Ryan Howarth's Blog

 

 

Australia’s literary landscape is as vast and diverse as its geography, spanning from the arid outback to the bustling cityscapes. Australian novels offer a unique perspective on identity, history, and human nature, shaped by the country’s colonial past, Indigenous heritage, and evolving multiculturalism. Whether it’s the rugged survival tales of early settlers, introspective character studies, or contemporary explorations of society and belonging, Australian literature is a treasure trove of compelling storytelling.

The Foundations of Australian Literature

The first Australian novels were largely shaped by the experiences of convicts, settlers, and early explorers. Marcus Clarke’s For the Term of His Natural Life (1874) is one of the earliest and most enduring Australian novels, offering a harrowing depiction of convict life in the 19th century. Similarly, Rolf Boldrewood’s Robbery Under Arms (1882) captures the era of bushrangers and outlaw mythology, a theme that would resonate throughout Australian storytelling.

Another foundational work is Henry Handel Richardson’s The Fortunes of Richard Mahony (1917–1929), a trilogy that portrays the struggles of a European immigrant doctor during the Victorian gold rush. These early novels set the stage for Australian literature, emphasizing survival, displacement, and the harsh realities of life in an unforgiving environment.

The Rise of National Identity in Literature

As Australia moved into the 20th century, its literature began to reflect a growing sense of national identity. Miles Franklin’s My Brilliant Career (1901) is a groundbreaking work that follows the journey of a young, independent woman navigating rural Australia. Franklin’s semi-autobiographical novel is an early example of feminist literature, inspiring generations of Australian writers.

Other writers, such as Patrick White, shaped Australian literature’s modern identity. White, who won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1973, is best known for Voss (1957), a novel exploring existentialism and the isolation of the Australian landscape through the journey of an ill-fated explorer. His works remain some of the most intellectually rich contributions to Australian literature.

Indigenous Voices in Australian Literature

One of the most significant developments in Australian literature has been the rise of Indigenous voices. Writers such as Alexis Wright, Kim Scott, and Tara June Winch have provided powerful narratives that challenge traditional historical perspectives and highlight Indigenous culture, resilience, and trauma.

Kim Scott’s Benang (1999) and That Deadman Dance (2010) explore the effects of colonization on Indigenous identity, while Alexis Wright’s Carpentaria (2006) is an epic, multi-layered novel depicting the struggles and spiritual world of an Aboriginal community in northern Australia. Tara June Winch’s The Yield (2019) weaves together family history, linguistic preservation, and the painful legacy of dispossession, winning the Miles Franklin Award.

These authors have ensured that Indigenous voices are not only heard but central to the contemporary literary scene, reshaping the national narrative with perspectives often absent from mainstream historical accounts.

Australian Gothic and Outback Noir

The harshness and isolation of the Australian landscape have also given rise to a distinctive genre—Australian Gothic. This genre combines psychological tension, rugged landscapes, and eerie isolation, drawing from the vast and often unforgiving environment.

Joan Lindsay’s Picnic at Hanging Rock (1967) remains one of the most famous examples, telling the haunting tale of schoolgirls who mysteriously vanish during an outing. The novel’s ambiguous ending and dreamlike quality have cemented its place as a classic of Australian literature.

More recently, the rise of “Outback Noir” has seen authors like Jane Harper and Chris Hammer bring crime fiction into the Australian wilderness. Harper’s The Dry (2016) introduces readers to a small town gripped by drought and secrets, while Hammer’s Scrublands (2018) offers a similarly atmospheric and suspenseful mystery.

Contemporary Australian Literature

In the 21st century, Australian novels continue to evolve, reflecting diverse experiences and tackling contemporary social issues. Authors such as Richard Flanagan, Charlotte Wood, and Trent Dalton have gained international recognition for their compelling narratives.

Flanagan’s The Narrow Road to the Deep North (2013) won the Man Booker Prize for its harrowing depiction of Australian prisoners of war forced to build the Thai-Burma Railway during World War II. Charlotte Wood’s The Natural Way of Things (2015) is a chilling feminist dystopian novel that critiques misogyny and power structures. Meanwhile, Trent Dalton’s Boy Swallows Universe (2018) blends magical realism with the gritty reality of growing up in 1980s Brisbane, becoming a modern Australian classic.

