxiously, as a sense of foreboding came over us. “Come on open up, I know you’re inside,” he continued, his patience running out.

  We knew he wasn’t going away and that we’d have to face the music. “Ok just coming,” we mumbled tiredly and slowly unzipped the tent before climbing out wearily. Standing there authoritatively was a bearded male in uniform wearing dark sunglasses. I immediately noticed an emboldened badge on his shirt saying “Ranger”. We were in trouble. My worst fear had been confirmed. I now realised why all the other campers had left so early; they wanted to avoid being in trouble with the local authorities.

  I felt disgusted at myself for not acting on my instincts and getting everyone up to leave. “You do know this is a no camping area,” the ranger said firmly, pointing in the direction of a sign.

  “No sorry we had no idea,” Mark replied apologetically, trying to charm his way out of the scenario.

  I backed up this up with a bit more detail, “It was dark when we arrived so we couldn’t see the signs.”

  “Doesn’t matter, rules are rules. You shouldn’t be here as this is a national park wildlife area. This means that we have to fine you.” With fines handed out like confetto in this country, I wasn’t in the slightest surprised when he made this announcement, duly confirming that once again the authorities would be taking money from my pocket.

  “Honestly mate we had no idea. We’re sorry. If we leave now can you let us off the fine?” Mark pleaded, like a man begging for his life. From my own extensive experience of being fined in Australia I knew we had about as much chance of getting out of paying this fine as Mark committing to a lengthy period of self enforced abstinence.

  “No can do I’m afraid,” the old timer went on, with a kind of barbaric pleasure in upholding the rules. Although in a strange kind of way he seemed to hate us less the more we chatted with him.

  Then, like an eagle, he spotted the smallest of movements in Stevo. “Oh I see there’s people in the vehicle as well. You know that’s not allowed either and counts as camping too, which means it’s fineable?”

  “Really? But there’s only one tent up?” I quickly countered, now sensing it may have been cheaper for us to stay in a deluxe hotel rather than a tent and a car on an available bit of grass.

  “Yeah unfortunately these are the rules, look here.” And then he smugly highlighted a passage in the rulebook he pulled out from his back pocket, specifically bringing our attention to camping breaches, which included sleeping in a vehicle. He had us dangling by the bollocks and knew it, while also loving every second of his power trip.

  Then, as was often customary in these situations, the official then made out that he was doing us a favour. “Ok what I’ll do is just fine you for camping in the car and the tent. If I wanted to I could fine you all individually, so that would be five camping fines rather than two. And if you didn’t have enough money on you I would have to take you back to the station where things may escalate. As it is, I appreciate it was an honest mistake, and in any case you guys will be leaving the country soon.”

  Waiting to be put out of our misery he finally revealed the damage. “So in total that will be $250 please. I don’t care if you all chip in or if just one of you pays.”

  “That’s fucking good of you,” I muttered, raging like an angry rhino at the prospect of handing over such a sizeable sum for sleeping rough. I wondered what they would have done had it been a homeless person? Come to think of it they would probably have locked the person up and thrown away the key. This was Australia, after all. Dejectedly, with the painful realisation we wouldn’t be pulling off a great escape, we all sought out our wallets and counted up as much cash as we possibly could. Simon only had a few dollars on him, which meant Sam would be stumping up $50 on his friend’s behalf until he could be paid back.

  Begrudgingly the cash was handed over. I couldn’t bear to see all those notes go into the hand of the authorities again. After the ranger had counted it he stamped the ticket he had handed us, indicating we were free men. “That’s it, all done,” he said passing the ticket back with the pleasure of someone who had just performed a spot of daylight robbery and got away it, which of course he had. With tensions reduced now the fine had been paid the local law enforcer suddenly developed a friendly side. “You see we’re just a convict nation so need all the money we can get,” he said bizarrely, all but admitting that he had robbed us. “Anyway enjoy Byron Bay and the rest of your travels.” And off he went, as if he was now our mate.

  “I think he was making a bit of a meal of it by going on about being a convict nation. Perhaps he would have had a point 200 years ago.”

  Simon was more blunt, “What a fat, ugly cunt.”

  Spitting venom that we had been violated in such a spectacular way, we decided to vengefully lash out following our heinous crime; by ever so slowly eating our breakfasts on a nearby bench, before packing away our stuff at a snail’s pace and then gently driving out the area – undoubtedly one of the most expensive places on earth to camp – that would forever now be etched in our brains with painful memories. I reflected on the heartbreaking set of circumstances that had occurred, where we had all scrimped and saved so expertly and then had our hard earned money unceremoniously ripped away in a flash. “I guess it’s some kind of karma for all the things and places we’ve stayed for free,” Sam suggested, as though there was a fair-minded god. Showing our fighting spirit in adversity, we all took a pledge there and then to step up our money saving exploits to an even higher level in a bid to make up for our newly acquired shortfall.

