Hilarious Confessions of a Bewildered Backpacker

by Steve Deeks

  The captain, a rugged individual evidently hardened by years in the bush, didn’t mince his words as we were given the safety chat. “If you fall in I won’t be coming to get you; if you stick an arm out the window and it gets tugged off by a croc I won’t be helping you. So ladies and gentleman I suggest you don’t do anything stupid because I don’t know about you lot but I like having my arms and legs,” he announced dryly.

  Several minutes later, as we slowly meandered along, holding our breath in anticipation, the wait for our first encounter was finally over. “Here the little ripper comes,” the captain announced, though I didn’t feel describing this 12ft monster as little somehow did it justice. A large chunk of meat was attached to a rod, which was then dangled above the water to entice the crocodile to jump up and eat it. All of this within touching distance of us. I was having a kind of out of body experience watching this prehistoric beast close-up, being teased like a kitten with a plastic mouse. Appearing to grow irritated, having repeatedly been made a fool out of, the crocodile then forcefully wriggled upwards with half its body out of the water as it positioned itself to pounce, before finally snapping off the bleeding raw meat as it withdrew sinisterly beneath the water surface.

  “And that’s why ladies and gentleman you do not want to be in the water,” the captain helpfully added. “These babies have anything from 3,000 to 5,000lbs of biting force behind them and will rip you apart in seconds.” You didn’t need to be an expert with decades of experience to appreciate that, especially having just seen its feeding habits at close quarters.

  We continued down river in silence, intently focusing to see if we could spot the next man-eater, all the while having to perform double-takes unsure if we had just seen a still crocodile in the muggy waters, before realising it was actually a floating log. Soon, though, we were inundated with them. Mark was like a kid in a sweet shop. “Get a shot of me,” he yelped excitedly, handing me his camera to take a picture of him grinning crazily as a crocodile jumped up to get some meat in the background.

  So the journey continued. By the end of the two-hour trip we must have come across a dozen or so crocodiles, all of which were made to work hard for their lunch. You almost felt a bit sorry for the ones who had tried in vain to snatch the meat but after becoming weary at their repeated failed attempts gave in and scuttled off, presumably deciding it was easier just to wait at the water’s edge for some poor unsuspecting animal instead.

  I clambered off the boat happy I was still alive and able to tick off another item from my Australian adventure. Everyone was excitedly studying their crocodile photos, still seemingly in awe at what they had just seen. While I was proud of some of my pictures – in particular the one of me giving thumbs up by the window where a giant crocodile was just behind me – I have to admit I felt a bit croc’d-out having seen so many of them, and had no desire to see any more vertical wriggling. As a friend in Sydney remarked, “After you’ve seen it once you’ve seen it all.” Nonetheless, it had been a remarkable experience and, moreover, I was still around to tell the tale.

  After sitting about in the shaded hut refreshing ourselves and marvelling over our once in a lifetime experience, it was time for the group to head off to Litchfield National Park. Clearly worn out by all the crocodiles, I awoke on the mini bus as we pulled into our destination, noticing just the faintest hint of dribble down my top from my slumber – something I was fairly prolific at when travelling in public. We made our way to a sheltered picnic area close to a stunning waterfall and contently began our feed while gazing out at this idyllic retreat.

  Not all of the group were having a good time, though. It had all been too much for one obese, stressed out man in his 50s I had noticed nervously shivering earlier. Bizarrely, he was still on the bus as the rest of us tucked in to our sandwiches. “He just wants to go home…didn’t want to be here in the first place,” Mick announced with a disappointed shrug of his shoulders, having just counselled the petrified individual. “Hopefully he’ll stop being such a big girl’s blouse and join us.” We didn’t hold our breath.

  But then out of the blue the man gingerly walked over and cautiously helped himself to a child-size portion of food. He was shaking like a leaf and would utter a kind of grunt as his preferred method of communication. He obviously wasn’t in good shape and you couldn’t help but feel a bit for him. That’s unless you were Mick, who had taken it as a personal affront – delivering the odd barbed comment and dismissive raising of the eyebrow at what he perceived as not very manly behaviour - of his touring work that a customer absolutely detested being on his safari trip. After a few minutes the man returned to the sanctuary of the mini-bus to be alone, still shaking like he was in Antarctica.

