Hilarious Confessions of a Bewildered Backpacker

by Steve Deeks

  After a pause, as I weighed up whether to apologise or slap him round the face for stupidly parking his giant foot in such a hazardous position, I went against my natural instincts and opted for a diplomatic approach. After all, he did appear to be in considerable pain. “That must have hurt,” I replied stating the obvious, not knowing what else to say, before quickly scuttling off to the toilet, which was fast becoming an escape haven from my roommates.

  On my return I expertly avoided the conversation of his foot and instead turned to safer topics as we went through the formal introductions. His name was Greg. He was from New Zealand and judging from the glazed and cumbersome look on his bulky face, not to mention the smell of stale booze, he liked a drink. Although friendly enough, it was quickly apparent that he wouldn’t be winning any awards for academic brilliance. Every sentence he spoke seemed to take an age, as he paused blankly scratching his head hoping that his brain would eventually kick into gear so he could remember what he was saying. “We should go out and get shit faced some time?” the giant Kiwi suggested as the conversation drew to a close. With few other options I agreed in principle to his proposition.

  Once dressed, I thought I would do some exploring and wandered aimlessly into the city. Ravenously hungry, I decided to treat myself to an $11 spicy meat sandwich and drink from a continental café. It seemed rather pricey, especially given the fact there was a stark lack of meat between the thin slices of bread. After being robbed of my cash I then strolled down the hectic George Street, joining the flock of people curiously studying the smashed up bus that had decided for some reason to use a lamppost to stop.

  Continuing my jaunt, I popped into a barber’s shop to get a quick short back and sides from an old Italian man, whose friendliness almost made up for the fact he left me with two giant holes on each side of my head. Insult was then added to injury as he hustled me out of $16 for the speedy botch job. Everything felt so expensive, probably because it was. But also because the actual figures of items were that much higher than in the UK. So, with the exchange rate as it was, for example, the haircut would have cost around £11 back home, which for some reason seemed a lot better than handing over $16, even though the difference would have been loose change that is gladly dispensed in a charity box.

  This was an oddity I knew I would struggle to come to terms with, as well as the fact their notes were strikingly familiar to monopoly money, which somehow made it feel as though they weren’t really worth much. It was nice to see the Queen’s face plastered across them, though, which helped me feel slightly more at home.

  To cheer myself up and in an attempt to compensate for being royally ripped off so far, I popped into a Seven Eleven shop to take advantage of the $1 coffees – a far more agreeable economic level for me. I ordered a cappuccino and while waiting patiently in line for it to be poured decided to treat myself further by indulging in a chocolate donut. After handing over the requested amount of money I walked out a contented man, especially when it appeared there had been no extra charge for the donut. “That’s kind of them, it must have been a special offer,” I figured, before pausing, having considered there could have been a mix up. But with time pressing on I took a huge mouth-watering bite of my fresh donut and merrily walked off.

  Strolling around the city was challenging especially when crossing the road, where cars were allowed to cut in front of you if turning despite there being a green man - as long as the driver deemed there was a big enough gap between themselves and the pedestrians, which naturally they often did. This concept struck me as strangely trusting of the motorist. Surely where there was potential conflict between a person and a two tonne lump of fast moving metal you would think it right to give the benefit to the vulnerable human to avoid them being mowed down repeatedly every day. Not here though.

  But in fairness the system did seem to work quite well with drivers, who even if they had gone for a gap that wasn’t quite there, would often quickly halt so the pedestrians wouldn’t be smashed to the floor, which was dam decent of them. Of course, it would have been unthinkable if there wasn’t the odd exchange of hand gestures and expletives from either party on such occasions.

