A group of young travellers hovers in the foyer of the Perth City YHA hostel. They are waiting for the clock to chime 1.00pm and signal check in time. When check in commences they form an orderly line that shuffles forward slowly toward the desk. One by one each traveler is signed in and handed a swipe card to get into their allocated room and a bundle of bed linen. The line of travellers waiting to be admitted gives the process the feel of a production line, or the arrival of a new group of inmates in a prison.
For a time I watch nervously from the side, even now unsure of whether I want to join the line. My memories of youth hostels are not good. I’ve spent many long sleepless nights in overcrowded, overheated dorm rooms often tormented by surround sound snoring and other bodily functions.
What am I doing here? I have money. I can go to a proper hotel. I hate these places. But with constant talk of pending economic Armageddon, youth hostels may soon be the only affordable option I’ve got if I want to keep travelling while tightening the belt. On this visit to Perth and Fremantle I’m going back to accommodation basics and putting myself in two youth hostels, starting here.
This is Perth’s largest hostel with 240 beds spread over 70 rooms and it’s booked solid for the next three weeks. The clientele here consists mostly backpackers aged 18-30. Perth is traditionally the first or last stop on their big Australian adventure. The notice board in the foyer is covered in ads for cars that have been driven across the country and are now being sold by departing travellers. Many of them will be driven back across the country to the east coast and the process will likely continue until the put car beat finally dies.
Eventually, I join the line behind two English girls. They wear the blank zombie like expressions of people who have just traveled 30 odd hours and aren’t quite sure if it’s day or night. They also wear the unofficial uniform of the backpacker girl – not very much at all. Each sports very short shorts and skimpy singlet tops and they display plenty of their ‘Three B’s’: boobs, belly and bum crack.
“Next please.”
I shuffle forward to the counter and hand over my booking form. I refuse to even consider a bed in a shared dorm room and opt instead for a private room with my own bathroom. At just $85 per night that has to be good for the budget. The friendly receptionist hands me my swipe card and my bundle of linen and says rather sheepishly “I’ve given you the room furthest away from the train. I hope that helps a bit.”
I make my way to the room noting the ominous sign in the hallway just outside my door advertising the sale of ear plugs at reception. That can’t be a good sign.
The room itself is actually quite good. It’s clean and has carpet that looks relatively new. There’s even a small television and an air conditioner. Backpacker luxury! My spirits soar.
They quickly crash back to earth with a thud. Well not a thud exactly; more of a Creeeaaak BANG! One of the building’s heavy self-closing doors nearby has been left to swing shut and slam. The sound reverberates right through this part of the building. Maybe that’s what I need the earplugs for.
When I start to feel hungry I go to investigate the communal kitchen and find mayhem. Five people are trying to cook on the same stove top at once. Everyone has to walk sideways to get past each other. There is a queue at the sink to wash up and people shout to be heard above the clatter of crockery, cutlery and slamming doors. I beat a hasty retreat to my room and later head out to McDonald’s.
Returning to the hostel I look in on the small café and outdoor courtyard thinking I’ll enjoy a quiet coffee and spend some time flicking through some glossy magazines. Three loud and intoxicated English lads are there shouting, pushing, and shadow boxing each other. They completely dominate the small space. As I watch, one of them picks up his mate, flips him over his shoulder and drops him head first on to the concrete. He lays motionless on the ground while his companions stand over him roaring with laughter. The café manager comes to investigate the commotion. I retreat to my room.
My Melburnian body clock has been completely thrown by the three hour time difference and I turn in quite early hoping for a good night’s sleep. Instead I spend a fitful night being jolted from my slumber by the sounds of the hostel.
I’m first woken by someone banging on the door of the next room and calling out to be let in. Later some girls are laughing outside my door at the rather feeble attempt of some boys to pick them up. Later there’s someone running down the hallway shouting about something to do with a slab. All of this noise is punctuated by the constant creeeaaak and BANG of the slamming doors.
I remind myself that I’m surrounded by happy, healthy young travellers who are enjoying the time of their lives as only they should. I mustn’t be mad at them. Part of me wishes I could join them. Finally I drift off to sleep.
Just on 5.00am I am woken by a loud metallic scraping sound that gradually becomes a screech as it gets closer and louder. I’m still trying to place this rather familiar sound when the train responsible gives a good loud blast on its horn right as it passes the hostel. It’s followed by another train and then another. The 8.00 am check out time can’t come quickly enough.
“See you next time,” says the friendly receptionist collecting my swipe card and my bundle of bed linen.
“Sure thing,” I lie bolting for the door and the train to Fremantle.
…to be continued