In the Desert

This was my first ever beach holiday. No family. Just me and two friends. I don't generally go in for the typical brits on holiday experience, but it just sort of happened. Before I knew it we were drinking questionably sweet shots, in a room full of sweaty scantily clad English teenagers, singing along to 'Hotel, Motel, Holiday Inn'. No its actually worse than it sounds.

The first two weeks of my holiday can be summed up in four words: sun, sea, booze, hangover; with quasi-religious fervour we stayed within a hundred yard radius of our apartment. With two days left of our holiday, we suddenly decided we must do something different. We had to say we'd done something. So with very little money left we decided to go to the Black Beach.

First thing in the morning we headed to the taxi rank. We were stunned when the driver informed us it would cost a whopping 80 euros to get to there. We were hesitant, our usual resting spot was in sight, but we were motivated, we had our mission and we would not be so easily deterred.

Friend A had the idea that we could hire bikes and cycle there; we thought that this sounded like a great idea. We were wrong. The cycle-hire-man himself told us, in no uncertain terms, we would not make it in the midday heat. We were crestfallen.

But the cycle-hire-man did have a suggestion: the Bus.

The Bus. Why hadn't we thought of that? We know buses. We have buses at home. We ride buses all the time. We thought that we could handle the bus. We were wrong.

We got onto bus number 1, journeyed for twenty minutes and got off at the allocated changeover stop. No one else got off the bus. This was unsurprising really, as we had been dropped in the middle of the desert. I still do not understand why there was even a bus stop there at all.

Oh well, we think, the next bus is due in ten minutes. Wrong again. After checking the timetable we realise we actually have over an hour wait. Now I should say here that the only thing in sight, is a posh hotel, an unexpectedly posh hotel.

In the posh hotel, by an acerbic and disapproving receptionist (lets just say I've never been so aware of my attire) we were informed that we had disembarked at the wrong stop and need to be one stop over. This is not too bad, we think. We'll walk to the next stop, we think. It's fine. We are wrong.

We walk and walk and walk and walk and walk through the desert, following an empty motorway. All we can see is tumbleweed and that weird haze that appears when it's really hot, you know the kind you see in movies that makes it look like there is water on tarmac?

I should also mention here that we were hungover, and we had perhaps 100ml of water between us.

Things were getting dire.

Friend A and Friend B were bickering.

It was so hot.

Headlines flashed before my eyes 'three British tourists die in desert' …

'three die in freak heatwave idiocy'

Then, out of nowhere, just as we were about to give up hope and curl up and await death in a suitably overdramatic fashion, we happened upon a miracle. And no I do not think that is too grandiose a term given the circumstances.

We happened upon a ranch n the middle of the desert. A Ranch, with camels, horses, and most importantly a bar. A bemused bar tender, wondering where we had come from (presumably no one ever arrived here without a vehicle) served us cold drinks and ordered us a taxi.

Determined for this journey not to have been in vain we took the taxi to the Black Beach.

We made it, some six or seven hours later, we made it; although it still cost us 80 euros in the cab...  

The Bottle-O

It is surprisingly, even amazingly, hard to buy alcohol 'after hours' Down Under. Firstly, you can only buy 'grog' from liquor stores, also know as 'Bottle-Os', (and the occasional pub in the form of 'take aways'). Secondly, legislation tends to be followed a lot more strictly, and although it varies from state to state, by 11pm most places will be closed (in NSW service stops at 10pm!). This proved problematic for me a number of times, but none more so than on my birthday.

This year my birthday fell on the bank holiday weekend of Australia Day, and as you can imagine it turned into a four day escapade; more bottles of vodka were consumed per capita within our household than I wish to say. (It was at least 2 .... )

At midnight on the third day we became a totally dry house, needless to say we didn't need any more booze, but we were not ready to call it quits, not yet. Two of us were far more committed to the cause than the rest, and took it upon ourselves to undertake the quest for alcohol (not realising what this would entail). We also did not realise how totally steamingly wrecked we were at the time ....that penny didn't drop until the morning after.

We jumped in a cab and headed to the nearest pub still selling takeaways (these are far and few between at that hour), and leaving the meter running, jumped out to grab the goods and return instantly. Or so we thought. My comrade did not have ID.

Although I placatingly pointed out that it was unlikely that I would spend my 22nd birthday with an English 17 year old, and I even suggested my companion leave so that I could buy it alone, nothing was to come of it. I even reiterated that I was my birthday. I pleaded a little, I'll admit. But this power-hungry, jumped up 18 year old (although he looked about 12), was immovable; we were forced to leave empty-handed.

