by Steve Deeks
After an awkwardly long pause, Simon finally acknowledged him. “Oh hey man.” It appeared these two knew each other.
“That was good shit earlier huh?” the odd male continued, as he sucked in enough smoke to kill a small rainforest.
“Yeah man, the stuff was gooood.”
The rest of us looked quizzically at each other pondering what had happened earlier, or specifically what substance Simon had agreed to taking. But with our need to get home more pressing than to find out the sordid recreational details of the evening, not to mention the obvious likelihood that it wouldn’t even occur to Simon in his warped state to ask his acquaintance for a lift, Sam grabbed the opportunity, “Mind if we grab a lift?”
“Of course guys, it would be epic to have you in the love wagon – “
“- The love wagon?” I muttered, with a discernible trace of anxiety in my voice, concerned at what this strange but agreeable fool had in mind for us.
“If he tries anything we will slit his throat,” Sam hissed, before breaking out into a smirk and then back to a serious face. I nodded, unsure if he was being serious or not, and then climbed cautiously aboard the love wagon.
And off we went, like a group of ignorant school children not having a clue where they were heading, but just glad to be onboard and heading somewhere. Sam looked over and gave me a smug grin. “Told you we’d sort something out.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “You bastard.” But, I have to admit, I have rarely been happier to be wrong. Yet again that casual mystic Swedish belief that somehow the elements, through god or whatever, would rescue us had come through just when we were ready to throw the towel in.
Or so we thought, because for the next hour and a half we ended up driving around getting our lungs polluted by a never ending supply of marijuana smoke, when really it should have been for no more than 20 minutes. Our driver, whom apparently had been living in the area for over a year, certainly enough time to know his way around, you would have thought, had got so lost that he didn’t know his arse from his elbow. “It’s definitely got to be down this road,” he proclaimed confidently for the umpteenth time.
“I’m sure they all look the same after you’ve smoked so much,” I muttered condescendingly under my breath.
To speed things along we ended up trying to direct him, as his memory now made fish look like they had the aptitude of Einstein. “I think we need to do a left down this road,” he asserted, taking another drag.
“Umm no mate, it’s got to be right here…we’ve already been down that road three times.” Even I, of all people, had become so concerned about our welfare that I felt obliged to take an active role in getting us back.
The man looked genuinely gobsmacked, “Have we?”
“Yes – three times.” I scowled at the back of his head.
“Easy mistake to make.”
“If you’re a retard.” Sadly, I don’t think he heard me.
Then, after driving past the same set of bushes and buildings a further three times we eventually arrived on the main road. From there, under our careful stewardship, we managed to guide the buffoon to the Arts Factory where we dropped Ben off before heading onto our hostel, where we quickly jumped out of the Love Wagon. As our driver rolled away with a chimney of smoke pouring out of the window I prayed I would never see him again. After wearily climbing the stairs I managed to make it into bed by the sprightly hour of 8am.
As you would expect, the following day was a total wash out, particularly as I finally arose by 6pm - with it beginning to get dark. It was to be my final evening in Byron Bay as I was heading back to Sydney the next day with the Swedes on the Greyhound coach. Having summoned all my power, I pulled myself out of bed and into the shower before gingerly wandering downstairs to find everyone else. Despite my best efforts I still had half my face etched in paint from the previous night. Though, such was my mood I couldn’t have cared less. “Heavy night was it?” the lady receptionist joked, nodding at my face.
“No, I’ve got scabies – it’s very contagious,” I said with a straight face before waltzing off.
I found the Swedes and Ben in the television room, staring at the screen like zombies not saying a word. I got the impression that they, like me, were still feeling the affects of the rave and wouldn’t be going out tonight. I managed to pierce the depressing silence and rouse enough energy to convince Simon and Ben to cook us a snack from the kitchen’s free food section, while Sam and I popped down to the wine shop where we bought stacks of dark chocolate and red wine, allowing us to unwind on our last evening in the surf town by engaging in this sophisticated Swedish past time.
Feeling better after our cheese and ham toasty, we reviewed the previous night’s antics and flicked through the pictures while sipping the rich red wine and chocolate. “You must put this on the internet,” Ben pleaded with Sam, eyes lighting up at the adult picture and video themes.
“No worries, I will make sure this is the first thing I do after we get to Sydney,” he replied studiously, as he admired his work once more.
Simon, who had also been unable to remove yesterday’s face paint, couldn’t remember much of the night, nor the pornographic train scene we had stumbled upon as we attempted to leave. “You remember bending over and putting your hairy bum in that girl’s face who was sitting down on her own?” I enquired, referring to one of his more memorable acts of the night.
Unsurprisingly he looked blank and just ever so slightly ashamed of himself. “I’m never doing any of that stuff ever again,” he said shaking his head in disbelief. “I will not take stuff that people force on me ever again.”
The Swede was trying to pull off a familiar trick of blame deferral for the night’s excesses and although he had seemingly convinced himself that others were to blame for the concoctions he had absorbed, the rest of us were sure it wouldn’t be long before we saw him throwing an imaginary basketball into a hoop once again. “Well at least you didn’t piss and puke on yourself this time and nearly die,” Sam quipped, as we fondly reminisced another tale at Simon’s expense before heading for bed.
