by Steve Deeks
Weighed down by our overbearing backpacks we struggled over a flurry of busy roads before making our way to the bus stop, which would take us to Bondi, where, all being well, I had a bed – or a bit of carpet, to be more accurate – that I had exclusively pre-booked to sleep on at a friend’s apartment. The Swedes, as ever, were relaxed about their fate in finding adequate accommodation. But if this was not possible due to everywhere being fully booked, or they were not happy with the festive premium rate, which was highly likely, the canny pair, as always, had a back up plan. “We will just stay in Mark’s car,” Sam declared, having once again come up with a viable solution to a potential problem.
Simon nodded enthusiastically, “I don’t care if I sleep in a bus shelter. If the price in a hostel is too high they I would rather sleep outside or in the car.”
Mark was also crashing at the same place as me so the Swedes had figured they would get the car key off him, or if he failed to agree to his car being used as a hotel they would merely just climb through the broken back window and open it from the inside like we had done countless of times when travelling down the coast.
Once in Bondi I made my way down the familiar ocean road to the apartment while the Swedes went off to look for somewhere to stay. I dumped my stuff at the flat after persuading a growling shaven headed man – who appeared to also be staying there – to let me through, explaining that I was another new lodger, or more accurately I was an old lodger who had now returned.
As I entered the lounge with its familiar aroma of stale marijuana and sweat it became clear that my friend had been deploying the apartment in the same way that illegal immigrants do; whereby as many as humanly possible were stuffed into a small place to maximise profits. All the bedrooms were taken and just about all the lounge floor space had been snapped up too, judging by all the sleeping bags everywhere. “A bus shelter doesn’t seem like too bad an option actually,” I thought, wondering what I had let myself in for.
I left the apartment-come-homeless-shelter and went to meet the Swedes on the world famous Bondi Beach. “Is this it? It’s a bit shit,” Sam observed pompously as we walked along the beachfront.
Simon was equally unimpressed,” You’ve been to one beach, you’ve been to them all.” I found it refreshing that they had taken such a view as I had come to a similar conclusion myself and wasn’t sure if it was merely the daily hangover that had clouded my judgment.
Sure Bondi was nice but it was nothing special as far as I was concerned. It had a false air of self importance to it, which didn’t seem wholly justified, especially when it boasted a McDonald’s and Hungry Jacks as its main hub of tourism by the beach. Perhaps this was part of its problem; it had become over commercialised and as a consequence attracted every chav, backpacker, celebrity, wannabe celebrity and person of self-proclaimed class, all mixing as one, while playing it cool in the “place to be”.
Having spent several weeks here after leaving the city I could safely say I hadn’t missed it one bit. And with just a few weeks before my visa expired I had the urge to go back into the city for one final hurrah. The Swedes, however, having regularly stated they hated cities, while not being particularly taken by Bondi, had forced themselves into a corner. “We could have stayed in the hostel by the beach but I would rather have my arse pounded by a large Finnish body builder than pay those prices, so we’ll stay in Mark’s car and see how that goes then maybe go to the city, just to see what it’s like, not because we enjoy being in cities,” Sam declared purposefully. I wasn’t totally sure how they expected living in a car to go but I sensed it wouldn’t be too long before all of us moved to the city.
In fairness, over the next few days the Swedes really stuck it out after kindly being granted permission to stay in the vehicle by Mark, who had briefly taken time out of his busy partying schedule to catch up with us all. Matters were complicated, however, when Ben arrived in Bondi the following day and, as expected, opted to forego an exorbitant hostel fee and instead join the Swedes in sleeping rough in the car – even though there was about as much room to fit an elephant into a Mini as there was for the bulky German in Stevo.
The following morning, after we had shared a night of drinking on the beach like tramps, I peered down from the small balcony in the apartment to where the car was parked on the street and spotted Simon in a sleeping bag curled up on the road’s adjoining grass verge. I also caught sight of a rather big leg sticking out of the nearside window, which I figured belonged to Ben. Sam must have been squashed up inside somewhere. The best thing about the chaos below was looking at the faces of well-to-do people as they walked past, wondering how their supposedly classy suburb had suddenly descended into a low rental district with undesirables sprawled out on the pavement like they were in Delhi. Others weren’t sure whether to call the police - or ambulance, for that matter - with it easy to mistake Simon for someone critically injured, as he lay there motionless with his mouth wide open.
Enjoying the scenes from the luxury above I was suddenly dragged into the mayhem when Ben awoke and shouted up. “Hey mate, is anyone up there?” he asked in a strangely courteous voice.
“No, why?” I replied.
“Alright if I come up for a quick shower? I haven’t had one for three days. I smell like a dog.”
“You smell worse than a dog,” I responded cuttingly.
I wouldn’t have hesitated in saying yes but the person who was renting the flat had insisted on - somewhat ironically given his penchant for inviting every Tom, Dick and Harry to stay - a no vagrants’ policy. In other words he didn’t want the Swedes or Ben in the mouldy place he was fleecing. Nonetheless, I felt for Ben sleeping in a boiling car with barely enough room to raise a leg, and so allowed him up.