  We drove through the centre of Byron Bay and into a supermarket car park where we hoped to get some much needed supplies. It was the first time we had seen the place in day time and like many of the places we had visited down the east coast it was another quintessential Australian surfing town with a quaint cosy feel to it. Having just come from the more lively and city-like Surfers Paradise, it was, it has to be said, somewhat underwhelming though. “We should have stayed in Surfers longer,” I declared honestly. Still, we had to make do with our lot so myself and Sam grabbed a fresh coffee and discussed accommodation strategies while the others did the shopping. We had been urged to stay at the hostel where Sam’s older Irish girl, Jane, was crashing.

  After an age the others came out holding bags galore. It was time to get our stuff out of the car and settle up any money that was owed, as Mark was ready to hit the road back to Sydney. Following some awkward small chat it was now time for us to go our separate ways. “Right have a good one then,” Mark said, turning the engine on. “And Sam, make sure you get your dick wet ok? Remember fingering doesn’t count. Make sure you lot look after Special Steve too.”

  As he pulled away we waved him goodbye like a bunch of demented fools, with Simon giving him one last viewing of his backside, before saluting him with a variety of hand gestures. In return he beeped his horn like a crazy chimp and stuck a single digit out of the window before accelerating off. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see the back of him,” Simon mused dryly, as we watched him drive off into the distance.

  “Yeah…I’ll miss Stevo though,” I smiled. “It will be a lot more hassle without a car.”

  “But at least we won’t have anyone to look after now,” Sam added. We all nodded. It felt odd that Mark wouldn’t be with us after the journey we had been on together and in a bizarre way we would miss him.

  With great difficulty we lugged our ridiculously heavy backpacks up from the ground and painfully made our way toward the backpackers’ accommodation. After all, we were technically homeless. After taking several lengthy detours we arrived at the hostel, throwing down our heavy assortment of luggage with great relief. There was a s
mall queue of people booking in, which I contemplated pushing to the front of before reluctantly joining the back. Before long Simon and Julie were at the front, booking their beds with ease for the next few days, including Christmas and Boxing Day.

  Following a further painstaking wait, Sam and I finally made it to the front where we were simultaneously met by different members of staff who began fiddling on the computer in an attempt to accommodate us. “Oh there only appears to be one space left,” the girl said, before pressing some more buttons just to make sure. “Nope there’s definitely just the one space.” And then, just as she went to book it, the computer prevented it going through. “Oh no the last space has just gone.” I looked across at Sam, who had a huge grin across his face, knowing full well that he had just sneaked the remaining bed right before my very eyes. “I’m really sorry about that,” the woman said sincerely.

  “Well maybe if you hadn’t fannied about so much I would have got there first,” I remonstrated forcibly. At least that’s what I wanted to do but because she had been nice I instead thanked her for trying and looked to the heavens.

  So there I was homeless and on my own again, with the rest of the group all sorted for accommodation. My chances of finding anywhere at such short notice before Christmas were slim to zero. “I know all the other places are fully booked too. We’re the biggest hostel here with the most space so sadly you won’t get a bed anywhere else,” the lady added, twisting the knife she had just plunged into me.

  “That’s what you think. I’m sure there will be a bed for me somewhere,” I muttered sneakily, as I shuffled away from reception.

  With the hostel charging double prices over the festive season I decided that it was only right that some special allowances should be made for me, especially with the season of goodwill being upon us. I boldly decided I would, therefore, share a bed with Sam or Simon (though they didn’t know this yet) if there was no spare bed available in their room and subsidise the hostel with my joyful presence about the place instead of the usual currency of hard cash. Otherwise I was on the streets, which I didn’t much fancy, especially over Christmas.

  We made our way upstairs to the room Simon and Julie were staying in, where I dumped my stuff. Despite what reception had told me, though, there appeared to be a couple of free beds, which was hardly surprising as the staff at these places are about as clever as a baboon. Sam, having been the last person to get a recognised bed, had paid the price by being put in a room with strangers. And just to reinforce the total ineptitude of the staff there was also a spare bed in his dorm, as if to rub salt into my wound a bit more.

  In two minds whether to inform the hostel of its gross inefficiency or just lap up the free bed I decided that I would rather part with my money than not confront them over their shocking oversight. “It’s just not good enough is it? You’ve really put me through the ringer. And at Christmas of all times,” I told the receptionist, thumping my finger on the desk.

  “I understand sir, we can only apologise once again. There must have been some cancellations.”

  “Cancellations my arse. I would have been on the street if you lot had your way.”

  “I know and all I can say once again is sorry. Will you accept a discount for a bed?”

  “Well, I think it’s the very least the hostel should offer me. But yes I suppose I will accept.”

  And just like that my accommodation worries were over. In amongst the tense conversation it was hard to know exactly what had been agreed but I took it that I had been granted a bed for an indefinite period and smugly walked off.

  Following a stressful day I was now finally able to relax for a few hours by thrashing people on the table tennis and pool table in the common area, before my winning streak was abruptly brought to a halt when Simon walked in with a four-litre box of goon and a glowing smile. It was that time again. “Ah this is the first time we’ve drank without Mark,” the Swede remarked nostalgically, before adding dryly, “Doesn’t it feel good?”

  “It feels good to be free once again,” I smirked as I took a giant gulp.

