The East Coast Road Trip

by Steve Deeks

  Andy was travelling with two female friends over from England – a bold move. And judging by the pain on his face the risky nature of undergoing such a feat was beginning to take its toll. Nonetheless he was valiantly trying to make the most of his travels, but like myself was suffering from a sense of déjà vu. “All these places look the same don’t they? They even have exactly the same people in them; surfers, backpackers and hippies,” he announced sharply, exasperatedly shaking his head before taking in a deep breath, “And fuck me, I’ve never seen so many Germans.” This we could all agree on. He was camping nearby and would be staying for a few days so, not for the first time, it was agreed we would meet up. I wished him a good day as he left to do a spot of clothes shopping with the girls.

  Back in my hostel room I was sifting through the array of creased and filthy items in my backpack looking for a top to wear when a man with a bowl hat waltzed in with a crazy but friendly demeanour. I can’t say I was surprised to discover Rick was Dutch, especially with him appearing to be on a diet of amphetamines thanks to the eccentric way he would walk from side to side for no apparent reason as he spoke.

  During our chat Ben suddenly entered the dorm with an umbrella he had found somewhere. I made the polite introductions, as you do in such situations, but bizarrely almost as soon as they had acknowledged one another things turned sour. Though, it has to be pointed out, this may not have been helped by Rick grabbing the umbrella and swinging it around like he was Gene Kelly from the musical Singing In The Rain. Ben looked concerned, and rightly so, as within a few minutes of swirling the German’s pride and joy around it was broken - with it now providing about as much protection from the rain as a soaking wet sock.

  “What the fuck have you done?” Ben squealed, mortified that this umbrella he had proudly only just acquired – and which was bound to come in handy with the pouring rain – had been taken from his grasp so brutally. And by a crazy stranger he had only just met. Rick just shrugged his shoulders, making it abundantly clear he couldn’t care less. I put the friction down to the historical hatred between the German and Dutch nations and couldn’t help but be amused at the way Rick had immediately set about toying with Ben – someone who normally likes to dish out the abuse to others.

  That evening, with the Swedes and Ben opting for a chilled night, I had been talked into going out for a few drinks with crazy Rick. I had a feeling I could be in for an interesting evening. Being an experienced resident of the place he proposed a party venue not too far from where we were staying. Despite having drank a reasonable amount of goon I was still feeling relatively sober as we headed out into the night rain, no doubt because I was numb to the affects of alcohol following a heavy session the night before, and indeed for the many months prior to that, come to think of it. With special vouchers bulging out of my pocket I was determined to make the most of the discounts for drinks as we rocked up to the place.

  Things started off normally with us standing around drinking two drinks at a time to save ourselves the torture of going to the bar every five minutes. Rick appeared to be getting more and more restless with every drink and after our third double round he was unable to keep still for any longer, resulting in him suddenly performing an impromptu dance, if that was what you could call it. “Ish good danshing yesh?” he confidently stated, before declaring he was popping off somewhere for a couple of minutes.

  After standing around like a lemon for longer than I was comfortable with I walked down the corridor and spotted Rick in the smoking area harassing everyone for a cigarette. After a few short minutes he had rounded up five smokes which he placed neatly into an old packet he conveniently had in his pocket, before sparking one up and puffing out the smoke like a steam train, as he briskly stomped about the area in no particular direction.

  He returned to the bar area looking like a man who was buzzing in a techno rave and sipped on his drink like he was drinking water. Standing to the edge of the dance floor was never going to be good enough for the Dutchman and before long Rick had literally fought his way up on the adjacent tables, dancing manically alongside other revellers. One poor, unfortunate youngster lost his balance after bumping into Rick, forcing him to take drastic action and jump ship, causing him to land awkwardly on the floor and painfully twist his ankle before he hobbled to the nearest wall to support himself, his face etched in a cross of agony and humiliation. As Rick continued to bounce around to the irritating songs, he soon sought further entertainment by squeezing the buttocks of any female within his proximity, prompting the braver – and more foolish ones - to look behind them, where Rick would be winking while thrusting his genital area vigorously in their direction with his hands behind his head.

  One woman took great exception to Rick’s forthright methods and after turning around looking like she was ready to kill the depraved man responsible for the atrocious behaviour, then proceeded to shove him as hard as she could, causing the Dutchman to fly back a few feet. Rick, questioning the heavy handed approach with his hands out open to the side, looked utterly confused as to what may have prompted such an attack on his good self. Suddenly his shock turned to outrage at the common assault he had just been a victim of, perhaps in the heat of the moment forgetting the small detail that he had transgressed against her in the first place.

  Seething with rage, he squared up to the obtuse scantily dressed woman and offered her a few choice words, before leaving onlookers stunned as he looked to make amends for her reaction. Somewhat surreally, in what seemed like super slow motion, the brazen Dutchman suddenly reached across and squeezed her breasts – which had been out on display thanks to a ridiculously low cut top – together. Not satisfied he had inflicted enough humiliation on her he then delivered the coup de grace and yanked her top down, causing her boobs to flop out like a pair of water balloons for all the club to see, before rounding things off by squeezing her left nipple. I anticipated fireworks, especially with the woman looking like she was somewhere between stunned, humiliated and apoplectic, as she tried in vain to cover up her expansive chest area. “She wanted everyone to shee her breashts sho I’ve done her a favour,” Rick quipped in a deadpan voice.

