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Published: June 18th 2006
Travelers be warned: Darwin is an international hub for drunken debauchery.
At every pub and backpacker joint in town, an onslaught of beer-guzzling Germans can be observed mingling with flirtatious Finns, bootilicious Brits, and cantankerous Canucks. Despite being in the notoriously remote “Top End” of Australia, there is no shortage of
fashionistas sporting midriff, bared legs, and blonde highlights. Scoping the circuit for a suitable spot to study, I inevitably feel like a misplaced calf drifting in the international meat market. How long would it be until I was slaughtered, minced, and fried? “Nerdburger Special!” they’d shout, shelling me out at 63 cents a kilo.
I woke up in a sweat, believing the auction had already begun. Bolt upright, I sighed with relief and exasperation as I realised the shouts were emanating from a drunken backpacker in the bunk above, and not the PA system at the butcher market. “Snorken! Snorken!” he cried amid an enraged rant in German, or perhaps Swedish. Despite his best attempts to tame the dorm “snorken”, he managed to rouse everyone except the snoring drunk.
Welcome to Darwin. It’s 4am at “The Cav”—one of Darwin’s many backpacking clones.
After my fourth night, I succumbed to my crankiness, and checked out with a scowl. Being roused by pounding fists on the dorm door at 3.30am was the last straw. Two policemen demanded my signature as a sober custodian to the British babe bunking up next door. For all I know, I am now a legal custodian, and negligent parental guardian. I moved house before the girl could rouse to meet her hangover, and rekindle all the glory of her “drunk and disorderly” charges from the night before.
With one week to prepare a rough draft of a literature review, I set out on my seat-less cycle to find a quieter, more homely environment. Every backpackers I visited bore the trademarks of drunken debauchery and dinginess. I vaguely considered becoming a stowaway at the library and hiding out amid the stacks, when I spotted a hand-painted wooden sign in a serene garden.
CWA* Outback Mothers Memorial Hostel
The birds flittering about in the garden seemed happy enough, so I decided to check in. As I was guided to my room, I marveled that I was taken in so easily. My orange dreadlocks and scruffy cap hardly matched the profile of the other guests seated in a breezy lounge room with fans, board games, and a bookcase. Peg was seated at a table piecing together a green knitted sweater. Fay was gazing at a romantic comedy from the 80s, and sipping slurpily on her cuppa. And so, I was greeted cheerily by wavering voices, blindly accepted without grey hair, and inadvertently indoctrinated as a junior nanna backpacker.
*CWA: The Country Women's Association provides shared accomodation at competitive prices to female travelers across Australia.
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The French cousin
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Finally
Sophie is finally back for more adventures. The new season is beginning....