At this point we had left the cab for some fifteen minutes, and we had accidentally (no really it was an accident) left the pub through a different exit. In the throws of a moral dilemma, we came to the decision that, above all, we were unwilling to return empty handed after coming this far. Realising that we could not afford to pay the waiting time and buy more alcohol, we decided to hide and plan our next movements. I am not proud of this moment, but we were incredibly drunk, and although I have never done this before, it seemed like a golden opportunity.

Ducking behind a car we searched online for the nearest watering holes. Suddenly, out of nowhere, the taxi driver appears by our side, outraged and demanding payment. The first words that left my mouth were, feebly, 'We were looking for you....'; we were literally crouching behind a car when he found us. To make it worse we had no money; reliant on cash back from the pub to pay him with.

Things rapidly escalated, and after his attempting to steal my comrade's phone, and a verbal stand off, the situation resolved itself with the retreat of the angry driver, and us, very much shaken, sitting and formulating our next step. From here we could walk to the next nearest pub in twenty minutes. We arrived to find that the bottle shop had closed at one. Devastated I decided we should have, nay we needed, a drink.

We entered into what I can only describe as The Inbetweeners meets University Freshers Week; I have never, in my life, seen so much cringe, terrible music, orange faces, high heels, PDAs, the lot!It was awful. I suddenly felt very old and quiet, which was ironic considering I was standing at the bar doing shots, of what I can only describe as paint-stripper. And was made all the more ironic by the quest that we were on at the time.

After several shots, we decided to get a cab to the last place open this side of the city, reliably told to be open until three. Gripped by the overwhelming fear of hailing the same cab as before, we plucked up our courage and got a lift the next bottle-o. Success! With my comrade remaining in the car, I bought two bottles and we returned home, a mere two and a half hours, and 150 bucks, later.

After all of this, we returned to a much deflated crowd, and although we were coursing with adrenaline from our escapades, it was a mere twenty minutes after our triumphant return that we all crashed. Whatsmore I blame the last few drinks for the hangover from hell that I woke to the next day - although it wasn't too bad because we had another bottle and a half of hair of the dog ready to go in the morning ....

The Sunburn

'The sun in Australia is really hot you know....make sure you wear suncream'
'A pale person like you, make sure you wear suncream'
'Your skin in so pale....you can get burnt through linen clothes, make sure you wear suncream'
'You can even get burnt through cloud in Australia...'
'hole in the Ozone Layer' .... blah blah blah ....

Before I came here I heard it all, from everyone; as I smiled and nodded I was thinking 'You don't need to tell me, I've been burnt before, I ain't letting it happen again.' In Barcelona several years ago I got (what I used to consider) pretty serious sunburn and ever since have applied suncream bi-hourly with religious zeal; fervently covering every millimetre of exposed skin. I wear suncream on nice days in Spring in the UK; of course I was going to wear tons of the stuff down under.

I remained successful in my war against the sun for almost six months, dedicating myself to the rituals of sun-creaming; wearing it from head to toe (I even put suncream on the part of my scalp exposed in the parting of my hair - no really, I did) - reapplying almost before the previous coat had even been fully absorbed. Victory was currently mine, and I got cocky, one day I let the sun trick me; making me its next victim.

We had had days of cloud, rain, storms and generally chilly weather, or I should probably say chillier weather, for the benefit of those at home currently experiencing four degree days. In Melbourne within the space of a few hours it can go from being 30 degrees and sunny to 20 degrees and raining; for at least part of every day I regret my outfit choice. Anyway, on said day, the clouds dissipated, the sun came out and we rushed to the beach. I was only there a few hours, but I was confused by the weather, tired, hungover, and after a measly application of factor 20 I fell asleep....

It was only when I got home, after dinner out with some friends (where, ironically, we had spent much time scorning the troops of burnt people that traipsed past us in the street), that I began to realise the damage I had done.

Day One - The Burn: One does not appreciate the full force yet.
Day Two - The agonising pain begins. Ability to move starts to decrease.
Day Three - Skin is unbelievably taut; reminiscent of a botched Botox. Sleep impossible. Movement very limited.
Day Four - The Peel. Gross. After shedding a layer of skin not dissimilar to the way a snake does, except that my shell is only half a human (I only burnt the entire back half of my body), the newly exposed skin is also burnt.
Day Five - Bubbling and Blistering. This is worse than it sounds.
Day Six - The Second Peel. Simultaneously satisfied and repulsed I tear and pull and peel myself until flakes of skin litter the floor. I knew that it was too hopeful to think that after peeling I might be super tanned, but after this much pain I hoped that I wouldn't be immediately pale again. I did not, however, expect to be bright red and still burnt after losing two whole layers of skin!
Day Seven - A week has gone by and I have, what I previously would have called bad sun burn, but what I now refer to as an insatiable itch - oh I am sooo itchyyy! - coupled with a deep crimson hue.

