June 4th - The Worst Day, The Best Decision

“Where the hell is that?’’ is not the response you want to hear from your InterCity bus driver when he asks you which town you want to get off at. Such was my experience, the first of many bad ones that plagued me from the moment I parted ways with Kelsey Fernuik. It was 6:45am and I was the world’s largest hermit crab standing with all my life’s possessions at the makeshift bus depot just north of the CBD. My backpack alone weighed enough to cripple most mortals but add to that a food and laundry bag filled to the brim as well as a full daypack and I was one overburdened packhorse. Luckily I had remembered Spring Creek from when we passed through on our way to Renwick and was able to convince the driver that, yes, it existed and, yes, I really did wish to be let off there with all that weight to carry. A few weeks ago I somehow managed to erase all the songs of my Ipod and was only able to salvage about 10 tunes in time for the bus ride. At first I was a tad disheartened at the lack of selection but when this little boy behind me starting singing ‘Friday’ by Rebecca Black ad nauseum I was grateful to play those 10 on repeat. Young Sinatra’s sister also had awful noise coming out of her mouth, but hers was the kind that resulted from some horrendous sickness and a lack of education on her parent’s part to teach her to cover her mouth. I alighted at Kaikoura on our half hour tea break and went into the 4square in search of a muffin. I settled for some banana loaf before being guilt tripped into buying a sausage on a bun for the local Lion’s club charity. I should’ve just donated the money and told them to forget the sausage because, as I soon found out, they don’t really go with banana loaf. Seagulls don’t seem to be critical of the pairing because they harassed me to no end, clearly accustomed to being spoiled by tourists and brazen enough to come within inches and shout demands rather than wait from afar. Five hours later and I finally got off the bus and was delighted to find that my destination, Swampy’s Backpackers, was right across the street from me. I was lucky it was where it was as any further and all the things I was carrying would’ve preventing me from making it. I had called Swampy from the bus and had told him I was almost there and wanted to begin my long term accommodation. There was the slightest hesitation in his response, which I thought nothing of at the time, but he confirmed that he indeed had a place for me. At first the hostel seemed legit; the common room had a fire around which a few people sat quietly chatting, there were many ordered bookshelves and it didn’t appear overly messy. Swampy wasn’t around so I was introduced to a really nice young bloke who was in charge for the time being. I forget his name but I will remember him as the one bright spot in that unfortunate series of events. He took payment from me, a weekly rate, then gave me a tub with cutlery and bowls that I was to use. It was at this point that I started getting a little uneasy. You see, most hostels have communal kitchen items because they trust that people as a whole have enough dignity to clean up after themselves such that everyone can enjoy the use of the kitchen. This was not the case at Swampy’s. The kitchen was in shambles, the sinks full with greasy pots and pans, smothered with soap in some feigned attempt at ‘cleaning’. There were literally flies buzzing around pockets of filth that had become encrusted on the countertops. A fine way to begin the tour I thought to myself. Now, the selling point for many backpacker hostels is the lack of bunks. Many aggressively advertise that they don’t have bunk beds in their dorm rooms because everyone hates them; they’re noisy, uncomfortable, and tall people (like myself) don’t appreciate whacking their heads a hundred times a night on the bed above you. In addition, as a rule, the less people in a dorm room the better. You may keep costs down and profit up by squeezing people in like cattle but most travelers have enough sense to spend the extra dollar to get a good night’s sleep and avoid the feeling of being in a prison cell. Swampy’s had none of these redeeming qualities; I was sandwiched between two sweaty, stinky men in the middle bunk of a three tiered bed in a dorm room that slept 11. Worse still, when I went to inquire about what kind of job I’d be doing, the back-up manager said he’d never heard that I was coming for work and couldn’t find my name in any of the contracts. He assured me there was plenty of work to be had though and that I should just wait to talk to Swampy. Against my better judgement, I waited. Unless you want to drink your face off, which I didn’t, there is really nothing to do in Spring Creek. After 6 weeks of over indulgence I was ready to get back into a routine of normality. Just to throw me further off balance, someone made a formal announcement that that there would be a costume party that night to celebrate their birthday. I thought this was just a joke and that no one would indulge him but how wrong I was. I’d met two guys from Scotland in the dorm who had come all the way from Auckland and were going on two hours of sleep, they were just as tired, if not more so, than I was. Around 9pm, after watching four consecutive episodes of The Simpsons, the three of us agreed it was time to consider getting some much deserved sleep. Just as we were on the brink of dreamland someone in the common room turned on some dance music and it didn’t cease until the early hours of the morning. I can’t remember too many specifics but, suffice it to say, some crazy shit went down. It wasn’t just a party; it was a drug fuelled freak-out. There was constant screaming and yelling, at least one fight and some French guys came into the dorm at 3am, turned all the lights on, and proceeded to smoke about a pound of dope, all the while commenting on their various methods of joint rolling. I was woken up a solid 20 times thinking the apocalypse was nigh. Around 4am I finally passed out from sheer exhaustion, and I wasn’t even a part of the party! This however, like the rest of my bursts of sleep, was short lived for at 6:45am, exactly 24hours since this nightmare began the mini manager burst into the room and threatened to soak us all with water unless we got up to clean the mess. He apologized to the Scots and I, knowing we weren’t a part of the shenanigans, but I had been so frightened I fell out of bed and got a cut equal to the one I’d received rafting the 7m waterfall on my opposite forearm. I knew I wouldn’t be getting to sleep again after that so for some reason I went out to survey the damage. It was like a scene out of the Hangover, though the only item you really need to know is that some long haired guy was passed out in a chair in a toga outfit with a giant, golden cross adorning his chest and a 10 stitch worthy gash on the inside of his hand. Manager junior then told me that he didn’t think I would have work until Thursday which was 5 days from then. I decided then and there that I couldn’t do it, I’d never last here if I wanted to have any degree of privacy and any sort of routine that involve cleanliness and healthiness. I asked for a refund from Swampy himself (who was actually pretty nice but surprisingly unconcerned by the carnage) and packed my things and was out the door before 8am. Best decision I ever made. I didn’t have anything waiting for me in Wellington but I couldn’t have cared less. I braved my first hitchhiking experience and it was a breeze; only 15 cars passed me by before a super cool local boat builder picked me up and drove me the 25km north to the Interislander ferry. I bought a ticket for the 10:30am crossing to Wellington with my refunded money and said farewell to the South Island without looking back. Upon checking into a downtown hostel in Wellington I have further confirmed that this was the smartest decision I ever made. For the same price as a night in hell I am in a 4 bed share room, though I have it all to myself. I rang up some people to play music with on the kiwi Craigslist called TradeMe, I found a guy staying here playing The Tallest Man on Earth and sang along, and am going to a flat viewing tomorrow night where the couple already living there has two dogs. Now I understand the bus driver, he probably knew of Spring Creek but, like any sane person, had wiped it from his memory entirely.