Bevan, Bon Rouleur
26 October 2005 | Sydney, Australia
I awoke at first light, naked and disoriented. I smelled vomit on my breath. Without my glasses I was myopic as I made my way to the bathroom to quench my importunate thirst. After punishing my irritated stomach with an influx of tap water I promptly vomited it out, all over the sink. I had a plane to catch in three hours. And where was my wallet?
I was about to miss my flight to Buenos Aires. I didn't care about the no-show fee. I dreaded facing my roommates and hostel staff who'd accommodated my display of excess. I had had no intention of drinking so much; just a couple of beers at the bar and some wine at the hostel. It had gotten out of hand.
I returned to my room and scribbled out three letter of thanks and apology, offering each of my helpers a night's accommodation on me. I then went back to bed to sleep off the hangover. I had no choice; I could barely move without vomiting. It was unlike anything I've felt before. When I got up, the Canadian in my room (an accomplice in the previous night's bacchanalian revelries) filled in some blanks: I'd gone to a bar with an Australian we'd met earlier that day. I'd returned after about an hour and passed out on my bunk, vomiting all over. An Austrian and two Chinese in the room had cleaned me up. The old mattress was ruined- the one under me was still wrapped in its plastic cover.
But what about my wallet? I'd had it with me the previous night. Someone at the front desk informed me that my clothes had been stashed in a bag and accidentally thrown away by the hotel staff. My camera was also missing, along with my extra memory card. Something so large wouldn't have been thrown in with the soiled clothes.
Penniless and with a splitting headache, I called my Dad who was kind enough to wire me money from my account, a service that only cost over three days' budget. After paying for a mattress I'd ruined (five days' budget) I returned to my room where, to my surprise, my roommates greeted me warmly. I had a pleasant evening- the two Chinese and I ended up having a long discussion about China's role in the world. It was a great and unexpected exchange, and really highlighted the benefits of staying in a hostel; you meet very interesting people with diverse views.
I ended up spending three weeks in Sydney as a result of that incident, which I'll get to in a bit. First though, I'll get back to my arrival in Adelaide, where I left off almost two months ago.
Upon reaching Adelaide, I knew it would be hard to get going again. It was the first real city I'd experienced since Perth. I found a nice hostel downtown, and was meeting people and enjoying myself. Even though Adelaide is considered the most laid-back city in Australia, there were tons of things to do; I felt I could spend weeks there. On top of that, it rained on my planned departure day, and the next. I eventually got going, but it wasn't easy.
The day out of Adelaide was probably the single most varied day of the trip. I climbed the toughest hills I'd yet encountered. After that, I found myself having to weave through the Adelaide Hills, going from town to town all the way to the small town of Murray Bridge. I enjoyed the Adelaide Hills a lot: the farming towns were very picturesque, and all sorts of food was available. After the hills the farm land resumed, and was thus until the end of my Australia leg.
It was a pretty flat ride to Stawell. I'd already purchased a ticket from Melbourne to Sydney so that I wouldn't miss my flight to Buenos Aires, so I had a deadline to meet. My delayed departure from Adelaide had me cutting it very, very close. To make it to Melbourne on time, I had planned to do days of nearly 100 miles, including the last day (the day I'd be flying out of Melbourne.) A full day of cycling (with a good chance of rain), packing my bike, and catching a flight on the same day without experiencing the cultural capitol of Australia didn't seem a good idea. I ended up taking a bus from Stawell to Melbourne to avoid that situation. But if anyone asks, I made it all the way (Stawell is about 220km from Melbourne, a long day on the bike.)
I only had one day to see Melbourne, most of which was spent packing my bike. It seemed like a great city. They have a really nice China Town; unlike most I've seen, it was full of expensive restaurants and higher-end clubs and bars. They seemed to have a disproportionate amount of live music as well, but I didn't get a chance to see any performances.
What I wasn't able to see or do in Melbourne I made up for in Sydney. I did all the requisite tourist activities despite having been there years ago. I even got a haircut (by the way, I've been shaving regularly now, since there are actually people around to notice).
