Cliff Diving / Hostel Hostility (16/11/2013)

16^th November, 2013 – “Cliff Diving / Hostel Hostility”

The day began a tame one. We awoke with minor headaches from the activities of the previous evening. A few sips of Irn Bru got us back on our feet.

After a rush to make some perinaise chicken sandwiches, we left at 11.00am or thereabouts, and the ten of us squeezed into Vaughan’s white Landcruiser. Vaughan is the owner of Pirates Backpackers; a gentleman who had offered us an afternoon of food and drinks in his boat. Arriving at the docks, we were surrounded by some of the most beautiful custom-built houses we’d ever seen. 10 minutes later, and with some degree of difficulty passing crates of the local brew over the bow of the ship, we were on board and relaxing with a cold one on the top deck. A half hour later after some good chat, we arrived at our destination; the cliffs.

It was a fair site to behold; there was a climb from the water to the top, followed by a quick descent into the water with approximately 2-3 seconds hang time. The cliffs were around 10 meters high; we knew this because the 10m was written next to a horizontal line in light blue paint-marker. Circa 40-50 locals were jumping in in single file; we were next. About half of the crew hopped off the boat; the water was cool but refreshing in the 32 Celsius heat. Neilston’s very own Blair Mackie was the first off the mark; a look of sheer delight on his face when he surfaced. Next up was Simon Enatnuiq; a quiet and intriguing Frenchman, followed by Blair again, Livia Machler and Vera Kohanim after some deliberation. The trend continued for some time. I finally plucked up the courage to hop in myself, put off from a previous accident under similar conditions, but encouraged by the thought that if I didn’t do it I’d ultimately be disappointed in myself afterwards. Major ball-ache became minor after around 15 minutes and was gone within the hour; the jump itself was amazing. Dame Vera was rescued by myself, Simon and Mackie, after an unfortunate jump which left her winded and with a cut lip. She appeared quiet and shaken for sometime afterwards, but it was concluded that ultimately she would be fine, so we carried on down the Swan River.

We passed a house valued at $54m; the most expensive house ever sold in Australia. We passed a boat full of testosterone-fueled men and one completely naked woman. The general consensus was “what the fuck.” We’ve since assumed a bachelor party. Beers and sandwiches were consumed throughout. We stopped at a small beach which was in the shade; the sun was slowly making it’s way down; so no-one bothered getting in the water (withholding Mackie and Livia, who for the past 15 minutes had been dragged viciously along in a rubber ring). Everyone was happy. Some of the girls were sunbathing. Simon was quietly observing wildlife. The rest of us were taking pictures and singing along to Hannah’s phenomenal iPod. Beer and goon was diminishing at an alarming rate, though no-one was particularly alarmed. We made our way back to shore and the return journey was much like the way there; with the addition of closer friendships and a tuneful sing-along to Simply The Best on Vaughan’s radio. We all thanked Vaughan for what was one of the best days we’d ever had, and departed.

***

We hadn’t the chance to think about dinner yet, but Melissa, a friendly Canadian we had met a few days ago invited us to join her for some delicious Asian ramen-soup that she’d cooked up from scratch. Naturally we said yes, and thanked her graciously in beer.

Prior to the soup everyone was content, however the soup seemed to bring everyone a new lease of life, and the usual Saturday night drinking games began.

Fuck The Dealer annihilated Freida; a Swedish girl who had arrived at Pirates around a week ago.

Horse Racing began fairly slowly with people betting low, however by the third round Luke; our new room mate from Crieff; in the homeland; placed a bet of 15 drinks on Hearts. Mackie shattered Luke’s bet with a 16 on Diamonds. My bet was 8 drinks on Spades. To my delight, a lot of the table had bet on Spades; the winner of the round; and there was a total of 39 drinks to be given out the losers. Freida was only semi-conscious by this point after her misfortune as the dealer in the previous game, and so was spared. Mackie was issued a total of 22 out of the 39 drinks.