  Cool as a cucumber he then strolled over to the bar and got another round in. Fearing reprisals may soon be on the cards I suggested that now may be a good time to check out the other areas of the establishment. Nonchalantly he agreed, so we made our way to the smoking room and then to a quiet spot around the corner. Sadly these things can catch up with you and after 20 minutes or so Rick was confronted by two large bouncers who didn’t appear from their menacing stares they would be overly sympathetic to his plight. “You need to come with us,” one of them growled.

  Looking surprised, but remaining totally composed, the astonished Dutchman fired back. “Why? I’ve done nothing wrong. That stupid bitch attacked me. You need to throw her out.”

  I feared, however, it would be Rick being asked to leave. But to my surprise the doorman attempted to reason with him rather than squash him. “Mate,” the head of security began, “we saw you pull her top down. The whole place could see her chest. You think that’s ok to do in a public place?”

  Rick shrugged his shoulders, “Yesh.”

  “Well I’m telling you mate it’s not, not in this country anyway.” He flicked his head as a signal to show it was time to leave.

  “I jush finish my drink then.”

  “Hurry up.” To my great shock the door staff had actually been remarkably tolerant, especially having actually witnessed the whole sorry incident.

  Dazed we had got out of there with no broken bones, which under the circumstances was a minor miracle, we sharply made our way up the street. “At leasht I fucked up that shlag’s night,” Rick, with a devilish look on his face, smirked.

  “And at least I didn’t have to watch a bunch of sweaty wankers dancing on tables for any longer,” I replied, looking on the bright side of our ordeal. So in a stran
ge kind of way we were both happy with the outcome as went back to the hostel following another peculiar night.

  Chapter 13 – The Arts Factory

  The Swedes and I had been invited over to the place Ben was now staying at, The Arts Factory. One of his German friends had arrived so rather than sharing a dorm bed with me or any other man, he had taken the pragmatic decision that it was better to stay in a tent with his pal. For free, of course.

  Following a sloth-like walk we arrived at our destination, or at least we thought we had, but it was hard to be sure, especially as from the front it was no more than a subtropical jungle. Added to this our directions hadn’t exactly been of military precision. “Follow path in jungle past huts and you wankers will find me,” Ben’s text read. We followed a narrow alley through the towering trees and eventually came to an area with a sea of tents to either side. Unsure if we were even in the right jungle let alone on the right path, we continued forward along the winding trail like three explorers hoping to reach our zenith.

  The place had an eeriness to it, with intermittent piercing wildlife noises and even stranger people, many of whom appeared to communicate telepathically with each other while gazing into thin air silently. The rest looked strikingly familiar to some of the characters from Michael Jackson’s Thriller video. The place was peaceful and calm, to the point it was freakishly so. Following the Swedes, I insisted on glancing over my shoulder every few seconds to ensure I was ready for any potential assailant partial to a spot of guerrilla warfare, who may jump out from behind and drag me off.

  So afraid were we in fact to wake the living dead that we didn’t even risk talking above a barely audible whisper. And then it struck me why the place had less life than a morgue, as a strong waft of cannabis found its way up my nostrils. Further up the track this happened again and then again, until finally I was lucky if I came across a patch of fresh oxygen in amongst the thick smog of weed hogging the air. I was starting to get a sense of what this place was all about.

  Then, out of nowhere, we heard an unmistakable deep voice. “Over here.” It was Ben. Relieved we had somehow found our friend without a search party having to be called out for us, we made our way to the large communal hut where he was sat, along with several other smaller groups. Although there was some idle chat I had rarely seen a bunch of humans that were so chilled out. All they needed was a bed and some pillows to top it off. Being the interlopers that we were a few of them cast suspicious glances at us. “Ummm weirdoes from the outside world,” they seemed to be collectively thinking. Just to throw a further dagger into the sereneness we had violated was the unfortunate fact that I also had a football shirt on, with us now stereotyped as rampant football thugs, only adding to the hippies’ fears.

  As well as the tree huggers I noticed there were also a few backpacker types, whom at least I could talk to without feeling as though someone was casting a mystical spell whereby I could turn into a frog should I say or do the wrong thing. “You found it then,” Ben mocked, shaking his head slowly.

  “You couldn’t miss it really,” I joked. “If you’d just told us to follow the cloud of weed it would have been much easier.”

  Ben laughed, “So what do you make of my new home?” I cautiously glanced about once more and spotted a white male with dreadlocks (always a weird sight) sucking vigorously on a bong like his life depended on it, while another was standing on his own manoeuvring his hands in wonderment, in what I could only assume was a strange hallucinogenic dance to the trance-style music that was softly playing in the background. Everyone else was enjoyably puffing away like they were determined to poison their bodies as much as humanly possible. “It’s very chilled out,” I replied understatedly to avoid offending any of the nearby zombies.