The following morning we checked out on time before the 10am watershed – therefore saving ourselves the $10 fee that hostels like to pinch off you as a thoughtful departing gift – and dumped our belongings in the storage space while we went outside to get some food and fresh air.
On returning to the hostel we killed some time by watching television and playing table tennis before it was time to make our way to the coach stop. We said our goodbyes, or in some cases good riddance. I waved enthusiastically to Jane and wished her the luck of the Irish in finding a man closer to her age. “You won’t need to hide him away then if it embarrasses you will you,” I said helpfully.
Then there was Julie, who was heading back north to Surfers Paradise, though presumably to surf on various male anatomies as opposed to the ocean. “Have fun up there – I’m sure you will,” I smiled mischievously, as we spoke to each other for undoubtedly the last time in our lives. “Good luck with everything…and make sure you use a rubber from now on, especially with you being number 125 with Mark’s mate.” She took it all in the right spirit and smiled, followed by some inaudible noise that left me stumped for the final time. We had lost Mark and now we had lost Julie, another original member of the road trip crew. Not that we had ever really noticed having her on board with us.
But, nonetheless, at least she had provided us with some entertainment thanks to her grubby antics as the trip unfolded, while also helping to reduce our petrol, food and caravan costs. I wouldn’t miss straining my ears while trying to figure out what the hell she was on about, though.
Like mountaineers, we made our way with great difficulty clutching our backpacks and assorted bags and waited for the coach in the pouring rain, seemingly with half the population of Australia’s travelling fraternity. After breathing in enough smoke from ne
arby cigarettes to qualify as a chimney, and having been shoved in the back by too many towering backpacks to remember, we climbed on board the coach. Our hope that the Swedes and I – Ben was on a separate coach – could sit together quickly evaporated as we climbed up the steep steps and onto the packed vehicle. At least we were able to sit in close proximity to one another, though.
As I made my way down the sweaty carriage I was left with two vacant seats to choose from. The options weren’t great so I took the plunge and went for the spare seat next to a middle aged man, who although appearing slightly odd, at least wasn’t involved in a heated conversation with himself. “That’s a bloody clever method to scare people off from sitting next to you. Might have to use that one in the future,” I thought admiringly, as the angry man’s aggression suddenly went up a notch when beginning to have a go at someone or something, though it wasn’t obviously apparent which. Despite his menacing behaviour the seat was finally, and somewhat reluctantly, taken up by a geekish looking young man with glasses, who had made the fatal mistake of being last on board, and was now paying the price.
Shoehorned into my seat with my bag below my feet, taking up even more of the non-existent leg room, I attempted to get as comfy as possible before the 13 hour drive to Sydney began. I alternated between attempting to read the newspaper and shutting my eyes as I tried to block out the torturous journey I had been forced to embark on. “I hope Mark had a shit Christmas,” I thought, as I sought to blame him for the uncomfortable predicament I was now in, having left us early to get back to Sydney.
As we bounced along the bumpy road my foot accidentally rubbed against the weird man’s leg next to me as we went round a bend, not once but twice. I looked down and noticed the peculiar male had made himself right at home by casually slipping off his shoes and leaving himself luxuriating with his bare feet out on display, with no thought for anyone else who may have an aversion to strange people’s toes rubbing against them. We made awkward eye contact a few times, as I attempted telepathically to urge him to do the right thing by withdrawing his vile bare feet away from mine and not look at me. “Put your fucking shoes on and stop rubbing my foot,” a voice inside my head said.
But then, to my surprise, and dismay, he took the plunge and started a conversation. “Bit bumpy around here,” the hippy looking Aussie said, peering through his beady glasses. I nodded politely and made some small acknowledgement of this groundbreaking statement. And before I knew it he was off chatting away to me on a variety of subjects, including the Monarchy and his Republican belief that Australia should now go it alone from the Queen, as well as touching on other topics like London, Sydney and the Australian weather.
While I suppose he was friendly enough, I couldn’t help but feel my skin crawl as he spoke. I prayed he wasn’t coming on to me as he stared deeply into my eyes. The alarm signals really started going off when he opened up about his spiritual beliefs, having mistaken me for someone that gave a shit. In truth, he was one of those strange people who just loved to be listened to and because he had a captive audience with me for the next 12 hours I was easy prey. “I love to walk around barefooted wherever possible so my feet can feel the earth beneath me. It helps to keep me grounded. I strongly suggest you should do the same,” he said softly, but with the undercurrent of someone who was liable to poison you in your sleep if you dared to disagree with him.
After realising that he wasn’t joking and with the uncomfortable reality now dawning on me that he was in fact a new age Pagan – though he did “believe in the inherent goodness of Hinduism” – I steadied myself before offering a measured response. “So you’re kind of a modern day Jesus Christ?”
He looked away philosophically. “I suppose I am, we all are in our own way.”
I couldn’t believe the bollocks the man was talking and, moreover, that we still had to navigate a good portion of Australia’s massive east coast together.
