Kamikaze Kangaroos!

by Tony James Slater

  And our flight home wasn’t for another two weeks.

  Another Day In Paradise

  I had to hand it to those guys though – they’d developed a tactic that worked. By driving us to the very brink of despair every time we set foot outside our hotel, they eventually wore us down. Day after day we fled down that road, screaming “NO! NOOOO!” the whole way – yet still they came, catching us unawares – in restaurants when we were eating, foolishly thinking we were safe; outside the 7-11, where we stood counting our change, trying to figure how much we’d been overcharged. Little by little we accumulated pretty much all the crap that was on sale – because to be honest, if you weren’t swearing at vendors on the beach, or indulging in enforced shopping, there was sod all else to do.

  Most of the other tourists were medicating their way through the boredom with copious amounts of alcohol; the next street over from our hotel was packed with bars, all offering free drinks, free shots, cheap cocktails and booze by the bucket. That sort of scene had appealed to me in Thailand – perhaps because I was single, I’d taken full advantage of it. But here, it felt… threatening. There was none of that peace, love and boogie-vibe I’d experienced at the Full Moon parties on Koh Phangan. Here the locals seemed intent to squeeze every last possible cent from the tourists – maliciously, almost as though it was their right to screw us over for invading their island and paving it over with nightclubs.

  It was a bit gutting, as I’d really hoped to cut loose and party – something that was so expensive to do in Australia, it made my eyes water just thinking about it. But it was not to be – the girls didn’t feel comfortable enough to risk drinking in public, and I wasn’t going to go out on my own – I had enough trouble fending off the pimps and hookers when I was walking along next to my sister and my girlfriend!

  So instead, we braved the hard-core night-time touting (‘HEY mistah, you want ladeez?’ ‘Sir, watches! SIR! WATCHES!’ ‘Come in my bar, have many girl inside!’) – and made it as far as the 7-11. There we bought a bottle of cheap vodka and a carton of pineapple juice, and made our own little party in our hotel – where we felt safe.

  Where no one could try to trick us into anything.

  Because if they worked this hard to sell shitty trinkets to sober tourists – God only knows what they’d try to stiff us with if we were hammered.

  One afternoon we were approached by a tour guide as Roo sat having her hair braided, and he launched into his spiel for selling rafting trips. This was a first, and was something we were actually interested in – the guy was so shocked at our sudden outpouring of enthusiasm I could tell he hadn’t sold many trips that day.

  None, as it turned out.

  Which was fine by us.

  A minibus collected us and whisked us through glorious green countryside, part glinting rice paddies and part steaming jungle. It was a world away from the concrete chaos of Kuta Beach, and was my only glimpse of the promise that the rest of Bali had to offer.

  As we were the only people going rafting, our friendly guide took us straight down to the river, where several eight-man rigid inflatables lay in a muddy, ragged heap.

  Our safety briefing began with the guide explaining that when he shouted, “BOOM BOOM!”, we had to duck; and that’s where it ended, too. Safety standards in Bali weren’t quite the same as those in the western world, something I’m usually quite excited about.

  But they did make us wear life vests and helmets, which often signals a rather tame experience is about to ensue.

  In this regard, I was to be disappointed.

  Within seconds of pushing off our raft was hurtling downstream, showing absolutely no regard for the obstacles in its way.

  “BOOM BOOOM!” shouted the guide.

  “What di— SHIT!”

  And I threw myself flat as the raft swept beneath the bole of an overhanging tree. The trunk, as thick around as my waist, cleared the top of the raft by inches.

  “Holy crap,” I said, as we recovered our positions, “they would never let you do this back home!”

  “They wouldn’t let you do this anywhere,” Roo said through gritted teeth.

  A rush of adrenaline surged through me, and I felt alive.

  Then Gill shouted “Look out!”

  “What?”

  “SHIT!”

  “BOOM BOOM!”

  And the raft smashed into the base of a boulder jutting out from the opposite bank, hard enough to throw us on top of each other.

