This was the natural progression of a backpacker, I was told: you start off slumming it in hostels where you meet people, before branching out into the luxury of an apartment. But as far as I could see it was simply living just as you would in a hostel, but in a flat with people that, on the whole, were not all total strangers. Where you would normally see a stranger’s bare arse hanging out while they were asleep, this was merely replaced with the buttocks of someone you knew.
After doing enough rounds of drink to leave me in serious danger of collapsing, a group of us decided to hit the town. But such was my state of inebriation that my last recollection of the night was of me holding a heated discussion with a total stranger at the bar. For some reason I was lecturing him on how he had let himself down with his over-zealous drinking. Swaying like a small tree in a gale force wind, while banging my hand down forcefully to make my point, I demanded that he should take greater personal responsibility with his drinking. “What like you?” the cheeky individual countered, highlighting the irony of such a statement coming from someone who could barely stand up.
“Ah yes,” I spluttered decisively, spraying saliva gloriously all across his face. “But I’m not a bell-end.” With the argument won I strolled off victoriously to the bar for another drink.
That little chat was the last thing I could recall from the night as I woke up in a state of some disorientation. This was compounded as I wearily lifted my head and looked around wondering where I was before slowly realising that, for some bizarre reason, I was actually in the television room in the hostel where I had just fled the day before. Parts of my memory slowly started coming back from the previous night, as I remembered my phone running out of battery and then losing everyone, before deciding that my best option for shelter, unless under a cardboard box on the street, was to crash on the comfy bean bags in the television room of the hostel.
As I sat up I noticed there were four others sprawled out. It appeared they too were not there to watch television, and were in fact also utilising the hostel’s amenities, which would have been a generous gesture by the place had they been aware of what was happening.
To make matters worse Veiko was one of the people. After spotting me he was straight over, causing the pain in my head to worsen. “I’ve got no money so I’m staying in the TV room for a while,” he said slowly, in that crazy voice of his, eyes looking pained by his sorrowful existence. “Then I’m going to work on a farm. But if I can’t then I will punch someone so I can get arrested and they will deport me. At least I won’t have to pay for the flight home.”
Unfortunately I found myself, yet again, stuck with the Finn. He informed me that Greg was now finally doing the IT work to pay off his debt to the hostel and would be heading up to Brisbane once he had served his time.
After grabbing something to eat from the free food section in the kitchen and lazing about watching some of the worst television programs ever screened, boredom kicked in, inevitably prompting the purchase of a four litre box of goon and another afternoon and night of drinking. My plans to resolve my accommodation crisis had once again been shelved so I could get slaughtered.