It took about two weeks but it's finally over!
I would not recommend this to anyone, it was a truly horrendous experience, but hey at least now I am incredibly tanned .... it's just a shame that it is only on my back, my front is still as a pale as ever, and not only do I have a white bikini etched into my skin, I have also have a line that runs up the entire length of my body on both sides, dividing the white from the brown like some sort of dermatological apartheid...
In short I look like some sort of ridiculous patchwork doll, and I must admit defeat; sun I take my hat off to you (although not really, because I will never again venture outside down under without a full hazmat suit).

The Soccer

Melbourne City vs. Sydney FC

I recently attended my first 'soccer' match in Australia, and let me tell you I was shocked; it could not be more different than going to the football at home.

Before you come down under everyone will tell you how friendly Australians are, and for the most part this is entirely true, perhaps it's the sun, the beaches, the constant throwing of shrimps on the barbie, all the flamin' gallars or being able to wear cork hats everywhere. I don't know, but whatever the reason, they are a people I have generally found to be polite, cheery and helpful.

However I never noticed this in contrast to home to such an extent as I did at the soccer - their behaviour was ridiculous!

A quick side note here; please don't be offended dear English readers - I know some of you were about to give in to that seemingly unstoppable urge that all English football fans have to tell you 'ITS CALLED FOOTBALL' if you dare to utter the word 'soccer' in their presence, especially as a British National - that sparks further indignation - however for the purposes of this post I will be referring to the football here as soccer, and the football at home as football, okay?! Don't worry I know its all football really ....

Anyway, back to the game in hand: we arrived, got a beer, and headed to the stalls (so far so similar) but then it all changed...

As we took our seats we were instructed to sing along to the club's song to welcome the players onto the pitch. I am not now entirely sure what I expected (well if I am being honest I was hoping for some sort of Australian archetype such as Waltzing Matilda...); however I know that I definitely did not see it coming when the speakers started blaring 'Happy Together' by The Turtles, made more surreal by the appearance of a karaoke set of sing-a-long lyrics on the big screens. No seriously, this actually happened. And whats more, everyone sang along! From the groups of big bellied middle aged men to the would-be football hooligan lads on holiday, everyone sang their little hearts out together .... what cheese!

After this interesting experience the game commenced, and I must admit that even I could tell this was not the same standard as the English Premier League, despite the heralded appearance of David Villa... However, it was sunny and I had a beer in a plastic cup so I was content.

Being not the biggest football fan, I tend to be a terrible crowd watcher at these sorts of events; I was once rebuked by a boyfriend's younger brother for suggesting the difficulty of playing Where's Wally at the Arsenal stadium. I thought I was being hilarious, but as a serious 13 year old football fan he was less than amused.

As a 'crowd watcher' I have noticed that at home there is a real sense of rivalry to the football. The particular chants that stick in my mind from games I attended as a child or watched on tv, are;
'The referees a wanker!'
and 'You're shit and you know you are!'
(which are always yelled towards the pitch with a real sense of anger).

Meanwhile, the main chant that frequently surfaced throughout the game here seemed to go something like this;
'We love you, we love you, we love you, and that's the way we like it, we like it, we like it'.
This wasn't even chanted remotely sarcastically. I couldn't believe it either...

A real sense of overbearing positivity characterised the atmosphere of the crowd, which I really did not expect, particularly for a fairly dull 90 minutes ending 1-0.
Overwhelming positivity and not a whiff of the English criticism that very much characterises the premier league, where were the football hooligans? the taunts?

It was a fun day out, and a very positive experience, but it felt lacking, and I must say, somewhat perversely perhaps, I really missed the downright rudeness of English football fans; I wanted someone to hurl insults at the pitch, I wanted a fight, I wanted a riot, I wanted to feel competition and rivalry.

Yet, more than anything else, I wanted to be watching the game whilst enjoying a real European beer and sitting with my dad; (and of course to be in the pissing rain, freezing cold and involved a massive punch up....)

Nico's

It's amazing how easily one can get used to a situation, how habits are formed, how even the most bizarre can become normal without you realising it.