  From then on, we watched the route like hawks; the river roared around us and the raft ploughed on, spinning in defiance of the guide’s attempt at control.

  Every muscle was tensed, every sense hyper aware, as we pinwheeled through churning rapids, crashing from one side of the river to the other and bouncing off everything in between.

  Vines and branches lashed us when the raft scraped along the riverbanks, and ‘BOOM BOOM!’ was a cry we learned to obey instantly – because it generally meant we were less than a second away from being decapitated.

  It was, in a word – exhilarating!

  As the route got steeper and narrower, foaming water lapped into the raft at each collision. It felt a bit like sitting in a kiddie’s paddling pool while it went over a waterfall – only instead of being over in seconds, this mayhem continued for over an hour.

  By the end, the river was wider and slightly less frantic. A bit of the excitement had drained away, leaving us taking stock of the various small injuries we’d sustained; cuts and scratches from overhead branches, bangs and bruises from slamming into each other at unfortunate angles, and raw patches on fingers, heels, and any piece of bare skin that had been in contact with the boat.

  “We are so doing this again,” I declared – just as the guide called out one last warning.

  “BIG BOOM BOOM,” he shouted, “VERY BIG!”

  And with that, the raft shot along the top of a fifteen-foot-high concrete dam – and launched itself over the edge.

  The impact was immense.

  It flung the girls and our guide skyward, folded the raft in half, and filled it to the brim with water.

  For some reason I wasn’t thrown up with the others; I was slammed into the base of the raft with such violence it sent a shockwave through my arse and right up my spine. And halfway along that route, something just went.

  When the raft beached itself a few minutes later, the girls had to drag me out and carry me to the waiting minibus, and I lay flat across the back seats all the way back to the hotel.

  I never found out what damage I’d done, but it was serious enough that I spent most of our second week in Bali flat on my back with my head hanging off the bed, watching pirated DVD’s upside-down.

  We’d bought about a hundred of the buggers – most of which turned out to be broken.

  On our last day in Bali I managed to venture out again. There was a leather jacket I’d tried on a week ago that looked gorgeous on me. I’d umm’d and ahh’d over buying it, because even though it was handmade, and softer that a kitten’s soft bits (which in hindsight is quite likely what it was made out of) – it was still eighty dollars.

  The girls supported me as we took the quickest route to the leather jacket shop – conveniently located on the leather jacket shop street. One long, boring day early in the holiday, I’d killed some time going in and out of all of them. I’d found the perfect jacket, and the shop staff had told me they’d keep it for me. It seemed a bit pointless, being as how I was the only tourist in any of the shops on that street, and I’d been there for most of the day. But I guess, perfect jackets are few and far between. Mine had been sold, but the staff had made another identical jacket – just two sizes bigger.

  They even offered to tailor it to fit me, free of charge – which would have been great, except that I was leaving the country in a few hours.

  But I was pissed off and in a lot of pain, so I bought the damn thing anyway so that we could go home. I still have it. It’s still absolutely gorgeous
, softer than my own skin and twice as supple.

  And it’s still two sizes too big.

  And then, counting down the hours until our taxi to the airport, we decided to watch a movie together. We were sitting around the laptop, about to press play, when it exploded.

  To be less dramatic about it, the charger exploded – well, the parts that didn’t melt exploded – while the computer itself merely gave a brief puff of smoke, and died.

  A thousand dollars worth of laptop.

  Gone.

  With my book on it.

  Again.

  I was starting to think that someone up there didn’t want me to publish the damn thing.

  When we got to the airport, having spent and given away the last of our Balinese currency, we discovered there was a departure tax – of 150,000 Indonesian Rupiahs each. And no, they didn’t take credit cards. I’ve been down this road before, I thought, as I hiked across the airport to the ATM’s. But at least this time I didn’t require an armed escort.

  All in all, I’ve had more successful holidays.

  In fact, I don’t think I’ve done anything less successful since I was sixteen years old, and I applied to be the Assistant PE Teacher at an all-girls high school.