  I had been under the impression we would be off exploring the area via the use of our feet when Mick chirpily declared, “Ok everybody strip off we’re going in the lagoon for a swim.” I looked for confirmation over at the others for what I thought I’d heard, which unfortunately I had. Following some hesitation people began to make their way to the bus to collect their swimwear before going to change in the toilets. “You seriously going in?” I asked Mark.

  “We all are,” he replied sharply.

  “I had no knowledge of this,” I added with stunned snobbishness, feeling as though there had been some kind of conspiracy. ”I don’t even have a towel.”

  Mark stopped what he was doing before looking at me and rolling his eyes. “Well you should have been listening when we booked it then. Stop being such a woman and get changed.”

  “In to what?”

  “It’s your birthday isn’t it? Put your birthday suit on!”

  Although I don’t think Mick would have cared less had I gone in naked – and may have respected me even more for my brave masculinity had I opted to go in tackle-out in front of everyone – it was not even an option as far as I was concerned, despite the baiting I was now getting from a few others. As I attempted to figure out my plan of action a sudden downpour hit the area. Despite my attempts to run for cover I got drenched. I figured I was wet already so reluctantly decided I may as well go in having been shat on by the heavens. I took my dripping wet boxer shorts off – in the toilets of course – and put my white football shorts back on. This, a pair, I had been self conscious of wearing, with it not leaving anything to the imagination once out of the water. The shorts also had the disadvantage of leaving me desperately trying to push them away from my body when becoming so tight my genitals would feel like there was a vacuum viciously sucking against them.

  With events conspiring against me I was now the only person not yet in the lagoon: a tropical hideaway the size of two football pitches, surrounded by giant waterfalls and an imposing cliff-face. As I neared the water’s edge I spotted a warning sign: “When the creek floods…saltwater crocodiles move in.” If it already seemed a bad idea to go in, then now there could be no doubting that it was just sheer madness. “Mick have you seen this sign?” I said pointing at the crocodiles underneath the warning.

  “Oh yeah, no need to worry there mate. It’s unlikely they’ll be in here yet, what with it still being the dry season.”

  It was hardly the confidence booster I was looking for, particularly as he had failed to rule out the possibility of the killer predator’s presence, not to mention the fact it seemed odd to still be calling it the dry season when there had been a series of monsoons since my arrival. “I heard we were already in the wet season as it came a bit early this year? It has been torrential rain the last few days.”

  Mick looked me in the eye, giving me a playful smile. “True but it should be fine. They shouldn’t be here for a few weeks yet.”

  “Shouldn’t?” I hit back abruptly.

  “Yeah that’s right, they shouldn’t be here yet.” I could see I wasn’t getting anywhere with this discussion.

  I had come to the conclusion that Mick didn’t especially value life, or his job for that matter. “There was a case last year where some people came
down here in the wet season; one bloke was lucky to only lose a leg from a croc attack. The bloody idiots shouldn’t have been down here then,” our helpful tour guided suddenly informed us. If he had been trying to calm my fears it didn’t work. In fact it made me feel a whole lot worse. But at least Mick showed an awareness of when and when not you should be using the lagoon, which gave me the tiniest crumb of comfort.

  In danger of being branded in the same bracket as the quivering shell of a man on our mini-bus I removed all items apart from my shorts and slowly edged my way in to the murky water whilst being mocked as a “girl” by Mark for my cautious approach. The majority of the group had already made their way around the side of the lagoon toward the giant waterfalls, while a small group of five had waited. “Ok I’ll be doing a bit of a tour for you toughies, while the rest of the sissies stay here.” It was becoming a habit for Mick to make these sudden announcements, and with my separation from the rest of the group I was left with little or no option but to go along with his mystery tour.