Unfortunately, though, after Ben had strolled out of the shower, smelling of roses and looking unrecognisable from the Neanderthal he had resembled moments earlier, the suspicious male inhabitant of the flat opened the front door and knew instantly what had been going on. I had a feeling this revelation may get out. I came clean to the flat renter the next morning but in any event he had declared the festive period was over and that everyone now had to leave, as he wanted the place to himself and his family, as well as his vast quantity of gear no doubt.
So, with just a day before New Years Eve I was now homeless once more, which was not the predicament I had envisaged in the run-in to such a momentous day. With the Swedes and Ben deciding they’d had enough of sleeping in the car, or on the street, we jumped on a bus and headed for the city where we hoped to find a hostel. “You do know that most places were booked out months ago?” I told them, as we got off the bus.
“There’s always the park,” Simon countered with a straight face.
Sam offered another alternative, if it came down to the crunch. “We can just stay out drinking all night.” I could foresee a situation combining the two.
As the rain poured down we set off in no particular direction to find a place. I led the way, as in theory I had the best knowledge of the area. “There’s some really big dumps I know of which hopefully will have some last minute cancellations,” I mooted enthusiastically.
We went from place to place, only to be met with the familiar response, “Hey sorry guys but we’re fully booked.” Or in some cases we would stand in the reception area for about an hour behind no more than two people who apparently were being attended to, while the three members of staff went studiously about their work while never saying a word or being remotely interested in the large queue that was forming.
None more so was this applicable than in Sydney Backpackers, which is worthy of a special mention, with the customer service resembled that of a ghost service. To make matters worse some bolshie ginger northern English female, who for some unknown reason thought the rules of waiting in turn didn’t apply to her, then pushed to the front of the counter and grabbed one of the silent members of staff to resolve a problem
concerning her room. By this point we had seen enough and angrily walked out. “It smells of shit in here,” Simon mused thoughtfully in a loud voice, as we vacated the quiet but small waiting area.
After spending four hours walking about getting rejected from every possible dive that Sydney had to offer we decided to change tact. Needing to rest our weary legs we went into the Wake Up Hostel. After the customary slap in the face of being told they had no space, we wisely opted to use their internet to ring every possible place we came across. Why we had decided to walk around a busy city lugging heavy backpacks and bags in the hope of finding somewhere when we could have found out by using a telephone remained an unspoken mystery.
Nonetheless, after getting nowhere for upwards of two hours there was a breakthrough after my approach to a place I had previously stayed in the city paid dividends. The kind Chinese lady had remembered who I was and, perhaps feeling sorry for me, said there was a spare bed in the eight-bed dorm I had had the misfortune of staying in before. But times were tough now, especially when hard uncomfortable hostel beds were in such demand in the city, so without further delay I bit her hand off in accepting. Meanwhile the Swedes had also struck gold after they contacted a friend who was working at one of the largest backpacker hostels in the city, oddly the place where my journey began nearly a year ago, who sorted them a four-bed dorm against all the odds.
Naturally I was delighted for them but hoped there was enough water under the bridge between the hostel and myself after our big misunderstanding, which had led to them confiscating my luggage, before I took it back and moved on to bigger and better things. Inevitably, I would be at the hostel a lot now the others were there and in a way I was relishing going back and reacquainting myself with a place that held such vivid memories of my early days in Australia. There were other pluses to the place too. “I look forward to coming over for the free drink and food they provide during the evenings,” I smiled to the Swedes. In the hostel world this makes it a very attractive commodity.
After checking in at my hostel I went over to meet Sam and Simon at my old stomping ground. As I strolled up there was the familiar sight of backpackers smoking like their lives depended on it, while talking loudly as they spilled out onto the pavement, causing normal pedestrians to cautiously sidestep them. With no choice but to inhale I then barged through the group and inside past the busy reception area, before going up the creaky stairs. It felt just like old times apart from now I, of all people, odd as it seemed, was the experienced backpacker who knew the ropes, rather than being a naïve, fresh off the boat tourist like when I landed nearly a year ago wondering what the hell I was doing in such a place.
Nothing had changed. Backpackers were still spread out in the social areas listening to music, reading, fiddling with their laptops and socialising either in broken English or rather more fluent English, depending on what part of the world they were from. You still could barely move in the heaving kitchen, and as ever there was a small group of deviants smoking outside by the emergency exit stairwell on the third level. It felt like I had been in a time warp, as I recalled my first memories of Sydney as if they were only yesterday.
I spotted Sam and Simon sat down at the back of the room and joined them just in time for dinner. “We made all this from the free food section,” Sam smirked.
Simon nodded, “Good value.”
As I sat down and helped myself to the surprisingly tasty pasta and tuna dish, Ben appeared from around the corner to reveal some good news. “They give me a job here starting tomorrow. I don’t pay rent I just work instead for my bed. This way I don’t spend money and hopefully in a few days they forget about me working anyway, but I still keep the bed.”