  Bali stands apart in my memories as the only time I’ve ever been happy to be so severely injured that I couldn’t leave the room.

  I am never – EVER – going back there.

  Because you know what? You can’t even bring crossbows into Australia. Something to do with them being made of untreated wood.

  They confiscate the bloody things at the airport.

  The bastards!

  When we got back to Perth, we ran into a wall of concern from our friends and relatives. The news of the day was all about Bali; while we’d been in Kuta, a bunch of tourists had died there after drinking the free alcohol on offer in one of the bars. It was Arak, a potent Balinese liquor, that had been brewed illegally and watered down with poisonous methanol (anti-freeze).

  I felt terrible for the families of those unlucky tourists – whilst simultaneously feeling rather glad I’d been talked out of going clubbing.

  So it may not have been the greatest of holidays, but you know, it could have been worse.

  Life Underground

  Arriving back from Bali presented us with a series of dilemmas.

  Once again, all three of us were broke.

  Once again, we had nowhere to live.

  But perhaps the strangest thing of all, was this: we had no plans.

  For my whole time in Oz so far, there had always been a goal in sight. Travel up north in Rusty. Rescue Rusty from where we abandoned him up north. Complete the three months agricultural work we needed to extend our visas. Take a holiday.

  And now, for the first time, we had no pressing deadlines, no requirements beyond living, surviving, and having fun – and, consequently, we didn’t have a clue what to do.

  We moved back into the Underground backpackers hostel, and had a lucky break; paying for three beds in a four-bed dorm, we checked out our room on the second floor to find there were only two beds in it – a double, with a single bunk above it.

  Perfect!

  Well, the lack of privacy from each other wasn’t perfect, but separate rooms at these prices were simply out of the question.

  So, with our amazing holiday just a disappointing memory, we had to start planning anew. What would we do, in this vast land of Australia? Where would we go?

  Mum had given us the germ of an idea. She was saving up for a trip to visit us, and after a bit of discussion we decided the best place to meet her would be Sydney. Perth is so remote, and although we loved the place it would be a shame for Mum to make a once-in-a-lifetime trip to Oz, and not see all the famous sights.

  This gave us a rough direction; east, and a rough timescale of four months to get there.

  That had to be enough time! So long as we could find jobs…

  While we waited, Gill and Roo did a few shifts for the Canning (toilet) Cleaners, and I listened intently for the hostel pa system. Any time workers were needed, either by the hostel or by someone coming in and asking for them, the call would go out on the loudspeaker – and I regularly ran right over the top of people to be the first warm body on the scene. I was so eager for work, and put so much effort into the jobs I got, that pretty soon the hostel managers stopped advertising in-house jobs, and simply knocked on our door.

  They often put me to work under the supervision of the hostel handyman – a silver-haired ex-con known as Mex. I reckoned Mex to be in his early fifties, but he looked about eighty-five. His scrawny arms were covered in tattoos, all homemade, obviously done at school with a biro and a compass needle. Well, assuming biros were invented when Mex went to school…

  Mex was a crook.

  He was constantly telling me to slow down, so the work wouldn’t run out. He nearly had a heart attack when they called me on his day off and asked me to shovel building rubble out of two old bathrooms. They were being turned into new dorm rooms, and were ankle deep in old bricks and plaster. Gill and Roo pitched in, and between us we cleared the lot in a morning; I think old Mex had planned on taking a week. Maybe two.

  That crafty bugger ‘supervised’ me as I put together bunk beds and office cabinets, laid carpet and tiles, cleaned, painted, shovelled and sprayed. Because the work I did for the hostel was in exchange for money off our room, it got to the point where I’d built up enough free accommodation to keep a roof over all our heads for a month. Then Mike, the manager, started paying me in beer vouchers; soon after that I got my first bit of cash.

  But it wasn’t a real job. The girls were getting a couple of shifts a week each, and helping me with odd jobs around the hostel in between times. We were getting by – just.