  “Follow me,” Mick said, pointing to dark waters on the edge of the lagoon. “Nothing stupid, though, people…someone drowned in that spot last week.” The stuff that came out of his mouth rarely failed to shock. I resigned myself to the possibility I may not make it back alive. “If I die, I die,” I said to myself gloomily. Despite that, I made sure I was as close to Mick as possible – so close in fact that I kept getting his foot in my mouth - and not propping up the group, where god only knew what could be lurking to pounce.

  We swam to the edge of the lagoon where we stood up on some slippery mud. “We need to slide on our bellies in to the pool,” Mick whispered, as if to make sure we didn’t disturb anything. There was a narrow bog that had overgrown bushes to either side, which we would somehow be going under, before coming to a tight gully. To make matters worse there were cobwebs everywhere that we would be forced to slide under, with a sprinkling of multi-coloured spiders of significant size, although quite spindly, that we would have to navigate past. As a renowned spider hater this was not a situation I wanted to be in.

  Always one for the unexpected, Mick grabbed one of the unsuspecting beasts from its web and put it in his mouth, before chomping away and contently swallowing, as a cheeky smirk appeared on his face. “Not bad,” he announced, admiring the natural cuisine in the bush. “Anyone else want one?” Open-mouthed, the rest of us looked at one another in disbelief, slowly shaking our heads to indicate that we would not be taking up his offer. I was beginning to question my judgment in entrusting my life with a person who munched on what appeared to be poisonous spiders like they were a piece of sirloin steak.

  We slid crocodile-like in to the gully one by one. “Ok, now listen,” Mick whispered, his body frozen still, as his eyes moved around in all directions, scoping out the terrain with impenetrable concentration. “Keep your eyes out for the freshies, we don’t want to disturb them.” Typical Mick. He had helpfully elected to tell us that there may be freshwater crocodiles – the smaller more timid relative of the “salties” which can still grow to the not insignificant size of just under 10ft - but only after there was no going back. “Haven’t there been cases of them attacking people?” I anxiously queried on learning of this sudden development, doing my best to sound reasoned, while looking tough. “Yeah there have been a couple but they only came away with a few scrapes,” came the casual reply.

  How I wished Mick would just lie to me, pretending that such a thing had never happened. “They’re more frightened of us,” he added, which did nothing to dampening my fears of being mauled. (According to reports there have been two cases of humans being attacked by freshwater crocodiles, leaving the victims with puncture wounds. It is thought the crocodiles were defending themselves after the people happened to swim above them without knowing).

  We slowly swam down the creek: Mick hoping we would find a freshie, while I hoped we would not. But even if we didn’t there were still all kinds of other things inhabiting the billabong, including toads and snakes. Thankfully, to spare my blushes, especially with Mark acting like a seasoned veteran of creek swimming, the two brave girls in our group also seemed reluctant to see one of these friendlier crocodiles. We continued along for a few minutes, and just as I was beginning to feel claustrophobic down the narrow stream, we navigated beneath some bushes and found ourselves back in the lagoon. Mick ushered us in the direction of the waterfalls where at least I could find solace on the rocks, rather than wondering what poisonous or man-eating creature was eyeing me up beneath the water.

  The swim over to the rocks felt like the same distance as running a marathon, with my anxiety not helped when the largest toad I’d ever seen in my life – the length from my hand to my elbow (well, not far off) - overtook me like I was going backwards, before swimming off smugly, revelling in his superiority. I don’t like being outdone at the best of times, but certainly not by a toad.

  Finally, we made it over to the rocks and before I’d barely had a chance to collect myself, Mick and the rest of the group had climbed up the slippery, jagged rock-face and in to a mini plunge pool that had water pouring into it from above. Shouting demandingly for me to join them up the hazardous rocks, I ignored their repeated cries and wallowed in the relative safety of where I was perched. My irritation, though, was once again pricked as the same giant toad as before swam gloatingly back past me, as if to mock me further.