Mushroom happened. Emma dropped the cards with only a few to go, earning her the privilege of downing a 500ml cup of goon.

King’s Cup commenced next. Vera; whom I’d thought to be a fairly quiet lass; was becoming less quiet by the minute as the goon was going down and down. King’s Cup held everyone’s attention for all of 30 minutes before Megan devoured the foul concoction in the middle; being the unfortunate soul to have chosen the last King card.

Johnny Cash came on the sound system; It Ain’t Me, Babe. The cards scattered on the floor. The atmosphere was heating up to the delight of most. “You say you’re looking for someone who’s never weak, but always strong.” Interest in any further drinking games was completely lost, but people were carrying on drinking as if this wasn’t the case. Kayla, another friendly Canadian had joined the sing-along. “No, no, no, it ain’t me babe. It ain’t me you’re looking for, babe.” The friendly German Night Manager (who’s name we are now all too familiar with; Marco;) returned from a mysterious errand he had to run. Marco loved the song too and we stared furiously into each other’s eyes; wailing it loudly at each other. People were on their feet now, everyone shrieking to the sky. “And will love you for your life and nothiiiing moooooore…”.

One song finished and another began; Dance, Dance by Fall Out Boy. Most of the room was two quarters and a heart down; whatever the fuck that means. Chorus. People were falling apart to half time. The south-side of the garden were going batshit crazy, with the north-side quietly chatting amongst themselves. These were the lives we loved to lead. Sweat was pissing from the dancers; myself, Marco, Emma, Vera, amongst several others.

The final nail in the coffin. Dance, Dance finished and Bohemian Rhapsody dropped. At least 15 people were now on their feet, roaring. Marco was on the table. A glass fell and smashed, followed by a beer bottle. A tin ashtray tumbled, clinked and rolled to the ground, the contents scattering onto the beer-soaked concrete. I climbed onto the table too, followed by Vera. Scaramouch, Scaramouch, we were doing the fandango. Thunderbolts and lightning, very-very-fucking-frightening for the side of the courtyard who were trying to enjoy a quiet evening. Brian May ripped out the final riff and tore the atmosphere to pieces. Beer, wine, water was flying everywhere. The water was my fault; the spark that started the fire; a fire which took a long time to put out. I poured my 1.5l bottle over everyone I could see, throwing it around my head rabidly to screams of comic delight from our end and fury from the other. Someone pulled out their iPhone to document the happenings. Vera sprayed 2l of water at everyone visible, resulting in what may be a damaged aforementioned iPhone. Another beer bottle crashed to the ground, pieces of glass flying everywhere. A chair narrowly missed my head. Emma punched Mackie in the balls. A dirty carrot was being further trampled into the earth. An angry French girl took a swing at Vera. Marco was dragging someone out of the hostel backwards. People were cheering. People were shouting angrily. More water was poured; it was officially a water fight. My wallet was soaked right through; thank the lord Australian dollars are surf-proof. The hostility. People were angry. But people were happy too. Someone told Marco that as the Night Manager, he shouldn’t allow such a situation to escalate. He told them he was fucking loving it and marched off to dance and soak some more. The night was over in style, but not til after a quick dip in the sea at 2am in the morning, followed by a 2.30am Chicken Tender-Crisp from the burger shop on the end of the road.

***

It was 3.15am. Emma, Jillian and Megan were laughing together in the one bed. Mackie was up to his usual antics on the bunk above. Alan; our mid-life crisis room-mate finally lost the plot. “Shut the fuck up or get the fuck out, you dumb cunts!”

Silenced briefly followed. Mackie farted. The room exploded. Laughter couldn’t be contained no matter how many attempts. Laughter continued for what felt like a lifetime. Slowly though, the situation was falling under control. Mackie farted again. Marco and an unknown female were giggling in the next bed along. We all laughed ourselves to sleep. 