I managed to get the conversation off spiritualism and religion and soon enough we were discussing easier more appropriate discussions that you would normally expect to discuss with someone you’ve just met. Such as things both of you have in common. Inevitably, therefore, the topic soon switched to Australian soaps, before he made a bizarre revelation that one of his parents used to star in a popular show (whose name I will not mention just in case he was totally making it up).
After revealing the person’s identity, I looked into his eyes, wondering if he was in fact some kind of delusional Walter Mitty type character, which couldn’t be dismissed. After some deliberation I decided to go with it, after all, why would someone fabricate such a story?
I found the revelation all the more coincidental because while at school - and even, I must admit, into my adult years – myself and friends would often liken people with wrinkly necks to the character. This was simply because no one else on television had a neck with so many lines around their throat, thus giving the appearance of an old rotting apple. It, therefore, stood to reason that if you wanted to draw a comparison with someone who had an equally - or god forbid worse - wrinkly neck in your day-to-day-life then that character was the standout choice of reference.
As I went to share this fact with the man, something within restrained me right at the last second. I couldn’t be sure what, but I just felt that he wouldn’t quite see the same humour in it that we all did. Added to that, he seemed rather proud of his affiliation to it all, so I reasoned it may not have gone down too well to point out that my overriding memory of his parent’s character was not, in fact, the strength and wisdom in handling a minefield of issues over the years but was instead the crinkly neck skin that used to bring tears of laughter in the school playground.
After exhausting our soap chat I closed my eyes to signal that I would not be interacting anymore for the foreseeable future. After all, listening to someone else speak so much does become tiring, especially when it was from this odd individual.
A few hours later with darkness having descended we pulled into some derelict petrol station with an adjacent café and outside toilet. I ordered one of the worst sandwiches imaginable to go with an equally hideous coffee and had a catch up with the Swedes. “You won’t believe who I’m sitting next to?” I said excitedly before recounting my story.
Unfortunately the Swedes’ had no knowledge of Australian soaps and therefore didn’t have the faintest clue who I was talking about.
“That’s too bad,” Simon replied. “At least he doesn’t smell of shit, like the guy I’m sitting next to.”
“Well, at least you can sit on your chairs. The guy next to me is so fat he needs two seats to himself,” Sam added dejectedly.
“Still, only six hours until we get to Sydney,” I joked, attempting to put a brave face on the deep pain of our journey, which we were still only half way through.
With five minutes to spare I got back on the coach in preparation to move to another seat but was amazed to discover the man had already moved his stuff. While, of course, I was immensely happy to see the back of this self-loving barefooted hippy, I couldn’t help but feel indignant that I had been rejected by him, of all people, especially as I had politely listened to his endless array of dull stories and spiritual theories. I had even kept my shoes on, and now I was, in effect, being told I was not worthy of sitting next to this musky man dressed like a new age peasant.
“Maybe when you were sleeping you were snoring like a foghorn again,” Simon suggested, which I agreed was a plausible explanation. I certainly hoped I had afflicted some kind of nuisance in return for the ordeal I had been through.
In any event, I now had the window seat, which meant I had something to lean against and was delighted when his replacement sat down in the spare seat. It was a petit shy looking Chinese girl, which meant no bullshit conversation and more space for me.
Once again we were off, despite calls from the rear of the coach that someone was still in the café
or toilet. In response the driver defiantly pointed to the clock – “I said I was leaving at 25 past and I bloody meant it” – and he then ruthlessly pulled away, leaving the unfortunate person marooned in the middle of the bush, presumably with his backpack still on the coach, now facing the unenviable task of trying to get through to the coach operators and convince them to give him a seat on the next bus in four hours, or whenever, if he was lucky. I shut my eyes and went back to sleep knowing that I would, once again, be in Sydney in a few short hours, having been away for what felt like an eternity.
Chapter 15 – Sydney reunion
As our highly painful coach journey finally drew to a close as we pulled into the centre of Sydney, I was immediately struck by that comforting feeling you get when arriving in a place of familiarity and fond memories. Being back in the city brought a sense of chaotic order and reassurance, with it undeniably good to be back in the bustling centre after being on the road living in poverty for what felt like years.
Starving and aching all over from being stuck on one of the hardest and possibly smallest of chairs imaginable, the Swedes and I decided to give ourselves a rare treat and went for a cooked breakfast. Wandering about aimlessly, which is never good when carrying backpacks that weigh more than a piano, I opted for us to go to a little cafe I knew just around the corner from Central station. We scoffed down our fry-ups like starving cavemen before blissfully walking out without paying following a breakdown in communication between us on who was paying. “I thought you had it covered after I lent you that $6 in Surfers Paradise,” I insisted accusingly at my Swedish counterparts, who offered nothing but confused expressions by way of a response. “Oh well don’t beat yourselves up. These things happen.”
We scuttled over to the market in China Town where I splashed out on a pair of shorts for $5 that were identical to the ones Simon had reluctantly purchased in Brisbane – the only difference being that mine actually had two back pockets and cost $30 less. “They really do like to fuck you hard in the arse in this retarded country,” Simon complained bitterly.