  When the others climbed down from above we ventured off once more, exploring the rocky terrain and riding down stream, before plunging in to a series of mini lagoons. Throughout the whole experience I’d rarely felt so petrified yet exhilarated at the same time, and in my own peculiar way I felt akin to Crocodile Dundee. There had been some hairy moments, such as when I thought something was tugging on my foot, only to discover it was Mark doing a feeble impression of a crocodile. But I felt a great sense of achievement at having conquered the creek and remaining with my life intact. “You made it,” Mick joked.

  We spent the remainder of the tour exploring the vast tropical beauty of the area, making our way high up in to the rainforest, studying historic sites and magnetic termite mounds, which looked like giant tombstones, before we wearily made our way back to the mini-bus.

  There was a sense of playful camaraderie amongst the group – well, apart from the man who was still in a state of shock - as we headed back to Darwin. We stopped off half way to a country shop with an adjoining bar, which myself, Mark and a few others took advantage of before hitting the road again.

  I was the last one back on the bus after braving the outside toilet facilities that were awash with cobwebs. As I climbed on board, much to my total surprise, the whole bus broke in to a rendition of happy birthday, making feel like I was ten years old again. Mark had let the cat out of the bag, no doubt to embarrass me. I had to endure about a minute of humiliation as everyone (apart from the shaking man) sang the catchy anthem at the top of their voices, including Mick who used the microphone for extra volume. I was hoping it might have slipped Mark’s mind to inform Mick of what day it was, especially in amongst all the crocodile hunting and exploring. But fair play to him, he was never one to miss an opportunity to take the piss out of someone.

  “So how old are you?” Mick bellowed over the microphone, after the singing had finally died down. With barely a pause, and I suppose to get my own back on the group, I announced with a hint of mock regret at the amassing years, “I’m 24 Mick, thanks”. Once again it felt good to be lying about my age. The joke was now on everyone else, they just didn’t know it. Amusingly, following my fake sorrowful public declaration, I was then met with a variety of comforting responses, from those naïve enough to believe me. “You don’t look 24,” a young German girl said.

  “Don’t worry 24 is still young,” a mid twenties English woman, who perhaps should have known better, helpfully added, trying to bolster my confidence at my unforgiving age. I couldn’t believe how blindly they had all fell for it, and were now even trying to gi
ve me a boost. “Thanks everyone for your support,” I replied with a quivering voice and a tear in my eye.

  The rest of the journey back to Darwin managed to pass without further incident. We arranged to meet up with some of the group in the city at the notorious backpacker venue, The Victoria bar, where the plan was to get some food before drinking as much alcohol as our bodies would allow.

  The thought of beer had galvanised myself and Mark in to getting ready in quick-time. We walked out of the hostel invigorated following a much needed wash after a tough day in the bush. Striding purposefully down the street to our destination, we marched up to the bar ordering two jugs of beer to go with our steak and chips.

  Several of the group filtered in to the bar and joined our table. Mark had very kindly got me a birthday card and, in the interests of further humiliation, insisted I wore the massive “Happy Birthday” badge on my top. Despite my repeated efforts of removing it when in the toilet or at the bar, thanks to my friend it had become a major talking point with everyone now acutely aware if it was absent from my top. I decided that wearing the badge drew less attention than not wearing it so I begrudgingly put the item – which had a crazy smiling cow on it – back on, and tried to blank out its existence. “Special Steve, now everyone will know it’s your special day,” Mark laughed, in the type of patronising voice that adults speak to toddlers.

  As the drinking continued to flow the night’s festivities in the bar soon got underway. The music (all those cheesy club classics that made me wish I’d never been born) was in full swing, rendering all conversation totally futile thanks to the absurd level of volume. And, of course, no backpacker night would be the same without the jerk on the microphone, hyping up the already hysterical crowd with games and jokes better suited to primary school children.

  I was happily minding my own business when out of nowhere a girl, frenetically involved in some juvenile game, ran over to our table and nominated me for something. I had no idea what was going on. Mark had been selected as well, and after jumping up was making his way with relish toward the stage. In a state of confusion, I looked around the table for guidance, only to be met with urgent gesticulations for me to go to the stage. I decided to pretend I didn’t know what they meant and threw open my arms in puzzlement, but by now I had two of our group pushing me off my stool and in the direction of the stage.