The Roommates (29/10/2013)

29^th October, 2013 – “The roommates”

After 24 hours of travelling (with approximately 2 hours of sleep each), we arrived at Pirates Backpackers Hostel. We were a little surprised to find the place deserted, but then again, it was 03.30am. A friendly German (who’s name has escaped me) showed us to our room (an 8-bed dormitory), where we were unpleasantly surprised to find three fella’s already fast asleep. The friendly German seemed completely oblivious to the sleeping gentlemen; proceeding to switch on the light and projecting his booming voice in their direction. One lay motionless, brown toes protruding from the light blue bed covers. Another stirred, but didn’t seem to show any great concern. The last man, closest to the door, sat up and drank some water. He stared vacantly around at us all and mumbled something about not having to put things in lockers, however by this point it was a little too late, as Mackie had already opened his locker and proceeded to ram his rucksack headfirst into the tight opening, creating a volume of significantly over 100dB. If the people next door had been asleep, they definitely weren’t any longer. Some of us suppressed laughter at the crashing sound, others were too tired to give much of a shit. The sitting man continued to stare vacantly around in the dark for a while. We went to sleep.

So in the morning, we fed the three guys all of our apologies for the commotion. Nobody seemed too bothered.

Roommate No. 1 happened to be a Dutchman called…

BOSS.

Yep, BOSS. Like Hugo BOSS, minus the Hugo. Boss had been travelling for quite some time, and after his $3,000 car exploded on a roadtrip from Adelaide in the South, he ended up in Freo. After 5 minutes of chatting to Boss, he was noted to be a really friendly guy, full of comical stories about exploding automobiles, drinking a fuck-ton of beer on an extremely regular basis, and accidentally securing a job by singing in the street to his (now) manager. BOSS also informs me that the bed in which I currently reside was previously inhabited by a sex-crazed Scotsman who had successfully “fucked 6 chicks in 5 nights” prior to my arrival. Thanks for the heads-up, BOSS.

Roommate No. 2 was a tanned Italian called Marco. Marco works a construction job and loves the Aussie way of life. Our apologies for the 03.30am wake-up call were met with a slurred “I don’t geve a fuck.” After some small talk, Marco lay down and fell asleep and I haven’t seen much of him since.

The final roommate is Alan, who’s come from New Zealand. He looks well into his mid-forties, and in the words of Marco, “I-a don’t like to judge, but ah, he’s weird.”

There was no denying it, Alan was weird as shit. A true merchant of doom, every statement seemed to drag down the mood of the group (although a glance out the window at the glorious sunshine always brought it back up fairly quickly). Alan is looking for work here and has no plans to leave anytime soon. Great. My guess is mid-life crisis; divorce, redundancy, diagnosis of terminal illness…either that or he’s on the run from the law.

So the day was spent wandering around getting our bearings, sorting out some of the boring stuff, and eating overpriced cheeseburgers. Fremantle is an awesome place, full of art galleries, murals, buskers, and most importantly beaches. Apparently there’s a lot of crack-heads too, but I didn’t see any today. I also didn’t envision so many flies when dreaming of Freo at home, but hey, you can’t have everything. The evening was filled with the sounds of a hostel-party which we didn’t attend as we were all too tired. Someone was murdering Kings of Leon on an acoustic guitar. We played table football briefly and sent a couple of emails on the overpriced dial-up internet. I brushed my teeth. Kings of Leon were being murdered again, this time with a chorus of “Someone Like You, wooooaah”. We tried to go to sleep but were all too jet-lagged and gave up after around 6 hours of trying. The next day was going to be hell, but at least we didn’t have to do very much. 

The Beginning (27/10/2013)

27^th October, 2013 – “The beginning”

Soundtrack: David Housden – Thomas Was Alone

Time since last sleep: 24+ hours

For 412 days, the timer had been ticking down. So, by that rationale, we should all be ready to take on the great adventure that we’d all been dreaming of for years.