Other contemporary voices, such as Melissa Lucashenko, Hannah Kent, and Michelle de Kretser, continue to push the boundaries of Australian fiction, bringing fresh perspectives on history, identity, and human resilience.

Best Australian Novels to Read

For readers looking to dive into Australian literature, here are some of the best Australian novels across different genres:

For the Term of His Natural Life by Marcus Clarke

Robbery Under Arms by Rolf Boldrewood

The Fortunes of Richard Mahony by Henry Handel Richardson

My Brilliant Career by Miles Franklin

Voss by Patrick White

Carpentaria by Alexis Wright

Benang by Kim Scott

That Deadman Dance by Kim Scott

The Yield by Tara June Winch

Picnic at Hanging Rock by Joan Lindsay

The Dry by Jane Harper

Scrublands by Chris Hammer

The Narrow Road to the Deep North by Richard Flanagan

The Natural Way of Things by Charlotte Wood

Boy Swallows Universe by Trent Dalton

 Conclusion: A Literary Landscape of Endless Possibilities

Australian literature is a vibrant and ever-expanding field, offering readers a deep and nuanced understanding of the country’s past, present, and future. From convict sagas and bush tales to Indigenous storytelling and modern crime fiction, Australian novels capture the essence of a nation that is constantly redefining itself. Whether you are a lifelong reader of Australian fiction or new to its literary landscape, there is always another novel waiting to transport you into the heart of this vast and compelling country.

 

 

The post Australian Novels appeared first on Beardless Nomad | I move. I live. I write..

The Timeless Appeal of Historical Fiction: Exploring the Best Books in the Genre

Historical fiction is a unique literary genre that transports readers to different time periods, bringing history to life through compelling narratives and unforgettable characters. Whether set in ancient civilizations, war-torn eras, or the more recent past, historical fiction allows readers to experience history on a deeply personal level. This genre offers a blend of fact and fiction, weaving real historical events with fictional elements to create immersive stories. In this blog post, we will explore the appeal of historical fiction, highlight some of the best books in the genre, and discuss why these stories continue to captivate readers across generations.

Why Historical Fiction Captivates Readers

 

Historical fiction is more than just storytelling—it is a bridge between the past and present. Here are some reasons why this genre remains so compelling:

Immersive World-Building – Historical fiction authors meticulously research settings, customs, and societal norms to create authentic backdrops for their stories. This attention to detail helps readers feel like they have stepped into a different time period.Emotional Connection to History – While textbooks present facts, historical fiction offers emotional depth. By following characters who experience historical events firsthand, readers can connect with history on a more personal level.Timeless Themes – Many historical fiction books explore themes such as love, war, survival, and resilience, making them universally relatable regardless of the time period.Educational Value – Readers often gain new insights into history while being entertained. Well-researched historical fiction can introduce readers to lesser-known events and perspectives.Must-Read Historical Fiction Books

1. The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah

Set in France during World War II, The Nightingale tells the story of two sisters, Vianne and Isabelle, who navigate love, loss, and survival under Nazi occupation. This novel explores the roles of women in wartime, highlighting their courage and sacrifices.

2. The Book Thief by Markus Zusak

Narrated by Death, this poignant novel follows a young girl named Liesel Meminger in Nazi Germany. As she discovers the power of words and literature, she forms deep connections with those around her. The Book Thief is a heartbreaking yet beautifully written story about humanity, resilience, and the importance of storytelling.

3. Pachinko by Min Jin Lee

Spanning multiple generations, Pachinko follows a Korean family’s struggles in Japan during the 20th century. It delves into themes of identity, discrimination, and perseverance, offering a compelling look at a lesser-explored aspect of history.

4. The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón

This atmospheric novel is set in post–Civil War Barcelona and follows a young boy named Daniel who discovers a mysterious book. As he seeks to uncover the truth about its enigmatic author, he finds himself entangled in a web of secrets and intrigue.

5. Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel

A masterful retelling of the rise of Thomas Cromwell in the court of Henry VIII, Wolf Hall brings Tudor England to life with stunning detail. Mantel’s writing immerses readers in the political machinations of the time, making this a must-read for fans of English history.

6. A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles

Set in Soviet Russia, this novel follows Count Alexander Rostov, who is sentenced to house arrest in a grand hotel. Despite his confined circumstances, his world expands through encounters with various guests and hotel staff. A Gentleman in Moscow is a beautifully crafted story of resilience, adaptability, and grace under confinement.

