Arriving late from an airport shuttle, I found myself outside the Dunedin backpackers that, according to Booking.com, was deserving of an 8.3. Tentatively I peered through the glass to a vacant reception area accessible only via keycard. Had I missed an instruction? Spectating from halfway up the stairs, an occupant kindly popped down to inform me that I would need to check myself in at the adjoining bar. Well, of course. The bar turned out to be a rather sizeable pool hall, with low-hanging lamps illuminating the red-topped tables in use. I approached the counter and a young woman, evidently working for free accomodation, perked up in that hateful manner favoured by American customer service industries. Paying in full, I was rewarded with a keycard, Wi-Fi stubs and the promise of discounted beer and free pool anytime except Friday and Saturday nights.
"Our busiest nights," she explained.
I hadn't asked.
I was sent to locate my bed for the next week alone, the American returning to tend the bar. Trudging uncertainly up the carpeted stairs, I wondered if this had been a good idea. It would not be the last time I had occasion to wonder that. I christened my keycard at the head of the stairs and stepped into the common area. The immediate impression was that I had stumbled upon a house party. Raucous youths had gathered in an outdoor seating area to my left, to laugh and drink and be young. I looked down and noticed that the walkway was covered in a black plastic mesh, presumably because it was cheap and easy to hose down. My room turned out to be in the section nearest the festivities.
The room was small. It would be small even if it were intended for only one inhabitant, let alone the six in this case. But it was not the size that bothered me. It was the junk. Everywhere one could put junk, one had put junk. Unzipped sports bags vomited their contents across the floor. T-shirts and socks dangled over railings and mattresses. Phones with smashed screens drank from powerboards tangled in cords. And footwear could be found in every configuration except upright pairs. I stood in the centre of the room trying to decode which bed was mine from the relative proportions of junk on the sheets. Perhaps this was just a simple mix-up. I should ask. But I could not move. I could not even relieve myself of the weight of my bags. I just continued to stand there like I had seen a snake. Finally I gathered myself together and returned to the bar.
A different young woman was there to greet me.
"I've just checked in to my room and I'm afraid I don't know which bed is supposed to be mine," I said, a little feebly.
Wearily she accompanied me back up the stairs and into the mouth of hell.
"This is for the longer stays," she said, by way of an apology. "I'll go and find the boys."
Oh joy. The boys. Seven nights with the boys. I can scarely wait for them to burst through the doorway and chuckle at this stuffy newcomer and his fetish for basic cleanliness. To my immense relief, the woman re-entered sans boys and promptly moved me to a different room.
Though identical in set up—three bunk beds of dubious construction—this new room had a much more manageable room-to-junk ratio. I climbed onto my assigned bed, a top bunk in the far corner, and unloaded my bags. I had no desire to mosey out into the seating area and announce my arrival so I lay down and closed my eyes. Thanks to the luxury of paper-thin walls I was able to hear every word uttered nearby. Someone from the British isles—I cared not to decipher which—belched something about this being a hostel, what does one expect? I presumed this related to me and that the orator was one of the famous boys.
The great advantage of substandard accommodation is that you want to spend as little time there as possible. I quickly fell into a routine of rising, showering and leaving, returning only to sleep. A couple of times I deigned to make an appearance in the kitchen, but it was invariably infested with topless males and strangely non-repulsed blondes. On the walkways I was occasionally treated to the sight of said males forming perfect right-angled triangles with deck chairs as if incapable of bending at the waist. Nonetheless, the toilets worked and the showers ran. Admittedly the shower taps controlled the temparature of the water the same way a kite controls the direction of the wind, but this was a minor gripe in the circumstances.
When encountering new people, it is critical to disregard one's first impressions, to resist easy judgments, to remember that everyone was born, that everyone has experienced joy and sorrow in some form. It takes great imagination to perceive things as another might perceive them, and a generousity of spirit to want to. These people were probably not so different from myself. If I only got to know them a little I'm sure I would discover similarities and shared interests. I'm sure I would be moved by their individual triumphs and tragedies. But it was hard not to wish them all cancer.