  I walked past the giant World Square skyscraper and down Pitt Street – the second most prominent road in the city that ran parallel with the pre-eminent George Street – before stumbling across Elizabeth Street and onto the greenery of Hyde Park, where clusters of people basked happily in the warm sunshine. The park was spacious and dotted with water fountains, war monuments and statues. The standout one being the distinguished looking Captain James Cook, the Englishman who officially discovered Australia in 1770. As I peered up at this towering figure it seemed a strange notion to think of Australia as a country not even 250 years old yet, especially coming from Britain, a country many centuries older where history is bursting at the seams around every corner you turn. But, of course, is infinitely smaller geographically than this vast, sparse continent that only has a population of 22 million.

  Despite official records dating the country’s infancy to the Captain Cook era, followed by the subsequent colonial period where criminals from Britain were sent to Australia as punishment for their crimes, it is impossible to consider the country without thinking of the Aboriginals - the indigenous people of the land. Having heard so much about them and of the social problems they faced I was surprised by how few I saw around the city. There was just one, in fact, who I witnessed marching around barefooted, stopping traffic as he blindly crossed the road with his feet caked in black dirt, before scrummaging in bins and picking up tiny cigarette butts from the floor.

  A short while later, I spotted him laying down laughing inconsolably to himself on the busy pavement with his arms and legs raised fully in the air as he swigged a large bottle of vodka. People were casting odd stares and shaking their heads as they stepped around or over him before continuing about their business. The only good thing you could say about this was that at least the man seemed happy with his lot. But I suppose that’s the beauty of getting endlessly leathered on spirits.

  Feeling weary after all the walking I had done, I stepped into the nearest pub I could find for a drink. After some intense internal debate over whether to go for a soft refreshment or something more daring, I ended up doing the respectable manly thing and ordering a beer. After all, it was vital that I got to grips with the local culture as soon as possible.

  “I think you’ve made a mistake,” I announced righteously, disturbed by the pathetically small glass of beer the barman eventually served me.

  “That’s a scooner mate,” he replied indignantly.

  I looked blankly into his hairy face. “A what?” I said, convinced there had been a big misunderstanding.

  He shook his head like I was the biggest moron the world had ever known. “A scooner,” he continued, getting increasingly exasperated. “It’s the biggest quantity we can serve you here. It’s what we drink beer out of in Australia.”

  “Really? That’s a bit girly isn’t it?” I hit back, forgetting where I was. The reality now kicking in that the lovely pint I had hoped for had been replaced by a pale imitation that was much smaller, no more than two thirds of a pint, I would hazard a guess at. “Everyone must spend all their time at the bar with these?” I added seriously. But sensed the barman mistook it as sarcasm.

  “No mate it’s so the beer doesn’t go warm because it’s not freezing cold in this country.”

  I got the impression the cheeky old-timer was mocking the climate of England – how dare he? – so I was left with no choice but to launch a knock out counter punch. “Well it’s freezing cold inside buildings here with your Antarctic air conditioning so I’m sure the beer wouldn’t go cold, therefore you could have pints. I do think scooners are a good option for women though.” I smiled smugly and quickly moved away from the bar before becoming embroiled in a needless fight with a pensioner about drink sizes.

  Not wanting to outstay my welcome at the tavern, I left abrupt
ly after finishing my inadequately sized, but not too disgusting beer, and continued my saunter along the street when, all of a sudden, I spotted the iconic Sydney Harbour Bridge in the blue sky a short distance away. I felt instantly compelled to head for the much decorated building.

  After a longer than expected walk I finally found myself within throwing distance of the bridge, before spending the next half an hour haplessly trying to figure out how to actually access the dam thing, as there were a myriad of small, confusing streets, all of which seemed to take me anywhere but to where I wanted.

  Once I had finally found my way on to the bridge I was met by stunning views overlooking the harbour - the largest in the world. The city looked so different from up here, with even the skyscrapers not appearing so domineering. I was also struck by just how big the construction was - the widest of its type in the world - which carries rail, vehicular, bicycle and pedestrian traffic. Opened in 1932, it provides a direct link from the central business district (CBD) to north Sydney and is immeasurably quicker to get across than if you went by ferry, though perhaps not as fun.

