by Steve Deeks
Baring All Down Under
Hilarious Confessions of a Bewildered Backpacker
Steve Deeks
Copyright © 2016 Steve Deeks
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,
or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents
Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in
any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the
publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with
the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries
concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events
and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination
or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Matador®
9 Priory Business Park,
Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,
Leicestershire. LE8 0RX
Tel: 0116 279 2299
Email: [email protected]
Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador
Twitter: @matadorbooks
ISBN 9781785896606
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
Acknowledgements
Sarah Deeks and Diana Groves. Pat, Darren, Rob, Mark, Sam, Simon, Ben, Fraser, Joe, Tobias, Steve and Andy.
Contents
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1 – Arriving in Sydney
Chapter 2 – Cultural assimilation
Chapter 3 – Hostel debauchery
Chapter 4 – Homeless
Chapter 5 – A new home
Chapter 6 – Room 301
Chapter 7 – Messy nights
Chapter 8 – The Aussies
Chapter 9 – Hostel tensions
Chapter 10 – Minesweeping
Chapter 11 - Labouring
Chapter 11 – Crime Fighting
Chapter 13 – In the line of fire
Chapter 14 – Liverpool Council burns down
Chapter 15 – The streets
Chapter 16 – Out with a bang
Chapter 17 – Darwin
Chapter 18 – Chasing crocodiles
Chapter 19 – Cairns
Chapter 1 – Arriving in Sydney
I hate travelling. The thought of leaving my home comforts and all that comes with it – comfy bed, heating, television, home food, electricity, deluxe toilet paper and wash facilities, as well as much needed personal space, to name but a few – and swapping this with a vastly inferior environment on the other side of the world that you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy, had never remotely appealed to me.
While having been subjected on untold occasions to all of my sisters going on about their endlessly wonderful array of travel exploits across the globe, I had always maintained a smug dismissiveness to such deeds. In fact, to be more accurate, I had often openly scoffed in their faces, questioning why any right minded human would want to go and live in a hovel having spent a fortune to go to some far flung hell-hole thousands of miles away.
All those wonderful things you took for granted in your everyday life would suddenly be replaced by a diet of exhausting daily survival that would now see you forced to deal with a variety of issues you never even knew existed. Normal things like eating food would now become a laborious and, ultimately, deeply unsatisfying experience once you realised that the piece of meat you had just eaten was not beef, as you had been led to believe, but was in fact dog, or perhaps some other local delicacy such as rat or spider.
Then, before you knew what had hit you, your intestines would be in a state of disarray, prompting you to somehow awkwardly attempt to manage your embarrassing, and no doubt rather loud, bodily predicament in your shared toilet with nothing more than tracing-style paper to help you clean up the shocking mess you had created. All this, of course, while you were not even afforded your own designated area of self-pity to recover in, as you are shamelessly forced to share a vile room with an overwhelming collection of weird social retards who don’t even speak your language.
It was such scenarios – and let’s face it, there are countless of others where things could go horrifically wrong – that had always meant undergoing such a sojourn was unthinkable for me and represented something about as favourable as shaving my scrotum with a razor sharp blade, rather than a delightfully liberating foray through some idyllic paradise far, far away.
What was the point of it all anyway? Sure you may get some good weather and see some nice places but you can achieve the same by watching television and going on holiday. I always found that a two-hour flight to Spain once a year provided more than enough culture and travelling for me. I detested such things as camping and music festivals where I had seen enough of strange people’s anatomies and excretions to put anyone off this form of supposed pleasure for a lifetime, which I strongly associated with the pursuit of travelling.
As someone hitting age 30 I very much saw travellers as predominantly part of the younger bleary-eyed generation. The kind who were still idealistic enough to believe that one day the world would be equal and that war and starvation would soon become nothing more than an unfortunate distant memory. Either that or the fraternity was merely made up of hippies and self-indulgent pacifists who had convinced themselves they owed it to humanity to explore the wonders of the world, when really all they wanted was a long holiday away from the stress of normal life where they could get as pissed as they liked without anyone caring. In any case, I had always held the belief that I was, thankfully, the polar opposite to such misguided and deranged individuals.
Yet something changed. Though, I’m not for one second saying that I suddenly turned into a person from the above demographics. That would be unthinkable. But circumstances certainly led me on a direction to try something new. Out of the blue I found myself at a crossroads. With no ties I now had the opportunity to see what else was out there. It was either that or just continue to meekly surrender to the status quo. I had suddenly fostered a bold urge to break with the norm. At least, this was what I kept telling myself. Though, perhaps it just had more to do with my burning desire to escape the UK.