                            * * *

Here I am, essentially in my living room, sitting next to 'the American guy', who is currently coming up on an acid trip and totally tripping balls. With the pretence of watching a Family Guy rerun we are both, in reality, wholly absorbed in what I can only call the self-performance of another of our 'roommates'. He sits with headphones on, utterly oblivious to the outside world, moving his left leg up, to the right and down, in perfect right angles, and then repeats with the right leg, and then back to the left in one smooth continuous motion, whilst tapping un-rhythmically on anything within reach. Poor American guy; this is weird enough for me, I cannot imagine how this is for him.
This is my Thursday night.

This scene is infrequently punctuated by the odd drunk bumbling through to use the toilets. Let me give a brief description of our setting here; the hostel is located above and next to a pub that is only ever inhabited by a maximum of 4 people at any time. It is, in a word, depressing; the atmosphere further exacerbated by the constant thump of horrendous music (with a repertoire of no more than seven songs) to which we are all nightly subjected to, as the walls shake throughout the building. We share our toilets with this pub, which means we are not only acquainted with the regular drunk intruders, but also the fragrance of urine that wafts in and out (without a direct correlation to the time and use of bathrooms), and the regular sound of urinals cleaning themselves (I didn't know what this noise was until I asked - I actually initially thought it was someone filling a laughing gas balloon, but no such luck ...)

Occasionally an outsider will stumble across Nico's looking for a casual drink, and will wish to use the toilet in the course of their visit. They enter our living room and walk though, watching us in understandable disbelief; in shock at finding this bunch of reprobates (us) sitting in what they expect to be the bathrooms. It is actually quite humorous; I cannot imagine how I would respond being on the other end of the scene, well-dressed and ready for an evening in the city, suddenly finding oneself in an actual hovel. However, on this side it leaves one feeling that we are part of some bizarre social experiment, the outside world looking in to see if people can cope in an environment such as this.

As I am writing this I realise that it all sounds horrible, and in hindsight I guess it was, but you really began not to notice it, and after several weeks this was normality, this, incredibly, was home. It became usual to have a bedroom that smelled like feet (not nice feet either, sweaty man feet), to sleep in a bed that had about three unbroken slats, to shower in a cubicle you were concerned you might catch an STD from, and to have to lock away your food as well as your valuables; to avoid theft and nibbling (from people and rodents alike).

I was there for 5 weeks in total, and despite my complaining it was not all that bad; it started to grate on me a bit being there for so long, but (amazingly) for the most part I actually didn't mind it. Mostly because we had free wifi and it was in a great location, but also because I met an interesting array of characters, and some lovely people too!

There were a handful of familiar faces who had been there from the start, but we saw an awful lot of people come and go. I don't know people by name, just their descriptions. Here are some of my most memorable 'house mates', as I knew them and would genuinely call them (not to their face though);
The american guy
That other american guy
Those two french dudes
THAT GUY - who was always wearing headphones and tapping on things (although I am pretty sure he was not listening to any music)
The troll - he really does look like a troll, particularly his small square feet
The germans
The guy who checked in with a hamster (he seriously checked in with a hamster, who I now imagine to be the king of the hostel's rodent underworld - the hamster that is, not the man)
The not-shifty-guy; so called because we all thought he looked suspicious and guilty, but it turned out that he is just super stoned and paranoid all the time, and is actually a really nice guy
The old lady; who sits and watches daytime tv about things like dog tailors (tailors for dogs, not dogs making clothing) and people buying or selling things for more or less than what they are actually worth
Free hugs guy; a French man who would stand in the city centre with a cardboard sign proclaiming the offer of 'Free Hugs', and constantly wore feathers in this hair (I really liked this guy, and was genuinely sad when he left)
and
The meth head; a pretty self-explanatory nickname

There was an element of camaraderie to be had staying somewhere so grimy; everyone trying to move out, and yet seemingly stuck there, unable to find somewhere else to go. At times it was almost like being part of a very weird family; who you really cant wait to get away from, and yet, somehow, you know you'll miss when you leave, if you leave.....

I must add here that if you have never stayed in a hostel before please do not be put off, this place is an exception, it is renown amongst the experienced Melbourne hostellers as the worst in the city. I would go as far as to say it is the worst in Australia, and I would not be surprised if it were the worst in the Western world. And yet I look back on my time with an element of nostalgia, and though I would NEVER EVER want to return, I am glad I was there and it was experience that I do not regret ... (except perhaps for the appearance of a rather ominous looking rash....)