You couldn’t help but admire Ben’s resourcefulness and ability to survive on nothing. “So you are effectively a slave then?” I joked provocatively. “Call yourself German? You’re a disgrace to your country.”
Ben laughed, “Maybe but I will have free food and drink and a bed until I leave.”
“I think you would have sucked the manager’s cock if it meant getting a free bed,” Sam teased, motioning a phallic object going into his mouth.
Ben paused thoughtfully before hitting back, “I think you like being fucked in the arse by men.”
Sam shook his head, “You like it more.”
Once food was out the way we were the first to take full advantage of the free eight litre goon box the hostel had supplied for the evening’s entertainment, before then embarking on a pub crawl, which included free drink vouchers at a variety of places. “You can’t argue with the hostel’s generosity,” I said admiringly, as a member of staff brought out another eight litre goon box. Once that was finished off, and with many residents now adequately refreshed, it was time to hit the city.
I rejoiced at how welcome I was made to feel by the hostel, especially when each of us were handed drink vouchers before we followed our guide in a large and disorderly queue up the road and into the first pub. Upon reaching the bar I was immediately reminded of how the female staff were as needlessly bitchy and unhelpful as ever. But unfortunately for them they could not argue with our free drink tokens and so reluctantly poured out our liquor. I gave a beaming smile and raised my thumbs enthusiastically while sarcastically shouting, “Thank you” to acknowledge the spiteful woman’s bitter service, before walking off shaking my head, but nonetheless happy I had at least worsened her mood.
We spent the next hour drinking in the establishment – even forking out for a jug or two from our own pocket – before it was time to head to a backpacker venue nearby. It had been a while since I last stepped foot in the place and I was immediately reminded of just how seedy it was as I made my way across the sticky floor.
I would happily have never gone in this place ever again, especially with my indifference toward the door staff, which had prompted an undercover trip while working for the newspaper. But, with me now on the run-in before going back to England, I was in reflective mood as I thought back to the rare good times I had surprisingly enjoyed in this wreaking venue. Most of these, naturally, had centred around the Mine Sweeping antics with Fraser. For old times sake I went outside and grabbed a delightfully looking fresh beer at the top of the stairs before returning smugly down the stairs to the club. “Still got it. Fraser would have been proud of that one,” I thought.
The night passed without incident, which seemed odd, and after leaving the place I was encouraged by the others to join them for a drink back in the room. This turned out to be fairly pointless as within a cup of goon I had passed out on the floor, where I stayed until the morning and awoke confused with nothing more than a couple of shirts and socks as my cover.
To make matters worse it was the final day of the year – New Year’s Eve – and I was hanging out of my arse, as the expression goes. To make matters worse we had paid our ticket for the hostel event, where we would start off with a glass of sparkling wine at 11.30am before linking up with another place in Kings Cross, where we would drink some more for a few hours, which was to be followed by a coach journey to an idyllic grass area overlooking the harbour and bridge, where we would join a load of other people in getting smashed out of our heads.
With time against me I rushed back to my crap hostel and after a much needed lay down on my rock hard bed for a few hours, I forced myself up to have a shower and try and make myself as human as possible. Experience told me, however, that it would simply be a case of muddling through the impenetrable self-inflicted nausea and pounding headache until the all day drinking began to finally numb the tortuous pain in my body.
Once ready, following tremendous effort, I met back up with the Swedes and Ben, who looked in far better health than me. Simon was smiling naughtily with a cup of goon in his hand, explaining his chirpy demeanour. Knowing that drinking through the pain was my only chance of surviving the day, I hastily grabbed a plastic cup and pulled myself a cup of the urine
tasting wine. I took my first sip, forcing myself to swallow, which caused a violent reaction in my body that instantly tried to propel the contents of my stomach out of my mouth. With a purple face and eyes watering like a river, I summoned all my power and miraculously managed to keep it inside before bracing myself for the next sip. I knew it could only get easier from here. “You look like you’re dying,” Ben laughed.
After knocking back our free glass of champagne we began the arduous 20-minute walk through the city to Kings Cross. Only the thought of getting some alcoholic supplies kept me going. Following painstakingly forcing our way through a heaving liquor store on Victoria Street we safely emerged with an array of goon and some boxes of beer as a special treat. After all it was New Year’s Eve.
We crammed through the tiny hostel to a roof decked outside area that was packed full of people drinking merrily in the sweltering heat. Needing space badly, I was about to go inside to the lounge when a beer was thrust into my hand. “There’s a giant fridge full of cold beers so we’re going to drink these instead. I’ve hidden our beers so we can take them with us later,” Sam winked like a naughty schoolboy.
“Great thinking,” I replied, as I downed half a can. “It always tastes better when it’s free.”
My outlook was beginning to improve as I slowly began to feel the benefits of the free beer and beverages. The entertainment of watching drunk people making fools of themselves only helped to lighten my mood further. One of whom, an English man with no hair and a face that looked like it had been slapped repeatedly at birth who had moments earlier been talking to us about his plans for the afternoon – “I’m gonna have to get my dick wet today lads,” he announced, pointing in the direction of a group of girls – was now leering in the centre of this female group.