I can’t speak for anyone else, but my guess is that I’ve wanted to travel around Australia for at least 10 years. The memory isn’t all too clear, but I remember my dad once proclaiming how fantastic it looked there. The skies were always blue, the sands always golden, the patter always flowing,

412 days. I’d had an app installed on my phone, you see (Countdown Widget, I believe is the app for anyone interested) and at a turning point in my life, it occurred to me that maybe it was now or never. For some reason we chose the 27^th October, 2013. It worked out well around several birthdays amongst other back-home events, though not so well around others. But that’s the thing about timing. It’s never going to be perfect.

“It’s 7 weeks until Christmas, shouldn’t we wait until then and head out after the New Year?”

“Oh but it’s my best friends birthday in February…and then it would nice to spend Easter with my family…”

The timing was shit, but the timing was always going to be shit whether it was the 27^th of October or the 32^nd of Julember. We swallowed any regrets and settled on the 27^th October. It’s got a nice ring to it, though I don’t know if this is an acquired ring from months of mental preparation.

Somewhere between days 300 and 250, we got our VISA’s. A Working Holiday VISA, as none of us had the funds for all play and no work. This entitles you to roam Australia as you please for up to 1 year. You can work casual jobs for up to 6 months, and there are a few ways to extend it to 2 years, but let’s not get into that right now.

With 212 days to go, we bought our flight tickets, followed by several shots of Bar Tingle’s infamous “Mad Scientist” to seal the deal.

At around 200 I got my RSA license, which allows you to serve alcohol in Australia (and subsequently work in bars and restaurants; a fair possibility in the coming months.)

By 100 I’d written up numerous “to-do” lists and done most of the to-do’s with 50 days to spare. Our accommodation was booked; Pirates Backpackers Hostel in the town of Fremantle, WA, known by everyone (and ergo from here-on referred to) as “Freo,”.

Time ticked on by. As it did so it didn’t seem to be going anywhere, but occasionally I’d realize that several weeks had passed before I’d last really thought about it. A unique blend of fear was beginning to mingle with a strong dose of inexplicable excitement. Let’s not forget that hearty splash of sadness. Oh, and the squeeze of euphoria.

With 10 days left, I flipped the lid on my laptop down, having finished work in the UK for what I expect to be a minimum of 8 months.

With 6 days to spare I’d eaten my last meals with my family, to whom I owe so much for their support at such an important stage in my life.

With 3 days to spare, my car was sold (yep, it’s paying for my trip), my bags were packed (well, ready to be packed) and my mind was set. Kind of.

With 3 hours until boarding, I kissed goodbye the love of my life; Jessica; and held her tightly for what was possibly a very long time, but by no means long enough.

1 hour before the start of our journey, we said goodbye to the troops. There were a lot of troops, and it was an amazing send off from a bunch of the most loyal people I’ve ever met. Hopefully you guys had a good night in The Killoch. There were rather a large amount of goodbyes said. Photographs too, in proper paparazzi stylee. I was the first to pass through the barrier, followed by Megan Devlin, Blair Mackie, Jillian Todd and Emma Prytz (not strictly in this order [in fact, almost definitely not in this order, but my memory is already hazy from a distinct lack of sleep]. For the record, the next child to scream across several continents [or on any flight I am on from here on in, ever] is getting their throat slit).

Each person’s eyes (mine included) told the same story. Silent recognition of this was present from all parties (though a few hugs were exchanged where required). Saying goodbye to the people you cherish the most will never be easy.  Seldom comes a day where goodbye’s of such magnitude occur.

Dazed and confused, we followed the signs to gate 30; a quick gander at the duty-free (Captain Morgan’s are making a Kraken-style rum now…who knew?) and my last piss in the UK (long, clear and satisfying [my apologies but I feel it necessary to lighten the tone now before the end of this post]) were included in the journey. This small part of the journey was short and quite unmemorable (though I do rather enjoy those conveyor belt/escalator things that make you walk really fast) and now, before we knew what had hit us, we were in the air. It had sunk in to some more than others. To me it had hardly sunk in at all. But the reality doesn’t change. In a matter of hours (okay, seemingly an infinite number of hours [did I mention I hate screaming children?]) we would be touching down in Freo to commence the big adventure I’d dreamt of for a decade.