  Maybe I was suffering from vertigo but for a second I even considered doing the famous bridge climb for the not so affordable price of $175 - where an instructor guides you up the shell of the bridge to the peak – before I slapped myself round the face having realised I didn’t have a spare $200 or so to burn. Instead I settled for the much better priced $20 pylon tour, where you walk up the inside of a supporting structure which tells you all about the history of the bridge, before you reach an outside lookout point at the top having vigorously worked your calf, thigh and hamstring muscles. Although not as high as the bridge climb, it was still high enough and left me with that giddy feeling when looking across the harbour.

  Despite the hefty wind that was blowing through my ears like a whistle, I bravely walked around all four corners of the pylon, stopping at each before putting on a brave face and pulling out my cheap and pathetically small mobile phone from which I began taking pictures on. All while stood next to tourists who plucked out top of the range, purpose built digital cameras, probably worth several hundred times more than what my measly phone retailed at. Before departing, and to offer myself some light relief, I made sure I featured in the background of some people’s portrait shots, using an array of creative hand gestures, before slyly retreating into the distance with them none the wiser that their special once-in-a-lifetime picture would forever be tarnished by my appearance.

  I made the short walk to the Opera House and stood there staring curiously at it, unsure what to make of this intriguing but slightly odd creation. I was informed by a member of staff that it was something called a “modern expressionist design” – whatever that is? - and was regarded as one of the most pioneering and distinctive creations of the 20th century. It was certainly one of the strangest. This overwhelming sense of self-worth was further heightened by the fact that it staggeringly seated just under 6,000 people in its multi-arena capacity.

  Furthermore, I was told, it was one of the busiest performing art centres in the world with more than 1,500 events each year attended by over a million people. It was, of course, also one of Australia’s most popular tourist attractions, with up to seven million people visiting it each year. To add to its prestige it was opened by Queen Elizabeth in 1973 and was situated on the north-eastern tip of the Central Business District peninsula, surrounded by three sides of the harbour, while being adjacent to the Harbour Bridge.

  But despite all its grandeur and the fact it was widely considered to be a beacon of architectural brilliance, I found that it looked remarkably like a succession of shark fins. At first I thought this was a deliberate and clever ploy by the designers. After all when you think of Australia, sharks are right near the top of the list, along with kangaroos, spiders, Crocodile Dundee and Shane Warne. But to then go and erect a national landmark in the style of one of your most prominent types of wildlife seemed to be going too far, even by quirky Aussie standards.

  Unsure if the selection of roof tops were indeed shark fins or not, I sought out a helpful member of staff for clarification. “No mate,” he said politely. Once he had stopped laughing. “They are sphere concrete shells. But, yeah, I can see what you mean now actually,” he added kindly, after studying the layout for a few seconds. At least there was some vindication for my interpretation and I could not be deemed a complete fool, even if it had been something of a token gesture from the man.

  In any event, the Opera House hadn’t quite had the scintillating affect on me that it appeared to have on other overly excited tourists, who fought and wrestled each other for prime photo positions, despite there being enough space for several football pitches around it. Perhaps my insipidness was because I couldn’t shake off the thought it looked eerily like shark fins, or maybe it was due to the fact it was an epicentre of opera, which I had about as much interest in as water polo.

  Plus the building itself was only six years older than me, which meant it wasn’t very old in the grand scheme of civilisation and therefore couldn’t compete with the aura, for example, of visiting the Colosseum in Rome, the Tower of London or other such places steeped in history. But with a country that comparatively resembles that of a small child this was always going to be one of the drawbacks. Having looked at the building from all possible angles I made the tiring walk back to the hostel feeling good in the knowledge that I had at least ticked off seeing some of the iconic places up close that the country had to offer. I didn’t think I would be back to see them for a while, though.