7. The Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follett

This epic novel transports readers to 12th-century England, chronicling the construction of a cathedral amidst political turmoil. The Pillars of the Earth is a gripping tale of ambition, betrayal, and the endurance of human spirit.

8. Homegoing by Yaa Gyasi

Spanning over 300 years, Homegoing traces the diverging fates of two Ghanaian half-sisters and their descendants. One sister is sold into slavery, while the other remains in Africa. Through interconnected stories, Gyasi explores the lasting impact of colonialism and slavery on multiple generations.

9. Circe by Madeline Miller

A retelling of the myth of Circe, the enchantress from The Odyssey, this novel blends historical fiction with mythology. Miller reimagines Circe’s story, giving her depth and agency, making it a fascinating read for fans of ancient history and mythology.

10. The Underground Railroad by Colson Whitehead

This Pulitzer Prize-winning novel reimagines the Underground Railroad as an actual subterranean railway, following the journey of an enslaved girl named Cora. Whitehead blends historical accuracy with a touch of magical realism, offering a powerful and unforgettable reading experience.

What Makes a Great Historical Fiction Novel?

The best historical fiction novels share several key qualities:

Historical Accuracy – While some creative liberties are taken, the best books in the genre are rooted in well-researched history.Compelling Characters – Readers become invested in characters who feel real and whose struggles reflect the time period.Engaging Storytelling – A great historical novel should be as engaging as any contemporary work, with a strong narrative that keeps readers hooked.Relevance to Modern Readers – While set in the past, these novels often reflect themes and issues that still resonate today.Conclusion

Historical fiction remains one of the most beloved literary genres, offering readers the chance to explore different eras, cultures, and events through the eyes of richly drawn characters. Whether you enjoy tales of war and survival, sweeping family sagas, or intimate personal journeys, historical fiction has something to offer. The books highlighted in this post represent just a fraction of the incredible stories available. If you haven’t yet delved into historical fiction, now is the perfect time to start your journey through time and discover the magic of the past through storytelling.

 

The post Historical Fiction Books appeared first on Beardless Nomad | I move. I live. I write..

short stories about anxiety

He mops his stomach with a sock, gets up from his bed and goes into the bathroom. His reflection antagonises him with shame. The expression shifts to delight. He’s impressed with his physique today.

In the shower he soaps his body and stomach, admiring his washboard abs. The veins on the lower abdomen impress him. He looks up at the full length mirror in the shower in front of him, confused. Confused that he’s woken up alone like this for the past 46 years, for the most part. Out of the corner of his eye he catches the sock staring at him through the shower glass from the floor of the bedroom. 

“Fuckin’ pathetic.” he mutters, wondering what he’d just done and what the barista girl would think about her role in it.

He gets out, combs his half greyed hair, puts on his corporate attire and heads out the door. 

Outside in the hall a woman in her thirties that lives a few doors down waits at the elevator. The usual tense awkwardness is shared as they make the painful wait. Before the even more painful ride twenty floors to the ground. They say nothing to each other like they have for the past three years. They exit and then enter the world.

As per his usual routine he walks several blocks through the city centre and arrives at the same cafe near his work office.

“God she looks good …” he exhales under his breath as he waits in line to order his coffee.

The barista serving looks to be in her mid twenties and he’s observed her every other day for the past few months.

Say something today. Fuckin’ anything. Anything other than that awkward silent shit you normally do, he coaches himself in his head.

The line gets smaller, her energy glides closer.

“What size? … Yeah, what size cup do you want?” he hears the barista say to a naive customer.

Waves of panic and tormenting chatter warp his hearing. His face flushes warmer, adrenaline fills his body. 

“Anything else?” he faintly hears her again, her words apathetic and impatient.

Well what do I say? And how do I say it? Will she like it? What if she doesn’t? What if I make a scene and people see? I can’t humiliate myself or I won’t be able to come to this cafe ever again …, his mental chatter relents.

“What can I get for you?” she says coldly to the customer in front of him, with a stoic expression.

Oh god. No way, he thinks, as his internal battle continues, only minutes away from the moment. His heart races and his body becomes humid as he observes the woman, overwhelmed by her aura. It’s his turn.