  It was frustrating, as the weeks slipped past, to know that not only were we not saving any money, or making any progress towards our goal of driving Rusty eastwards, but we weren’t even living comfortably. Hell, we couldn’t even afford to drink!

  Along with a pool in the courtyard and an underground cinema room, Mike’s hostel had a bar. It made for a great place to hang out – for wasted Irishmen – and a great way to squeeze a bit more cash out (of wasted Irishmen). But for those of us whose plans included something other than sitting around the pool getting hammered from 10am onwards, it was a bit of a headache. We all like a drink, you see; we just couldn’t afford the bar’s prices. I had so many beer vouchers we could have taken a bath in the stuff – only, none of us liked beer. Everywhere else we’d stayed, we’d simply bought a cheap box of goon from the nearest bottle-o, and that would satisfy all three of us for days. But with a bar in place downstairs, it was now illegal to bring booze from the outside, in.

  So we enacted a plan so sneaky it could have been dead for the whole movie, and you’d never have known it until the last five minutes.

  Way back when I was learning to sail, I was given a very colourful piece of string to practice my knot-work. I have travelled with it ever since, out of a misplaced belief that always having a piece of string handy somehow transforms me into Bear Grylls. I’ve never used it. Firstly because it’s not much longer than a shoelace, and would never hold my weight. Secondly, because I’m not Bear Grylls – so I encounter very few situations where a piece of string could mean the difference between life and death. And thirdly, because if such an emergency ever does arise, my piece of string is perhaps a bit too colourful to be appropriate. Purple and yellow and green… rather gaudy. As in, Bear Grylls would rather die than admit to owning such a thing. So it stays in my bag most of the time. It’s there right now, in fact.

  Coincidentally, my sister has always travelled with a short length of red rope, which just might be due to the sage advice of her travel-hardened older brother. As far as I know, she has never used it either. I do seem to recall though, that it started life as a belt from one of her cuddly toys…

  Anyway. Once in a lifetime there comes a situation tailor
-made to provide vindication for people like me. A time to prove that carrying a very pretty piece of string from one side of the planet to the other says more about my preparedness than it does about my sexuality. And that time, was now.

  Our room on the second floor had a window overlooking the street. It also overlooked Roo, as she loitered on the pavement outside, trying her best not to look suspicious. Which was tough, as she’d insisted on putting the goon we’d bought inside her jacket as we walked past the front door of the hostel. “Just in case…” So, tall and skinny, with a dramatically protruding, perfectly square stomach, she was nervously hoping from foot to foot whilst glancing upwards and hissing “…hello?” – it wasn’t the most convincing of disguises, it has to be said.

  I strolled inside after Gill, doing my best ‘casual’ walk (which someone once said makes me look like Shaggy from Scooby Doo). We sauntered up to our room, flung open the window, and deployed our pride and joy; two rather colourful lengths of string fastened together, with three pillowcases knotted on for additional length. We heard a curse from Roo as her nervous fingers struggled to tie the end around the cask’s handles. And just like that – with a swift, double-handed yank from Gill and me – we had the booze up the side of the building and into the room. It was very nearly the perfect crime! Only a handful of people had walked past during the operation, and they’d stood on the corner watching our process with much amusement. Likewise, the people occupying the room below had thought it funny, rather than threatening, when four litres of cardboard-clad wine had bounced off their window on its way up the wall. A few other heads had appeared, protruding from nearby windows, as the cask made rather audible progress vertically. None of them seemed in a hurry to report us for it, though. Mostly, I imagined, they were thinking “Not a bad idea, that…”

  I’d never seen anyone winch booze in through a hostel window before this, but I saw it happen plenty of times afterwards. The outside of The Underground resembled a row of well-used freight elevators for the next couple of weeks, until some bright spark asked the off-duty receptionist to hold his six-pack while he went up to let down a rope made from his duvet cover. No-one else had string with them, of course! I can well imagine it puzzled the laundry staff, why every time they collected dirty sheets from the rooms facing the street, they were always tied together…