It was three days into my stay that the drinking fiasco occurred. I was extremely depressed following the event; I could have died, and I'd thrust upon strangers the unenviable task of making sure I didn't. I could have died; that thought still lingers.
I had a liberating thought the day following my hangover. I'd been replaying the night over and over, trying to remember certain details; something didn't seem right. I thought it strange that I should be so affected by the amount of alcohol I'd had, spread over a period of at least five hours. I hadn't imbibed enough to provoke the responses that ensued. I'd never experienced complete amnesia before, nor any sort of after affects comparable to those experienced during the incident. My thoughts turned to the Australian gentleman who had supposedly accompanied me to the bar. I'd been told by the Austrian who'd helped me that he hadn't returned with me to the room. Given my condition, the Austrian concluded that the Australian's resolution mightn't have been the purest.
I came to suspect that I'd been drugged. At one point he'd refilled my wine. I'd also refilled his, but had accidentally tinted his white wine with a drop of red- he immediately noticed the tint and became suspicious of my intention. The Australian had also attempted to isolate me from the rest of the group (which he succeeded in doing- it was only us who went to the bar). These clues could explain the loss of camera and wallet. I looked up the symptoms for Rohypnol poisoning (a date-rape drug), and had experienced each one. I became certain- yes, very certain indeed- that I had been drugged. Not the least of the reasons for my suspicion was that it provided a convenient excuse for the unfortunate incident.
I filed a police report but was declined a drug test (my body would have metabolized Rohypnol by that time anyways); it's reserved for rape victims. This brought up another question- I went to the hospital just to make sure.
That one night altered the entire course of the trip. I had quite a few days to think about my next course of action, since I had to wait for a new credit card to arrive (which held me back for almost three weeks). I eventually decided to get a refund for my ticket to Buenos Aires and fly to Singapore instead. This saved me a lot of money (the difference in ticket prices was about a quarter of my entire budget), and made me very excited about getting back on the bike. I'd thought about and planned the South America leg too much; I now craved some unscripted travel.
It would be a reasonable expectation that such a bad night would spoil my entire Sydney experience. In fact it didn't; I left with very fond memories. When Alex came to Sydney, he'd stayed in a small, quirky hostel marketed towards the Japanese and outdoor enthusiasts. He'd liked it, so I decided to give it a try (I had to get out of the old hostel: the baking soda under my bunk brought back bad memories.) My three-week stay at Tokyo Village hostel in the Surry Hills district was a highlight of the trip. The friendliness of the staff and clientele, the set-up of the hostel, and the sense of community it inspired all made the experience very enjoyable. After a few days it felt like home. I established routine: I'd IM friends in the morning, cook lunch, go out (usually to deal with the airline or bank, or to go food shopping), then return to socialize and cook dinner. After that I'd retire to the TV room or sit in the kitchen and talk to other travellers. Most people had been there for months, or were planning to. Some had been there for years. On the weekends, we'd go to a pub or see live music nearby. I could have spent a very long time there. Community, which had been lacking the past two months, was strong. Leaving wasn't easy. By the end of my stay in Sydney the thought of South America brought to mind an image of deserts, endless high plateau, and windswept plains. I'd had enough of monotony by then (although I'm sure that image of South America doesn't hold true for most of the continent). I now wanted people, the beach, and some decent Chinese. In a word, I wanted Asia. The $350 flight to Singapore was enticing. Also, if I was going to shorten my trip, I wanted to do it after Asia; I'd like to experience the continent first-hand if I'm to raise awareness for its AIDS problem.
The night I left Sydney, I was driven to the airport by an aging Iraqi man. He spent the better part of the drive telling me about the horrors which had befallen his homeland under Hussein's regime. A self-described patriot, he had fled when Saddam and his Baath Party "fucked up" his beloved country. He, along with every other Iraqi, had lost family members in Hussein's wars. He hadn't seen his country or family in years, and was excited for the chance to return to a democratic society. He shook my hand, thankful for the sacrifices of my countrymen. He insisted on paying for my luggage trolley.
Coming from the Bay Area, I hadn't met many people on his side of the issue. I guess that's why we travel.
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