  The next thing I knew, some odd looking man wearing a puke coloured top, more than likely in his mid sixties, had taken it upon himself to sit down on our table and fill us all in on the glorious history of the place. “You boys should have been here in the 70s,” he began, as if it was somehow our fault that we were not born during this golden era. “They talk about free love and drugs and I’ve got to say,” he looked up with a reminiscent smirk, ”it’s all true.” He let out a grainy laugh, no doubt made considerably worse by all the years of punishment he had joyfully inflicted on his lungs. “Yep bagged myself many a Sheila back in those times,” he said proudly, smiling at those halcyon days.

  And then, just as I was hoping he had finished his trip down memory lane, he saw fit to continue sharing his insight. “It’s just not the same anymore. This place used to be a major place where all the hippies and international musicians came for a good time. That’s when the Arts Factory Village was created. And then in the 80s it was a serious rock and roll venue. And I mean serious, you know?” He paused, looked to the sky, as if to recall some more of those gilt edged memories. “But you know the best thing about it all?” A glowing smile was now worryingly appearing across his face. And before we could utter a single guess he was off again. “All the women wanted cock, like really wanted it…you know? So we gave it to ‘em. Hard. It didn’t matter if you had been with their mates the night before or anything stupid like that. No one gave a rat’s arse about that. They were the good times.”

  “Well, I reckon with the way some of them carry on in backpacker hostels today you’d still be in with a shout with some mate,” I quipped, prompting the old-timer to look over at me, his eyes sparkling with just a hint of new found optimism.

  As odd as he was, though, it couldn’t be denied that the scruffy individual was entertaining. And then, after holding court for a substantial period of time on what he’d like to do with some of the young ladies of today, he was gone, “Right good to talk to you boys. I’m off to get my gear.” As crazy as this place was – not too far behind Nimbin, you would have to say – I could not deny the character of the place. And just like with that bizarre village you could argue that these people – however peculiar – were also completely harmless, as well as amusingly entertaining, without knowing it, of course. I could not have felt as though I was much further from day-to-day home-life than if I had imagined such a sanctuary, which only added to the surreal nature of it all.

  We returned to the Arts Factory the following day drenched, after the heavens had opened once again. To raise our spirits we had a selection of booze and some of the worst baseball caps imaginable – the beak was ridiculously long and wide so that someone could easily have sat on it, while it had the unforgettable encryption “Wild Oats” plastered across it - that we had been given for free from a liquor store after being taken pity on.

  We marched past reception and into the outside sheltered area, all of us proudly wearing our hats like we were on an excursion trip of underprivileged children. Despite the bad weather there was still a selection of people relaxing in the hammocks overlooking the pond. Ben was reading his book and after spotting us was quick to sum up our new attire. “You all look like retards,” he laughed, pointing at our heads. The German’s delight soon turned to misery when Rick, who had gone to the toilet, appeared, also wearing his Wild Oats cap. “You not wearing one of these?” the Dutchman joked, pointing to his head. “I think one of these would suit you more than anyone.”

  The scathing edge of Rick’s remark was not lost on Ben, not that it had been concealed in any way though. “No mate I think it suits you just fine,” Ben replied cuttingly. Somehow I got the impression these two would never get on.

  Amid the swampy environment there was a swimming pool that had been torpedoed by the incessant rain. So naturally, after a couple of hours of pouring goon down our throats, it seemed like the obvious thing to go for a dip. Spotting his opportunity, Rick went up behind Ben, who was stood cautiously by the water’s edge, and gave him one almighty shove into the pool, causing him to land heavily, and somewhat painfully by the looks of it, on Simon, who in traditional fashion was floating along with his bum out. “I thou
ght you liked men’s arseholes,” Rick shouted gloatingly.

  “No I think it is you who likes dick,” Ben barked back.

  Sam, standing at the edge of the pool, was mockingly daring to pull down his own shorts. But the Swede, inevitably, when switching off, was given a helping hand as Rick yanked them down to his knees, causing Sam to fall off balance and into the water. Ben did the rest as he pulled them off completely, prompting a game of piggy in the middle. “Look I don’t care who sees, “Sam, now somewhat inebriated, announced after climbing out of the pool and standing statuesquely naked having failed in his attempts to reclaim his shorts. Unsurprisingly it wasn’t long before the staff intervened. “You think you can put them back on now please?” a young woman politely asked.

  “Only if you suck his cock,” Rick blurted back, while doing a licking motion.

  “I heard that,” the lady smiled. I was astonished that even when faced with full frontal nudity the staff - like their customers - were about as animated as a wooden chair.

  We spent the rest of the evening playing pool and hanging around the bar area. I was still struggling to take in the sheer numbers of people who gave little if no concern to how they looked. Never in my life had I come across a bunch who looked so bad yet were so totally comfortable with it. That applied to the women too, many of whom had apparently never come across the invention of make-up, or indeed footwear as they fleeted about with their filthy feet on display for all to see. Hygiene was not a concept many of the inhabitants had embraced either but they seemed happy enough and as long as they didn’t get too close to me so was I.