“Heyyy what can I get for you??” the barista asks him with a warm smile.

There’s a pause.

Ask her how she is, he thinks.

“Um, hi … Aaahh … how … Just ah … ahm…  a cap… cappuccino. Aahh regular. Please …”

The fuck was that?!, echoes his mind.

“Sure. Could I grab a name please??” she asks, smile remaining. 

Mate, she’s into you, look at the smile. Make some small talk. Bit of banter. She wants it. 

His confidence grows slightly.

“Um … aahh … Nigel …”

Say it, come on. It’s right there. Say it, it’s the perfect thing – “And you?”. She’ll love it. Do it. Do it … do it quick … before it’s too late! … What are you doing!? Say it! Say you idiot! … 

Time passes. He chokes.

“That will be $5,50 thank you.”

He makes payment and stands aside.

You fuckin’ loser. What is wrong with you? Why are you such a pussy? 46 year old man, can’t say a single word to an attractive girl. Pathetic. 

The barista, who he doesn’t want to, hands him his cappuccino. He looks at the one who served him. She’s busy taking an order. He leaves.

“Eyy there he is, how are ya big boy?!” says Brent, Head of their Cyber Security department, 6 ‘6 and still all 120 kgs he was when he served in the Army.

“Hey, I’m alright man, you?”

“Good mate. So did you do it?”

“ …… nah. Bottled it again.”

“Ooooohhh come on man. You gotta get her number.”

“Yeh I dunno. I just choke.”

“Well mate, if you finally want to stop paying and actually get a girlfriend, you gotta step it up!”

Embarrassment hangs off Nigel.

“And the amount of Vaseline you must fly through gotta be hurting the wallet too!”

“Fuck you …” Nigel’s words quickly drowned out by Brent’s bellowing laughter and accompanying thudding slap on his back.

“Nah but seriously man. We’re in our mid forties. Our youth has almost gone. Time is running out!”

“Yeh.” Nigel says with a heavy sigh.

“From what you described, it sounds like she’s interested. You have nothing to lose. Do it tomorrow.”

“Alright.” Nigel replies, unsure of the tone in his own voice.

The next morning Nigel gets ready for work and heads out. She’s working at the cafe again. He gets in line.

Just be calm. Keep it simple. Just a normal chat, that’s it, he plots, trying to settle his raging anxiety.

“Yep, what size? Can I get a name please?” she asks mechanically to the customer in front of him.

He admires her symmetrical facial features and long delicious dark brown hair. He can’t remember the last time he has been so attracted to a woman. His thoughts race.

God, she’s just perfect … Why would she be interested in me? … She seems at least 20 years younger than me …Yeh this is a bad idea … People are gonna think I’m a creep …

It’s his turn. There’s nobody else behind him. He steps towards the counter waiting to catch her eyes.

“Well hellooo, back again …” she says to him with a smile.

His mind moves.

Look, she’s clearly open to it. Warm and smiling, positive signals!

“Ahhh … yeh. Um … hi …”

Nah she does that with everyone. It’s just for tips … stop deluding yourself …

“Cappaccino riiiiight? …” she guesses.

“Aaaaaahhh … uumm … ah, yes … ah, please …” 

“Oh I go a cap as well! But I like mine with almond milk. I tried it and like, haven’t gone back …”

“… Ahh, oh yeh? … ahhh … I, ah … I’ve never tried it …”

Nice! Keep that up! … keep it going!

“You should. First time for everything right? …” she says, looking him dead in the eyes.

He can’t tell if her slight seductive stare is real or imagined. He holds her gaze.

What the fuck is happening … is this real? 

Thoughts turn as he feels himself begin to get hard.

“Uuumm, ok … ahhh … I’ll try it. Um … yeh, Almond Cappuccino … ah please …”

“Great. Nnnnn … ?” she begins “… nniiii? …” 

“NIGEL” they both say in unison, followed by a silent shared gaze.

His heart thumps in his chest. She smirks as she writes his name on the coffee cup. There’s an awkward silence after he pays and remains standing there with nobody behind.

“Oh, ah, sorry …. Ahh thanks!”

He stands aside and waits, trying not to make his stares obvious.

Alright, on the way out just ask her if she wants to go out one time and get her number. Easy.

