16th 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.
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