Humiliation Constipation Titillation

oops

I'll start with a quick picture of the now closed fire escape that I set on fire. It is a post that is crucial to the structure and no longer secures the two cross beams - so it is too dangerous to use. Whoops.

 

Everything gets lost in the jungle. Clothes, dignity and souls. My paranoia led me to the conclusion that someone has been stealing from me. I was sure that twenty bucks had disappeared from my bed (aka my wallet, wardrobe, personal space and living quarters), then my sleeping mask went missing (my bed is so high that it is handily aligned with the fluorescent neon strip lighting on the roof) and then my entire washbag disappeared.

The first question that I asked myself was “who steals a washbag?” My second, third and forth questions revolved exclusively around the hunt for a new toothbrush. I started work at ten so I set my alarm for 9.45. It took me twelve minutes to realise that the washbag was nowhere to be seen, leaving me just three minutes to try and source replacement toiletries before my shift began. It tasted like someone had crept into my bed during the night and shat into my mouth, and the poo was now nestled comfortably in my windpipe. For the next four hours I had to make do with a six pack of chewing gum and my rage with jungle life crept higher as I was forced to acknowledge that my breath smelt worse than the toilet that I was cleaning.

After my shift I sort of took a shower and then walked two blocks to the pharmacy to spend $30 replacing the items in my washbag, in addition to an actual washbag itself. When I got back and gleefully washed the anus from my mouth I discovered my washbag was actually on the bathroom shelf. My rage for the motherfucker who had stolen my little burberry washbag had led me on a rampage around the local pharmacy and just when I felt like I was teetering on the brink of a breakdown I realised that I was merely just once again a victim of my short term memory.

This type of paranoia is probably largely due to weed cookies, but I always seem to err on the side of suspicion in preference to the obvious alternative that I am just a disorganised cunt. It also says something about the society that I live in that leads to a constant fear of people stealing my shit. I remember my first night in south east asia when I arrived in Singapore. I used three padlocks to secure every single zip on the bag, and then I used a 1.5m steel cable to lock the motherfucker to the bed – meaning that someone would have to steal an entire bunk bed to remove my bag (or merely cut the pretty flimsy fabric around the locks). A few days later in Thailand I had to put my rucksack on the roof of the van type things, and I was genuinely concerned that some craic team of thai trapeze thieves were going to swing down and nab it. Thankfully I no longer think like that, but my suspicions still remain prominent in my thought process. When I lose something, which is often, my initial thoughts are spent compiling a mental list of suspects before ruling them out or marking them down for further investigation. A few moments later I will usually realise that I can't even remember what it is that I was looking for in the first place. Then an hour or so later I will go and look for the same item and the process will begin over again. Needless to say no one is stealing from me here; I am just the victim of an environment that offers a ready supply of paranoia within a highly dysfunctional living space.

Work-wise it's a mixed bag. I favour the evening shift, but it feels kind of degrading cleaning the toilets whilst people all around me are getting ready to go out. The bathrooms are co-ed, so whilst i'm on my knees cleaning away skidders there are hot women milling around prepping themselves. I try to make a joke about the job but there is no hiding the fact that I am scrubbing a bog. But on the plus side there is a good chance to getting chatting to people, and by people I obviously mean birds. This has borne results in the shape of a hot aussie chick, but on the whole I am left feeling a new type of humiliation.

The second facet of co-ed toilet based humiliation is one that I am much more accustomed to. Call me old fashioned but I am somewhat uncomfortable with the prospect of having a dump in the knowledge that there is at least a small chance that a bird will be waiting to use the can after me. To begin with, as in normal life, I found myself going to a bar and buying a pint just so that I can drop the kids off at the pool. Five bucks a day and mild alcoholism is a small price to pay for peace of mind that I am not about to offend a seven or above. After spending a week of cleaning up after these animals I have almost entirely alleviated this hang up: a) if I'm going to clean up their filth then I can at least gain some revenge by making their lives a bit more uncomfortable for five minutes or so; and b) I have found a coping technique. The saving grace is that the hostel pumps music into the bathrooms - so the embarrassment of a big splashdown is mitigated. I have managed to get my poo cycle down to about twenty five seconds, so if I lift the toilet seat back up before exit then I create the illusion that I have only taken a leak. The smell of rotting animal carcass was so obviously left by the person before me.

It is actually quite funny working in the bathrooms. You can see the raw shame on the faces of the guilty as they leave the bog. This is sometimes followed by relief and pure elation if there is no one waiting to go in there after them, or an apologetic smile if their worst fears are confirmed and there is a queue. So overall there are mixed emotions on the shared bathrooms front. I have handled more bodily fluid than I am perhaps comfortable with, but on the other hand fit australian...

