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Sometime later in Perth: more of the same happening each day

5 June 2010

Been here long enough in Perth to elucidate the lay of the land.

The (backpacker) accommodation here in Paradise is amusing enough, the manager, another ex-Kiwi, ex-chef and also somehow ex-carpenter, is a full on, fall down drunk most nights, entertaining the guests for the last 5 years with his fiercely insane rant against the world punctuated by the occasional “F**k You Australia!” at full volume, smashing random items while staggering around, a table or pot plant doesn’t have a long half-life in this joint, before collapsing in a horizontal position out of sight, muttering and mumbling to himself down there in the shrubbery in the darkness. We’re polite enough to let him take his little rest, after all there’s a momentary decibel drop before his sonorous nose notes crank up and the focus switches to the usual multicentred cacophony from the rest of the troops.

We are a modestly happy conglomeration of travellers with about every nationality represented, except for the Aussies, whose behaviour inevitably deteriorates research has shown consistently. I’ve sneaked through that religiously enforced filter courtesy my NZ passport.

As is the case with backpacker types generally, few spend time sightseeing unless it’s a vague glance on the way to a pub, the main interest is social interaction which appears to occur mostly in the head rather than the flesh. In any case ambition seldom extends beyond tomorrow morning.

Due to the manager’s discerning eye for capital-T Trouble any potentially difficult characters fail to make it past the front door. Mere rowdiness is no impediment to fitting in here but theft, or any aggro, and the minders move in quickly to invite departure, no argument to the contrary considered.

The night time crowd out in the courtyard are a representative, if somewhat random, mixture of Poms, Irish, Germans, Frenchies, Swedes, a completely incoherent lot, all babbling away in their own language. Even the provincial Poms have an accent so remarkably thick that I really need an interpreter to make headway with their utterances, but frankly, now I think about it, I don’t think it would make much difference with overall comprehension.

Doesn’t really matter, they all speak a common language: beer.

The music and drunken laughter continues on until 2am most nights and while the crowd may thin, the noise level generally doesn’t.

Later, even before the sun rises, the boys drag themselves up on the third burst from their alarm clock. They gotta get across town in their high vis labourer’s gear to do a full day’s effort driving heavy machinery, unloading containers, assembling temporary stages and marquees, detailing rental vehicles, cleaning bricks or gutters, or whacking down some pavers. By 9pm they have a second wind and the cycle continues.

The only way this style of accommodation works is that the owner has the good sense to leave the operation, and daily cleaning, to a few typically well organised German women. Standing 6’ tall, with perhaps a little too much girth in the leg department, they enforce the weekly rent payment from the usually reluctant 20 somethings. Intermittent ejections from the cheapest bed in town ensues the cash is found by the rest from the otherwise alcohol dominated budget, or their passports are surrendered/ confiscated.

(If those gals had had more responsibility than the boys allowed in times past maybe the Germans wouldn’t have had so much experience in coming second in some of last century’s bigger events.)

Yeah, those gals sure terrify the blokes.

I’m taking a break from alcohol myself and I’ve got my own thing happening.

I’d sometimes wondered about the worth of my boarding school training long ago, the most important legacy now seems a crucial ability to fall, and stay, asleep through any shinanigans—sure comes in handy round here.

I therefore managed to miss last night’s episode where most residents were awaken by a couple of guys arriving back from a nightclub with an enthusiastic gal one of them had picked up. While the bloke had gone off to relieve himself the pickup had decided she couldn’t wait and had jumped naked into bed with some startled bloke, one of several sharing the room, who thought he was having a particularly vivid dream. Apparently some consternation when the hopeful returned.

Just in case you’ve been wondering what 26 year olds in a foreign country get up to for general amusement here’s another episode.

One resident, who spends two thirds of his time watching the froth levels on some toxic mining processing out the the middle of fuckery, spends his time in town negotiating between his female pickups. While one gal was generally sufficient trouble for myself he prefers a plethora. His local girlfriends were on hold while his English girlfriend was here for a short stay. Not content with that level of female attention he achieved notoriety the same week with his eviction from a local brothel by requesting sex of an unpalatable variety. Not to be outdone another extrovert mate went to the same premises the next night and resubmitted the request, unsurprisingly with a similar result.

Yoouff!