Along the traveler trail in Asia I heard horror stories about staying in hostels in Australia. First thing I was told: Hostels are expensive -- that generally strikes fear into a traveler's heart and wallet. Second, the rooms are so cramped with people that sardines get claustrophobic (think more like homeless shelter with 30 people per room). But I had to do it: I needed to embrace the backpacker scene and befriend travelers in Australia. And I'm happy that at least I had a gradual transition into Perth culture while couchsurfing with Chris, Richelle and John (Thanks!).
I arranged to stay at the Cheviot Lodge based on a recommendation and because it was the cheapest in Perth ($105 per week). Also, after phoning several hostels in the city, it seemed that most dorm rooms had filled up and were nearly double the price. John Locke's hand is very persuasive.
When I arrived at the Lodge around 7pm I rang the doorbell twice before a fellow boarder let me in. I stood patiently at reception waiting for a helpful, official-looking staff member to check me in -- trying to correlate a face to the sweet Asian woman I had spoken to on the phone earlier. When a person finally arrived, he was neither official nor helpful, and especially not sweet or Asian. The man in front of me was Aussie bogan material and cantankerous as ever.
He says to me as he walks behind the desk, "So you're lookin' for a room?"
"Yes" I say, and add, "I called earlier and reserved a dorm room for the week."
He sighs like he's upset that he will have to break the bad news that there are no more rooms available. "Where you from?" But it isn't a small talk question. It's a qualifying question for how hard he will try to find me a room, and I can already tell I'm going to be disadvantaged when I say American.
"I'm from the USA."
"American," he repeats, disappointed. He heaves another sigh as he gets his bearings at the desk. Then, as if he needed to vocalize his opinion more than his body language had already expressed, he says in an even tone, "Well, I don't really like... that." But he isn't angry in any way, so I decide I'm going to charm him (I have some of that in me in fact, in small doses).
I take it as a joke, and laugh back, "Hey, we aren't all the same." He grumbles a little.
"I'm not sure we have any rooms, mate." See, I'm already his mate.
"I called earlier and made a reservation for a dorm room for the week. I said I'd be here at 7pm." I keep waiting patiently because he seems easily flustered. He asks for my name and opens a scheduling book. I'm not in there. Another sigh and more mutterings about how he doesn't think there are rooms. Then he flips over a scrap piece of paper and checks the back, as if hiding messages in obscure places is standard practice here.
"Nothing" he tells me. "You gonna pay with credit then?" Another qualifier correlating to his motivation.
"Nah. I going to pay in cash," which seems to be the obvious answer.
"You like Germans?" the old man asks.
I tell him, "I play nicely with everybody."
Then he says, "You want a dorm room. How about a double room? You got money for the double room? Or do you want to make my life difficult?"
"Sorry, I don't want to make your life difficult," I tell him, "but I can only afford a dorm room. You can shuffle me in between rooms if that makes your life easier."
"How about just staying a single night? Try it out, see if you'd like to stay. You might leave tomorrow." He seems pretty skeptical anyone would want to stay here a week and he seems to think he's doing me a favor by sharing this with me. I tell him I'll pay for one night but tomorrow morning, if I want to stay, I'll pay the difference for the weekly rate. He begrudgingly agrees.
"You got a passport? A real one?" There isn't any humor in his voice, but I feel like he is taking the piss out of me -- I can't imagine anyone really cares. I hand mine over and he looks at the first page and confirms with some enmity that it is real and yes, I am American. "Pennsylvania," he says, "Is that where you were born?"
"Yup."
"A coal miner are you?" he asks.
"Nah, farmers."
"Farmers." He pauses. "What? Are you Ameesh?" saying Amish with a thick Aussie accent.
"Amish on my grandfather's side."
"Huh," he says approvingly, and at that, I seem to have passed his test.
He gets the books squared away. He gives me a key and vents a little, "This key probably won't work. Nothing works around here. I can't keep doing this job. It's killing me. Here's a key for the outside door. That probably won't work either. Just test it out and tell me."
"Wha?" I say, confused.
"Just test it out. Outside."
I go test it out, and lock myself out which I expected would happen if the key didn't work. A minute later he comes to open the door. He gives it a try too, probably because I'm a stupid American, but he's unsuccessful. We head back inside and he shows me a basket of the electronic keys that "probably don't work either." He grabs a new electronic key and leads me back to the door. This new one also doesn't work and he sits down on the stoop looking like a broken man about to have a nervous breakdown. Technology is obviously not this guy's forte.
"How am I going to figure out which of those keys work?" the old man asks, his voice quavering a little as he stares down at the ground while running his hand through his disheveled grey hair.
I realize that there are only twenty or so e-keys, and it wouldn't take more than a minute or two to test all of them. I reassure him, "I'll check all of them, and tell you which ones work and which ones don't." But he doesn't seem to hear me. For him, its a monumental task that is beyond comprehension at the moment. So he points me in the direction of my room and tells me to check that my room key works.
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| The view of the other bunk beds from my own. |
The key works. The room smells like a men's locker room. There is barely room to walk. Eventually the old man finds me and gives me an e-key that works too, a blanket, towel, and a pillow. The old man shows me the bathrooms and takes me out to the kitchen, and then a balcony, where he says to me cryptically, "Are you ready for some crazy?"
I'm not sure I understand what he means, and think that maybe Carnival starts sometime soon and he's big into dressing up for it. But the next thing I hear is an ear-drum splitting outburst of the most violent nature I've ever heard in my life coming from a guy on the neighboring balcony. This lunatic is having a seizure like fit through his body as he curses out some perceived demon (in my opinion, the demon is the automatic light that keeps turning on and off). It take's me three seconds to figure out -- and I'm no psychologist -- that this guy has a severe case of the bat-shit crazies. A nearby German traveler (his name might have been Freud too) tells me Mr. Loony Bins is paranoid-schizophrenic and affected by Tourette's.
His schizophrenic rants are a truly unsettling and terrifying (and tragic) thing to hear every one to two minute interval, as I try to be friendly with three German travelers who are having a smoke on a bench. While on the topic, I'm warned that I should be wary of the indigenous people (aka Aboriginals in the past) in the city. He says to me in a stilted German accent, "They are aggressive, crazy, and usually drunk. A bad combination." (For all those people who are offended by this generalization, worry not, I'm saving a separate post to cover the prejudices, racism, and stereotypes towards Aboriginals that I've encountered so far).
I tell the Germans that it is 8pm and I haven't eaten anything for nearly 6 hours. Do they know a place to eat nearby? "Ya" they do, but its about a 10 minute walk. I already know that the streets aren't that well lit. I ask them if it is safe. Two out of three say yes and one shrugs.
So I hit the street in the direction of the restaurant after being all stirred up by the neighboring lunatic, (who may not be violent, but certainly sounds violent) and the thought that there might be aggressive, crazy, drunk homeless people waiting in the shadows. As this part of Perth is new to me, I also don't know where I'm going. I can honestly say that on this walk I had the most uncomfortable feeling I've had on any walk while on a street in Asia or Australia. Aussies: I just don't trust you. Sorry. Once I knew the way back and my belly was full, I realized it was my state of mind.
After the first day, I can't say this is the best hostel I've stayed at, and it might be pretty close to the worst, but it has character and it isn't as bad as I imagined it. I'll be staying the week.
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