He discreetly watches her move. The minutes drag on. His courage deflates.

“Nigel?” asks the barista girl, holding his coffee. Her warm, slightly naughty smile returning to her lips.

Terror floods his whole being as he motions towards her. They make eyes. He can feel that she can sense an intention in his energy. Curiosity flashes in her eyes as he reaches for the almond cappuccino.

“Ahh ….. thanks ……… ummm ….. Sorry, do you think I could ….. “ he begins, with sincerity.

A hint of hopeful excitement flashes in her eyes.

“………aahhh ……..” 

Her expression morphs with every passing second.

“……. um …… get …. Ahhh …….. a serviette?”

“Ah, sure. Enjoy.” she says with a smile.

He leaves.

You fuckin’ pussy! Are you kidding! What is wrong with you! Are you fucking serious! 

He lambasts himself all the way to the office.

“… Wow, you really are a pathetic loser. No offense …” says Brent in a poor American accent, quoting Dumb & Dumber.

“None taken.” Nigel responds, laughing at the reference momentarily before returning to shame. “But seriously though, I don’t know what’s wrong with me man. It’s like I gee myself up to ask her out then just completely wimp out. I get overwhelmed with fear and freeze up.”

“It’s normal to feel nervous. You just gotta push through it man and say your piece despite that. She won’t laugh. If anything she’ll find the nerves endearing.”

“Yeh.” Nigel says, still reeling with embarrassment.

“Well you’ve got a bit of momentum now from what you described. So why don’t you just go back this afternoon and ask her out?”

“Dunno man. I feel like I’m just gonna choke again.”

“Nah don’t be negative, you’ll psych yourself out. You got it. Sounds like there’s enough of a vibe. Just stop by this afternoon when it’s not busy, go in, say you’re on your way but want to see if she wants to go out sometime. Get her number and bounce. Easy.”

Nigel exhales heavily.

“Haha come on, stop being a pussy. Nothing to be afraid of. The worst she can say is no, or she has a boyfriend or something.” Brent continues.

“Well if she says no I’ll never step foot in there again! How could I?” 

“Don’t assume the worst.”

“Oh hey it’s me Nigel again! How have you been since that incredibly uncomfortable moment the other day when I asked you out and got completely obliterated as a result? Just an almond cappuccino thanks!”

“Oh shut up!” Brent says laughing.

“Eh whatever, alright, I’ll go back this arvo.”

Brent goes to his desk.

“… This tastes like shit …” Nigel mutters to himself, discarding the coffee.

Nigel doesn’t focus much for the rest of that day. He runs scenario after scenario over in his head. From smooth and Hollywoodesque, to downright humiliating and soul-crushing. He goes between fantasies of having sex with her in the cafe bathrooms, to sitting in a nearby park, racked with pain, feeling like he’s been permanently traumatised. 5 pm rolls around.

“Get in, get out. Quick and simple. Don’t overthink it. Godspeed, soldier.” Brent says, bumping Nigels fist outside on the street as they go opposite ways in the city.

Nigel’s adrenaline picks up pace with every passing block as he closes in on the cafe. The scenes play over and over in his mind. Of what he will say, how she will respond. What if she doesn’t agree and what if she does.

“Just like Brent said, quick, get in, get out. And go in straight away so you don’t psych yourself out then just shoot … “ he mutters to himself.

He arrives at the street of the cafe. He waits at the crossing on the opposite side of the road gazing at the shop. He can hear the thuds of his heart as his ears begin to ring slightly. The cafe looks mostly empty, which he feels reassured by.

The pedestrian light turns green. He walks. The shop grows and warps as he approaches. For a moment he feels disconnected from himself, sensing his body propelling him towards the door on its own. He sees her behind the counter from outside as he steams forward, adrenaline pumping.

He gets right before the entrance. But then, suddenly, at the last second he veers away and continues walking down the street footpath.

Oh come on man what the fuck?! What are you doing!? 

He lambastes himself internally at losing his nerve and does so for a couple more blocks. He regathers himself before long and turns back, determined to do what he said he would.

As he powers back towards the cafe the adrenaline kicks and his mind races, running the game plan over and over in his head. But this time it feels different. A strange wave of determination comes over him.

“I’m gonna do it no matter what. Fuck it. I’m sick of this shit. I’m sick of being alone. Done living like this. I don’t care what she says I’ve just gotta do it …” he says to himself righteously, surprised he believes his words.

