Hi everyone! First of all, sorry for the complete lack of posting to the site. I promise to fill the gaps, but first I’ll let you all know where I am right now; I’m back in Brisbane. Yes I’ve been here before, and yes it is on the opposite coast to where my journal left me last. Such is manner of unplanned travel.
After my last roadtrip, which shall be chronicled in depth in later entries, I was in Perth, on the west Coast of Australia. We checked into the cheapest hostel in Brisbane as a group. When I say hostel, you might have in mind a cheary colorful place full of fresh faced youths, eager for the break of dawn to explore yet another cultural icon of Perth. Rather you should think along the lines of a hippy residence, East coast USA, circa 1972, except, on the sun drenched west coast of Australia. A single house in the middle of vancant lots at the end of Perth’s party street, surrounded by a wall, often lept over; (often business conducted tool) with spaces to the rear and front, choc-a-block with broken and mis-matched funiture, and many empty beer bottles. No reception, no rules. Welcome to the house known to other backpackers as “the dark side”.
But don’t be mislead. I could have left for the hostel across the road, with swimming pool and Air-Con at any time. The sooty exterior concealed something of a gem, in your spic-and-span hostels that exist today - “A community”. So when a notice appeared on the notice board, showing a “teddy bear” blindfolded, a knife to it’s neck with a ransom note, everyone knew immediately who owned the bear, and who the likely suspects were.
There was a cast of tenants, that would make Dickens blush. Many of the people that hung out there, didn’t even live there; the just washed and ate and hung out there, and then retired to the back of their vans and cars to sleep. One Irish guy checked out, and promptly moved into the sitting room. There were the Irish guys, mostly working hard and living hard. Labourers mostly, a diver, all complete with Irish tans. The deadlocked Itailians, who visited to eat, and wash; play guitar and smoke. The young brash South African brother and sister; the English girls, one loud, one quiet. No americans. From time to time, a new face would arrive; sometimes leaving quickly, scared by the grimmy exterior of the people, the place.
Once in it was easy to get stuck. Everynight in Perth, there are deals for travellers. One pub PAID you to go to them, $5 a person, and a free BBQ. Another took $250 bucks from a group and give you a $1000+ bar tab. It was easy to drunk on $10. And we did. Everyday there was something going on, the beach, a BBQ in the hills. Days went by. I released I had to move, to decide where to go, and how. My visa was running out. I had to fly, I booked a flight to Brisbane; leaving the day after St. Paddys day.
Surprisingly maybe, St. Patricks day isn’t a big deal for me in Ireland. I usually avoid the city, but in Perth, it was fun. The streets were closed to make way for stages and drinking. Every non-Irish person in house dressed in green, Irish music was played, there were water fights, Irish dancing leasons, alot of beer. It was loud, brash but rather good fun!!
As you can imagine I took the plane to Brisbane hungover. So I was in Brisbane, what next?