Whatever the reason for my itchy feet, it just somehow felt like this maybe the time to go somewhere else and try something new. Not being a natural linguist, though, and with it often levelled at me that I exhibit an astonishing lack of common sense, I at least hoped I ended up somewhere that vaguely understood me and that was pleasant.
So, after putting a blindfold on, I took a deep breath before bravely stabbing a pen into a map to see where I would be heading. After landing on Iraq and Libya, I shrugged off these not overly appealing destinations and quickly opted for one final thrust to decide my fate. I wearily pulled the blindfold off my face and looked down. I squinted awkwardly in a bid to establish the country my pen was sticking in to. Though, in truth, I could have done with a large magnifying glass, with the country’s size not much more than the ballpoint of my pen.
With my eye now firmly pressed against the map as I struggled to see the name, I was then met with severe difficulties in pronouncing its name. “Van-u-atu…Vanuatu,” I mumbled, scratching my he
ad. It’s fair to say I wasn’t over familiar with the country, which, as it turned out, was none other than one of the tiny pacific islands near Australia and New Zealand.
Following a short period of deliberation I decided that under the terms of my self-imposed agreement to go somewhere I could be understood, I would sadly have to forfeit Vanuatu and instead go to the nearest English speaking country – Australia.
So that was it then. I was officially heading Down Under. I felt strangely liberated, despite having absolutely no idea what was in store for me while, still, wrestling with whether I was in fact doing the right thing. After all, I had never done anything remotely like this before and I was only too aware of the endless possibilities of how things could quickly turn into a living hell. Nonetheless, I manfully did my best to banish such thoughts and figured I would just have to deal with whatever mud was inevitably thrown in my face. And, who knows, maybe even some good would come of this brave adventure I was embarking on.
Following a gruelling 24 hour journey from England which involved me nearly missing my flight, being treated like a member of the Taliban by airport security and spending half the trip sat next to a slimy obese man with arm pits so disgustingly smelly that a tramp would have been ashamed of them, I had now somehow made it against all the odds to my destination, Sydney, Australia.
Although exhausted and bewildered, I took a moment to reflect on my momentous feat of having actually arrived in the country the gods had handpicked for me – well, the nearest English speaking nation to where my pen had landed after several attempts.
After quickly scuttling away from my taxi, having accidentally smashed the door hard into a lamppost, I looked up through the dark drizzly sky at the dilapidated building I had booked into and began to wonder what on earth I was doing in such a far away land. Indeed, what had possessed me to think it was a good idea to stay in a hostel with a bunch of grubby backpackers, such as those loitering irritatingly out the front. I awkwardly picked up my dishevelled backpack I had acquired from a friend back home and summoning all my strength chucked it over my shoulders, causing me to fall back and almost stop breathing as it tightly strangled my neck.
I staggered across the road where I paused and sucked in a large quantity of warm smoggy air, readying myself to take on the hysterical backpackers who were plying themselves with alcohol, while showing a distinct lack of regard for those trying to get past by blocking the front door of the hostel - all as they polluted the air with a fog of thick smoke from their cigarettes.
I shrugged my shoulders before steamrolling through the herd, my sticking-out backpack sending several flying, causing them to squeal petulantly as they dropped their cherished smokes, bringing just a hint of a smile to my weary face. But the harsh reality of my predicament was now beginning to set in. With a purple face and sweat pouring down me like I’d just run a cross-country marathon in Africa barefooted, I made my way to reception where I patiently waited an eternity to be served, despite being the only one in the queue.
After a solid 20 minutes of standing politely in agony, the cheery but stupendously laidback bleach blond-haired receptionist finally saw fit to see what I was doing there. After all, it was now half past midnight. “G’day, can I help you mate?” he said curiously, managing to pull himself away from the naked pictures of women he was admiring on the internet. Patience wearing thin, I looked him in the eye dumbfounded by his appallingly slow service. “Yes you can help me you turd,” I smiled sarcastically, barely able to conceal my anger, while ready to collapse through exhaustion and strangulation. He paused and squinted his eyes. “Sorry, what mate?” Although disappointed he hadn’t heard my disparaging remark in hindsight it was probably just as well.
Just as I was about to launch into a lengthy rant about customer service etiquette I somehow managed to restrain myself at the last minute, perhaps fearing I would be turfed out onto the streets for being an obnoxious arsehole. “I’ve reserved a bed,” I muttered intensely instead. Thankfully he seemed to understand this simple instruction and confirmed my booking.
After being handed my key I made the agonising journey up the steep spiralled steps - with my backpack still suffocatingly around my neck - to the fourth level where after several wrong turns down dead-end corridors I was finally able to locate my room. I put the key into the door relieved I could finally drop my stuff off and get some sleep, before things took an ugly turn for the worse. “Whoops…shit…sorry,” I garbled in a state of shock, after catching a glimpse of something that no person of a rightful mind should ever have to witness as I entered the room. “What are you doing?” a male voice squealed embarrassedly, as he dived for cover. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Not knowing where to look, I awkwardly turned around at lightening pace and, after some difficulty, finally removed my backpack, as I tried to act normally like nothing had happened.
