First Night Down Under

Last picture from PNG - Airways Hotel

Sydney, Australia. A long day of travel that went from Madang – Port Moseby – Brisbane – Sydney. In Port Moseby, I went to the hotel buffet and gorged myself. I was wearing a necklace with boar’s teeth. A man on the plane took one look and said ‘brother, that is going to be quarantined’ (he in no way, shape or form called me ‘brother’). So I had this uncomfortable decoration stuffed under my shirt. The teeth were scratching my chest. I also had a wood carving in my bag – another item subject to quarantine. Five minutes into Australia and I am squirming in the customs line. I did not declare anything (my tiny revolution against ‘the man’) and was able to cruise on into the main concourse. In my diluted mind, this felt like some sort of victory.

In Papua New Guinea, I was a major celebrity. Adored and feared. Always on the guest list. In the Sydney airport, I am just another white guy with a confused look on his face. In less than 16 hours I have transformed from the centerpiece on the table to wallpaper. Still, invisibility has its advantages. I hope. I get into the cab line and next to me is a young Aussie yammering on about tickets to the Rugby Grand Final. He has three extras. I have two myself. The game is on Sunday and we strike up a conversation. We decide to share a cab into the city.

Have you ever lent your car to somebody, and that person jacked up the volume very loud? Only, they did not turn the volume down when they returned your car so when you get in and turn the ignition, your ear drums are blasted with screeching music. This is how I felt in Sydney. Problem was, I could not reach forward to the dash and turn the volume down. Freeways, Billboards, honking horns, cut offs, intersections, noise noise noise. I was shell shocked. Six months in the bush had made me a country boy.

I became aware of a cross-section of the population that I would have to quickly re-adapt to: assholes. The guy in the cab proceeds to scream into his phone, at the cabby (for not letting him smoke) and anyone who would listen. He was disgusting. I asked him what he was doing that night and he blurted ‘hitting the casinos!’. Perfect. The driver and I were relieved to drop him off.

I decided to stay in a youth hostel for my first week in Sydney. I figured it was best to live ‘on the cheap’ (which is an original saying of mine) so I could blow my money on other delights. I did not plan on staying in my hotel much anyway. We pulled up to ‘The Original Backpackers’ which is purportedly a high-end hostel. It looked like an old mansion. I was haggard, again, and dragged my six-months worth of baggage to the front desk. I announced my name and reservation and was met with blank stares as the boys behind the counter clicked crudely at the keyboard. They had no reservation, had few answers and could care less. Here’s the deal: the people that work at these hostels are other travelers that did not want to pay their bill so they agreed to work around 8-10 hours a week. Let’s just say customer service suffers from this arrangement. They gruffly pointed out a room that I could sleep in, which was about 4 meters (while telling tales of Australia, I must continue to use the metric system by order from the UN) from the front desk. I turned the key.

Now, I knew what hostels were all about. Dorm-style rooms, community bathrooms, etc. I guess I was not mentally prepared. I opened the door to discover a tiny bedroom with four bunk beds. The bulk of the inhabitants of these hostels are college students from Europe who have 3-6 months to bum around Australia. They get jobs fruit-picking, passing out flyers or working in warehouses and spend a wild, boozy half-year in Sydney. And since they are here for a half-year, they have all brought a half-year of crap. The room is FILLED with bags and shoes and drying towels. I also see handing bras and high heels so apparently the room is co-ed. I guess I am old fashioned because despite my proclivity for young, confused women, this does not please me.

Since there is no place to sit in my room, let alone stand, I realize that I must flee these cramped confines and have a few pints. My hostel is in King’s Cross – the red-light district of Sydney. This seemed like a good idea 3 months ago. It is Friday night and it all seems like chaos. I had two choices: go hide under a park bench or jump in and flail my arms about. I chose the latter. I sheepishly sidestep packs of drunk people. I feel 5-feet tall. I was a giant in PNG. I weave my way to O’Malleys and join the jostling pack of pigs herding to the liquor trough. The music was blaring and I felt silly. But then my mouth started flapping and the night started to move. Everyone I met were travelers – England, Canada, Sweden, Germany.

I made my way to the Empire Hotel, an institution in Kings X. They were only letting women in but I managed a ‘come on man, I am from the states and I am by myself’ which worked. Pity is a powerful ally. This cute girl let me into the VIP section, despite the fact that I looked a little rough around the edges from my travels. I met some fantastic people that welcomed me into their group and I was happy. Most of them were in suits – I felt like their poor cousin that they all had a soft spot in their hearts for. Drinks. The bar had three floors and I explored them all. I was wide-eyed. There were women but I lacked focus. One minute I was chatting girls up, who were all getting increasingly attractive and the next minute I was swaying next to the bar, alone on my own ass. It was time to go. I exited the bar and was greeted by sunshine. Cursed light! Most bars in ‘the cross’ are 24X7 so you don’t have your trusty bar man to tell when you need to go home. Saturday morning in Sydney and I need a Big Mac. I stomp into the nearest McDonalds and excitedly order a ‘number 1 without onions and a coke’. ‘Um, sir, we are serving breakfast’. I settled on a biscuit.