Anyway, sorry. In San Diego life is slow paced and enjoyable. We have a contact with a condo which has a tenth storey pool and jacuzzi overlooking the harbour, and I'm now familiar with how to use bathroom products and produce pancake batter. Happy days. The beaches are pretty nice and the weather is sweet (although yesterday was one of circa 5 days a year that it rains). There is an awesome park called Balboa Park, non Rocky related, but awesome all the same. It is modelled on the Central Park approach, and you can spend a day looking around museums, galleries and the zoo (obviously none of which I have done, I just go there to play the bumbling Hugh Grant role with the locals). It is right over the flightpath of San Diego airport where planes land impossibly close to the city. I lay right underneath the path and Wayne's World'ed it for a few hours and got some pretty cool photos.

USA USA USA

One thing that is bugging me, which was never an issue in SE Asia, is the clothes situation. The vast majority of guests in this hostel (and the USA in general) are what are known in the industry as wheel baggers. They are almost exclusively people arriving with suitcases on wheels as opposed to backpackers. Since the start of the recession the Americans are beginning to take notice of the whole hostel thing. This is an upmarket hostel that attracts wheel baggers and the more upmarket traveller (who is just spending two weeks – three months in the US). So whilst i'm walking around in a range of clothes suited for travel everyone else (guests, staff and locals) are walking around in their best clobber. Around fifty percent of my backpack was consumed by an unused and utterly redundant tent. The residual space consists of practical clothing suited for multiple seasons as opposed to nightclubs. Whilst hip clothing has never been a great priority, I am left feeling a bit of a pikey walking around in a pair of multi-functional trousers with removable legs. This also extends to the budget situation. I'm currently trying to live on about $10 a day all in. None of the other members of staff are backpackers and have far bigger budgets. The two english lads have budgets of about £10k for three months. I have less than half of that for nine months. I didn't have room in my rucksack for more than one pair of jeans, they have each brought their own hair straighteners.

Now that my farming dream has cruelly slipped through my grasp I can send the tent and sleeping bag home. With the cost of postage factored in both items proved to be another shrewd investment. I have contemplated hitch hiking cross country to get to Miami and camping along the way. The only thing stopping me doing this is a fear of getting kidnapped and bummed by some toothless hill-billy. I shall be passing through the deep south, well within 'Deliverance' territory (squeal piggy). Alternative to the rape option is bringing my flights forward into South America, or stay put and continue to trade off my dignity for a bed. I think I may well stick around. I like it here, I can keep it cheap, the people are interesting and there is a fair bit of minge. The only thing that I'm not sure if I can cope with is the sleeping situation. Not only am I about 4m in the air but if I manage to get in excess of five hours sleep then it is nothing short of a miracle. If you are starting late then you are awoken by those working morning. If you stay in at night then you are awoken by people coming in. My bed is adjoining one of the english lads, who is nailing the french girl who lives here. They are constantly at it and we are basically toe to toe seperated only by a shelf. It's fucking awkward and uncomfortable but I don't want to be a miserable cunt and complain - so i'm kind of stuck with it. Fun.

Plenty'O privacy

Most of the staff have a story to tell. The chief housekeeper is a 48 year old japanese guy who has been here for ten years. He was on the verge of becoming a professional baseball player in japan when he was younger, but traded it in to try and become a rockstar (as he thought it would get him more chicks). He has become more almighty than he could ever have imagined. Whilst housekeeping was perhaps not the dream, it turns out that he is actually a journalist with his own business in Japan. He runs it from here for six months of the year and from back home the rest. I have no idea what motivates a 49 year old japanese man to live and work in a hostel in San Diego for six months of the year, but I suspect it has something to do with the women – great bloke but he's a seedy fuck. Another guy here went and bought me my first ever medical marijuana. It came in a prescription bag with a medical tub of bud and also a little pre rolled blunt and blunt holder.

Californian medication

He was telling me that they have the choice from around forty different types of weed for what we in the UK would call 'skunk'. They can tell you all of the effects of the different types, and you can buy them in the form of cookies, beers and even lollipops. This place is just so liberal it's untrue. I spend much of my time after work sat up on the roof of the hostel, which is massive and sits in the sun all day long. There is a mattress up there which is usually surrounded by used condoms. Two girls made a complaint against the male staff the other day, submitting allegations that they were ostracised after one of them had been taken up to the mattress but had not put out. Counter claims of 'frigid bitch' were made in defence and the case was closed.

The mattress

In summary pooing, budget and wardrobe issues have revealed a couple of minor chinks in an otherwise solid piece of Californian armour.