But this was no easy feat, especially having just walked in on a man who was sat on his lower bunk bed while crouched over a magazine that appeared to show a naked woman with her legs spread, all as the wonderfully oblivious male vigorously thrusted his manhood like he was shaking a champagne bottle having just won the Tour De France.
I had no idea how to break the ice after witnessing such an atrocity but was outraged that he could possibly be questioning what I was doing when in reality it should have been the other way around. I decided it best to try and a draw a line under what had just occurred. “Hello, I’m new in the room,” I said cautiously, fearing that I was sharing a four-bed dorm with a hardened pervert. “I would shake your hand but….umm…anyway I’m off to the toilet.” And without a hint of eye contact I abruptly left the room stunned at the disgusting turn of events.
When I returned a short while later, still struggling to come to terms with my sordid roommate’s nocturnal activities, I decided the only thing I could do was to try and make a joke of it, but was left surprised by his reaction. “Sorry about that,” he began casually, as if I’d only walked into the room while he was in his underwear and not, as it had turned out, been forced to witness a full-on self mutilation show of his private area. “Although you came in without knocking I should take better care when…you know?” he said, nodding to his genital region in a nonchalant manner that suggested he is rather partial to beating one out in public scenarios.
Despite being unable to banish the torturous images in my head of his hand reverberating over his throbbing anatomy – and the inevitable quick slapping noise that followed – I somehow maintained the pretence that nothing out of the ordinary had taken place. “No problem, hope I didn’t interrupt anything,” I joked.
He gave a forced laugh, before his face turned serious. “It’s ok I finished off when you went to the toilet.” I smiled politely thinking he was fooling around, before spotting the sinister look on his face. This person was weird.
The room had a musty, lingering smell, which under the circumstances was not that surprising. There were crumpled clothes, shoes and an assortment of other items that covered the whole floor, including the pornographic magazine that was as wide open as the woman’s legs on the double page spread. The man, whose name I had by now established as Steffan, an Austrian, saw me spot the magazine. “It’s not mine,” he laughed defensively. “It belongs to one of the other guys in the room but he doesn’t mind if others use it,” he added, shrugging his shoulders.
“Well that’s very kind of him,” I replied tentatively, wondering if I had booked into a sperm donation centre instead of a hostel.
Steffan nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, sometimes you need to let off steam in a shithole like this.”
“Yes I can imagine,” I smiled, as I felt myself drawn into staring at the vast array of large pus craters on his hideous face, reminding me once again of the truism that god did not create us all equally.
I had been informed in England of some of the sordid tales that were alleged to take place in hostels, but not one of those included seeing a stranger’s erect manhood being sh
aken up like a cocktail as the deviant ogled over a stuck together porn magazine in a room full of strangers. I was beginning to have serious reservations about travelling to the other side of the world already. So despite previously thinking that at my maturing age of 30 I had done the right thing by taking the plunge to come Down Under, I instead started to feel that I shouldn’t have come here at all, and began longing for the snowy dark island I had left. And I was barely two hours into a potential 12-month stay.
Feeling drained following an eventful start to hostel life I decided to try and get some sleep. I climbed into the vacant top bunk and closed my eyes wondering what I had let myself in for, while also praying that I wasn’t awoken in the early hours to the sound of Steffan’s wrist.
It was an odd, unnatural feeling to be sleeping in a room with a bunch of strangers. If the first man was a sexual deviant then how could I be sure the other two weren’t even worse? Obviously one of them owned the porno, which at least meant theoretically he was unlikely to be interested in me, but as for the other one he could have been someone who craved intimacy with men for all I knew. And as fresh meat, lying with my bottom at head level on the top bunk, I was only too aware of my vulnerability. Nonetheless, I tried to put these horrific thoughts out of my mind before pulling the thin sheet over me and eventually drifting off to sleep on the rock-hard bed.
I awoke several hours later in a disorientated cold sweat, initially thinking the previous night had all been one big nightmare, before realising that I really was staying in a down market hostel dorm on the other side of the world where I knew no one. After reaching to check my shorts hadn’t been pulled down by an opportunist, which thankfully they hadn’t, I jumped down from the top bunk desperate to go to toilet, before landing on an object that surprisingly turned out to be someone’s foot. “Ouch,” a deep pained voice shrieked. I looked round and discovered there was a colossal bloke squeezed into the bunk, who for some reason had his legs spread out across the floor area where I had just landed. “That was my foot,” he winced.