He gets back to the block of the cafe. He storms for the door with vengeance in search of the barista girl.

“Let’s go. Let’s fucking go …” he says, pumping himself up as he approaches the door.

You got this. Nice and simple. Get in, get o- ……….. 

His thought is suddenly cut off right as he gets to the doorway, almost colliding with somebody who’s on their way out. He looks up and sees it’s her. He locks eyes with her in shock. She stares back with a glad grin, carrying her purse appearing to be leaving. He freezes.

“Hi.” the barista girl says shyly, breaking the silence.

“Aaaaahhh …. Ah … hi?”

Her grin loosens, shifting to a look of confusion.

“Aaahhh …. Sorry. Umm … ahh … hea … heading off? he says, his voice shaking, feeling the weight of the earth.

Feeling discomfort, she moves from in front of the doorway to the street, turning back towards him.

“Yep. You?”, she asks, already sensing why he had returned at such an hour.

“Aahhh …. Ah, yea. Ah …. m … me too ….“

Come on man, go for it. Fucking do it!!!!!! his mind screams, desperately urging him to find the courage.

The seconds drag on. 

“Aaahhh …………. Ahhh ……..“

The longer they do the more he feels himself sink into the quicksand. She looks at her phone.

“Well, I have to get going. Have a good night.” she says, beginning to walk away.

As she leaves his space, a wave of confidence grows.

“Ahhh … you too! Aaahh ….. see you tomorrow?” he asks, surprised by his ability to suddenly speak.

“Afraid not. I just got fired.” she responds, turning back to him. She poises for his response.

“O … oh ……. Ah ….. Ahhh …”

He freezes once again. There’s silence.

“Well. See you later.” she says, smiling.

He watches as she turns and walks, disappearing into the crowd. He walks in a different direction, turns down a narrow alleyway. The walls echo with his loud screams and curses for several minutes. He curses in his head and scolds himself more than he ever has done in his life. Rage fills him and his head pulses with a migraine.

He arrives at his apartment building before long. He takes the long ride up to his empty apartment. He goes to his bedroom, sits on the edge of the bed removing his clothing, still cursing and ruminating over the humiliating encounter. He drowns in shame and dread. 

After a short while he remains sitting. He’s calmed somewhat. He takes off his pants and lays back on his bed. The barista girl returns to his mind.

“I go a cap as well. But I like mine with almond milk ….” her voice rings in his head as he pictures her face and body.

A sock stares at him from the floor. He hesitates. His hand motions for it.

On the couch you climb me
tongues melting deep.
Your hands on my face.
We break, I look in your eyes.
I see the pain in them
and just want to love you.
Protect and look out for you.
I want this forever.
You want to let me in but can’t.
And I only lust for you more.

Perfect pan dulce, grip firmly
you exhale heavy.
“Don’t hold back. Let go.”
the Spanish I breathe in your ear.
You do.
You take me in deep
and our worlds burn away.
Lost with you in another reality.
One where we both don’t feel
alone and vulnerable.

I am deep into you in every way.
Body and soul.
But don’t quite know it yet.
I know you are too
but don’t know it either.
Or can.
We’re both scared of each other.
To get too close.
And I only lust for you more.

Fear grows with the intensity of
our infatuation.
Familiar danger brings terror.
Impending pain invites anxiety.
But I feel alive.
Nothing else like it.

In the kitchen, we devour each other
for the fourth time that night.
I can’t get enough of you either.
You hurt me that afternoon
I put you in line
and you only cling to me tighter.
And I only lust for you more.

Carry you to the bedroom
tongues melting deep.
Worlds burn away another hour
until our spectacular return.

Stillness.
Our limbs intertwined.
It all feels right.
You kiss my face.
We could have this forever.
But you can’t let it in.
And maybe I can’t either.
And I only lust for you more.

I’m sad it’ll take your mind but glad the demons with it.

Dealt a cruel hand but you played it well, all the way to showdown.

Death always terrified you but you don’t have to be scared.

It will swing by without you knowing and finally bring you peace.

Just like The Bay did.

I’ll cry when your light goes out and the air becomes colder.

But breathe in relief knowing your wounds won’t sting you anymore. Nor me. Nor us.

