Travel is full of experiences - some wonderful, others painful and a few that are just plain weird. In my short time on this side of the world I've had chairs thrown at me in a London classroom, been enthralled by the Pyrenees Mountains and spent many happy hours in Irish pubs. But nothing beats being locked in a fourth floor hostel room with two deaf German men and a New Zealand girl at 7.00 am on a Sunday morning.
It was my weekend of broken locks and lost keys. On Saturday afternoon I spent three hours with a backpacker tour group on the Hill of Tara. We were stranded. One of the group had accidently left the keys inside and the driver's spare keys were safely (!!) in his bag on the bus. Three and a half hours to gain access to the bus was a long wait, but worth it for the friendly Clydesdale and the soothingly green scenery.
That evening, back in Dublin, I helped rescue a couple whose hostel door lock had broken. It was an embarrassing rescue, for me that is. I had to walk down four flights of stairs with a towel on my wet hair, wearing a green face mask and hastily clad in dirty t-shirt and shorts. They hadn't been considerate enough to lock themselves in after I'd had a shower!
The following morning I woke early to find my female room mate cursing in a distinctive New Zealand accent. She couldn't open the door - the lock was broken. Angie, the Kiwi, and I weren't too concerned as we were sure that we could wake someone to raise the alarm. But at almost the same moment we realised the gravity of the situation. We were locked in a fourth floor hostel room, early on a Saturday morning, in the middle of Dublin and we needed to go to the toilet! Who on earth would be awake at this hour?
By this time the Germans had realised that things were not right. We thought they didn't speak English, and so, with the arrogance of experienced backpackers tried to explain our situation in broken English and mime. Unsuccessfully. Some frantic gesturing between them enlightened us and revealed a new dimension to our situation. How does one, who speaks no German, tell a deaf German that the lock is broken and climbing out a window is not a viable option?
Angie and I decided our best option was to yell at a passerby on the street and ask them to get help. After ten minutes of hanging out the window we found our knights in shining armour, who seemed to have left their chivalry genes at home. Upon hearing our plight they burst into peals of laughter. After some pleading and cajoling they relented and alerted one of the hostel staff. He tramped grumpily up those four flights of stairs and tried to converse with us through the door. He recognised my voice from the previous night's rescue and accused me of being cursed. Two broken locks in twelve hours and I'd been around both times.
After much key turning, jiggling and pushing a locksmith was sent for. It was going to be a long wait. Angie and I were becoming desperate. It was now 8.00 am and we'd both gone from sitting in one spot to walking around like caged mice in an effort to keep our bladders under control. After swapping extended versions of our life stories conversation turned to toilet options. For half an hour we debated urinating in the garbage bin. We loudly thanked God that it was plastic and not some fancy cane thing. In desperation we glanced sympathetically at the perplexed Germans and rigged up a makeshift cubicle so we could relieve ourselves. I went first and only just finished in time for Angie to go. The combination of hysterical laughter and the sound of running water meant that she was literally bursting.
What the Germans thought of us by now we weren't sure. Burrowing their heads under the covers indicated definite feelings of embarrassment. Perhaps we were the first Antipodeans they had encountered? We did manage to coax them to the surface and we passed the next hour and a half in hilarious attempts at learning sign language.
The locksmith was a genial man who did not protest when both Angie and I greeted him with an enthusiastic kiss on each cheek. He was all smiles as the whole weekend had been very lucrative for him.
Angie was admamant that we shouldn't tell the staff about our creative use of the room's garbage bin. But she was leaving that morning and I, being the Virgo I am, suffered an attack of the 'guilts' and told our tale to one of the staff. He, an incorrigible Irishman, immediately, but affectionately dubbed me 'the Aussie who pissed in the bucket'. As for the Germans, well, they were only worried about missing breakfast!
by Melissa Kennedy
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