  “I can relax now,” added Sam.

  In amongst our fevered drinking it soon became clear that Sam was like the proverbial rat up a drainpipe chasing Jane, which meant Simon and I were forced to go wherever the Irish girl and her friends went. So, that evening we headed to a place down the main strip called Cocomangas. There was a queue outside with a bunch of bouncers who appeared to have a combined IQ well below double figures. The upstairs room looked from the front like the far livelier of the rooms and had a man on the balcony attempting to impress some ladies by revealing his backside to them. “This is the ideal place for you,” I told Simon, who naturally agreed.

  After handing over what I instinctively knew would be an extortionate sum of money I made my way into the venue and headed for the safety of the bar. Sam wasn’t hanging about, desperate to go upstairs immediately to meet his cougar. So, with little choice, Simon and I grudgingly followed him into the chaotic main room, where like every other backpacker place in Australia there were people dancing on tables with stupid grins on their faces. I shook my head in a slow and disgusted way, especially at those who foolishly thought they were somehow superior merely because they were a few feet higher than those occupying the floor.

  How I longed for someone to fall down flat on their face. With this in mind, and to brighten up my evening, I accidentally-on-purpose barged into a few revellers as I fought my way through the room, causing several to wobble dangerously, before they unleashed a series of expletives. On finally reaching the other side where Jane and her friends were, Simon and I, having finished our drinks already, decided to escape and made our way back across the dance floor to the stairs and back into the less crowded room where we sat and drank beer like civilised people before realising what a shit night we were having. Within seconds we had left the venue, marking the highlight of our evening.

  The following morning while in my top bunk I rubbed my eyes having felt my leg rub against something. I moved it again to make sure I wasn’t imagining it. I wasn’t. Wanting to discover what on earth could be in my bed I peered under the cover where I found, to my great astonishment, a leg which judging by its hairiness belonged to a large man. Along with an unmistakable cheesy smell I could just about make out the outline of the body, which was of a substantial size. Annoyingly the head, which was at the other end of the bunk, was buried beneath some pillows. I double checked my boxer shorts to make sure there had been no tampering while I had been asleep, which to my great relief it appeared there hadn’t.

  I was still baffled as to who could be in my bed and why. I prodded the leg. Nothing. And again. Still nothing. I was beginning to get angry. This time I kicked it. Finally there was movement. Slowly the head began to rise. I was ready to throw the cheeky drunken fool – as that is what I had assumed he was - on the floor without so much as a warning.

  After a delayed pause, there was a deep voice, “Hello mate.” Still unsure who this weird person was I manoeuvred my head to try and establish the mysterious individual’s identity. “Not a bad bed you’ve got here,” he continued casually.

  Following a further pause, the penny finally dropped, “Ben? Is that you? What are you doing here? And what the fuck are you doing in my bed?”

  He let out a snigger, seemingly appreciating the bizarre nature of what I’d witnessed on my awakening. “I arrived last night and was out with Sam. I needed a bed and he told me there was space in your room, which was open, so I just came in. There weren’t any beds so I climbed into your bunk. I knew you wouldn’t care.”

  His remorselessness somehow made you see the merit of his unorthodox method. “Well,” I said, taking in a deep breath, relieved that I was not a victim of some misguided opportunistic man’s desires. “At least your head was the other end of the bed. And you’ve got your clothes on. If you’d been naked then things might not ha
ve turned out so rosy.”

  “Don’t worry mate, the last time I got my cock out in front of other men was in a bar after losing a drinking game with my rugby team. I wouldn’t just do it in a bed with another man for no reason.” If this was meant to reassure me then I didn’t find it totally convincing, but gingerly accepted the point he was trying to make.

  After getting up and washing myself more thoroughly than usual, I treated myself to a bacon and egg sandwich from a café round the corner. Wandering around the centre still getting my bearings I was suddenly nearly ran over by a clapped out banger as I strolled day dreamingly onto the side of a road. Coming to an abrupt halt with smoke pouring out of it, the door, which appeared as though it was falling off, slowly opened. To my shock and amazement out popped my English friend Andy, who I’d met at the infamous hostel in Sydney – the one I’d finally been given the boot from for allegedly making a German girl cry (I’m still sure to this day they were crocodile tears) and then being accused of exacting revenge a week later in a drunken haze by leaving the kitchen looking as though an avalanche of snow had fallen on it after an impromptu meeting with a giant bag of flour.

  It was good to see Andy, especially having narrowly avoided meeting up on a variety of occasions down the coast. Once the humiliation of climbing out of one of the worst cars you could possibly imagine subsided, it was just like old times back in Sydney, with Andy quick to remind me of times gone by, “I bet you miss that hostel?”

  I smiled nostalgically at the memory, “How did you know? Staying in a room with 19 other people, with loud orgies above my bed, water being thrown in my face, twats turning the light on in the middle of the night and kicking a football as hard as they could, cockroaches everywhere, people Stealing your food…” I could have gone on and on with the delights of that particular hostel but concluded on a high point. “Well, at least I went out with my head held high.”