  Chapter 2 – Cultural assimilation

  Following a leisurely lunch and stroll in the city I entered the room later that afternoon where Greg was sat on his bed fiddling intently with his backpack. “I thought you were playing with something else then for a minute,” I joked, prompting him to look up blankly, oblivious to the sordid incident I had had the misfortune of witnessing on my arrival, but also, apparently, unsure of whom I was.

  After several long confusing seconds with him staring at me it appeared to slowly start coming back to him. “I met you before right?” he asked hesitantly.

  “Oh god he’s a nutter,” I thought, wondering how he could have forgotten a conversation that only took place a day ago. “Yes, I jumped on your foot, remember?” I said motioning from my bunk to the floor.

  He paused thoughtfully for a few seconds. “Oh yeah, I thought my foot was a bit painful.” The penny had seemingly dropped. “Sorry I was still pissed then. You fancy getting on it?”

  I glanced about the filthy, bleak room - my new home - and figured I needed a drink. “Why not?” I replied, knowing there was nothing better to do in this dump. So off we went to the liquor store to get some booze, where my education on the alcoholic habits of backpackers began.

  “This is the only drink you’ll need out here,” Greg announced like a seasoned backpacker, or alcoholic. Though I was beginning to see there wasn’t much difference between the two. “This stuff is cheap and will get you off your head.” He pointed warmly at a four-litre box that had casked wine inside. “I’ve had so many good nights on this stuff, though you do feel like you’re dying the next day. But once you start drinking it again everything’s ok.”

  We got back to the room where Greg ripped the box apart and pulled the sack of wine out, which looked remarkably like a blow-up cushion, and was as squidgy as one too. With a couple of plastic cups nearby he poured out the urine coloured warm wine and swallowed a large gulp, before urging me to do the same. “It tastes like rat’s piss,” I said wincingly, having forced it down. But then, after a few sips it began to flow with greater ease, though still retaining its intrinsic revulsion. “It’s made with fish eggs,” Greg declared curiously, as he polished off his first cupful. It was hard to know if the Kiwi was insane sometimes but I got the impression he may have been telling the truth on this occasion. I checked the box, which duly confirmed this strange fact, adding to the dubiousness of this popular backpacke
r drink, endearingly known as “goon” in colloquial speech.

  After mingling with a few of Greg’s acquaintances in the common area we headed out into the bright lights of the city where we ended up at an infamous Irish pub called Scruffy Murphy’s – a place full of blind drunk people joyfully (in the most part, unless they were trying to start a fight) spilling their drinks everywhere, as they jigged and sang to the raucous band music. I felt like I had suction pads on the bottom of my shoes as I struggled to walk across the sticky floor, caused by a sea of alcohol spillages from the less than sober patrons.

  We had a couple of drinks before making our way downstairs where there was a large dance area. Greg, to my surprise, was itching to get involved and before long took his balky frame to the centre where he rather conspicuously began performing break-dance moves, which involved him parking his big frame on the floor with his knees crossed, before spinning around repeatedly like I would imagine a demented asylum escapee would. It was excruciatingly embarrassing to watch and I felt a stabbing pain of humiliation through my association with him. Unsurprisingly, therefore, I made sure I stood as far away as possible at the bar.

  Greg was in a state of ecstasy and his bizarre antics had incredibly helped him to interact with members of the opposite sex. I looked over and saw him twirling a girl acrobatically over his head – no easy feat, considering her abnormal size - before getting a dressing down by security, who presumably feared for the woman’s safety had her colossal weight collapsed on the floor from such a height. A few moments later the Kiwi had his tongue stuffed down her throat like he was fervently licking an ice cream. And then, as if he hadn’t already gone far enough, he pushed his hand up her baggy skirt - which looked remarkably reminiscent of a giant dustbin bag - with his arm thrusting backwards and forwards like a pneumatic drill. All of this, naturally, was in full view of everyone dancing. It was far from a pleasant sight, but did provide onlookers with ample entertainment.