I’m sorry for what we had to do. We didn’t want to but it had to be done for everyone.

A cruelly ironic way for your life to start and end alone.

Can’t imagine what it was like. It wasn’t the right way to fade but I hope it was comfortable.

Sometimes you have to make the least bad play.

I hope your spirit goes and finds hers and you can ask her what you always wanted to know.

But this time she’ll stay.

I’ll see you soon and hope for one more comforting look that everything will be alright.

Like you always did with your kind eyes, and keep it with me forever once you’re gone.

The Musketeers are good. We’ll enjoy the rest of the fight and come find you and everyone else.

Good hand.

I’m sad it’ll take your mind but glad the demons with it.

Dealt a cruel hand but you played it well, all the way to showdown.

Death always terrified you but you don’t have to be scared.

It will swing by without you knowing and finally bring you peace.

Just like The Bay did.

I’ll cry when your light goes out and the air becomes colder.

But breathe in relief knowing your wounds won’t sting you anymore. Nor me. Nor us.

I’m sorry for what we had to do. We didn’t want to but it had to be done for everyone.

A cruelly ironic way for your life to start and end alone.

Can’t imagine what it was like. It wasn’t the right way to fade but I hope it was comfortable.

Sometimes you have to make the least bad play.

I hope your spirit goes and finds hers and you can ask her what you always wanted to know.

But this time she’ll stay.

I’ll see you soon and hope for one more comforting look that everything will be alright.

Like you always did with your kind eyes, and keep it with me forever once you’re gone.

The Musketeers are good. We’ll enjoy the rest of the fight and come find you and everyone else.

Good hand.

Embrace the pain.
Sit with it.
You will forget it soon.
You will look back,
and it will all be genius.

– Ryan Howarth

Hvar

Croatia, April 2018

It was mid-spring and I could no longer stand the gloomy London weather. April was early to visit the Dalmatian coast of Croatia, but it was warm enough to end what had been a long winter.

From the capital of Zagreb, I travelled down the incomprehensively beautiful coast to Split. Being a major port city, many explore the popular Islands close by such as Hvar. Although I normally avoid mainstream destinations, the solitude of the previous two weeks had built an urge to blow off some steam. So I picked the least shit hostel out of the two shitty options, and took the hour ferry trip across the Adriatic sea to Hvar town, ready to party with the typical Western tourists, on their two-week piss-ups, that usually comprised such places.

As the ferry entered the port, I was blown away by how stunning and well-maintained the small limestone town was, destroying all preconceived notions of the joint having been run over by commercialism and holiday-going pigs. Signs indicating fines of up to 700 euro for walking around drunk and/or in swimwear and bare feet, warmed my heart that a sense of class and culture had retained itself where it most likely shouldn’t have.

Apparently, the fines had been put in place in response to mainly English tourists.

“They are vomiting in town, urinating on every corner, walking without T-shirts…crawling around, unconscious,”, said one Mayor.

Another warned of their “primitivism, nakedness and drunkenness.”. God save the Queen.

As I climbed the stairs of the hostel, a harrowing feeling of regret infused with anger and self-critique washed over me, confused as to how I could make such an impulsive decision on a whim.

‘Hostel piss up, it’ll be fun!’, I had thought to myself, without realising the stale realities that go with the experience, including the likely “primitivism” of those staying there. Cramped, smelly rooms, shared with strangers, devoid of privacy. I was done with that shit.

The vibe of the Serbian girl on reception that checked me in did give me positive impressions but they would be short-lived. My dorm room that opened straight onto the busy kitchen and main common area, which was already filled with drunkards, drove the dagger of regret only deeper into my soul. However, I dropped my bags on the floor, reassured myself to make the best of it, and kicked back on my bed to chill in the empty room.

Less than ten minutes later, the door opened. The torso I saw through the gaps of my jacket, hung on the bunk as a curtain, revealed a young guy. The torso came in the direction of my bed with an intent motion and stopped. A face lowered to the square gab through the ladder to the top bunk, framing his face that held a dry expression.

“Halloh thaeh.”, the guy said, with a thick Yorkshire accent, with the resemblance of a face that pained my heart.

As he continued, the endearing, almost nostalgic accent of my family heritage, warmed my bones. His dry, comic charisma, intended to entertain those acute to it, but also fly over the head of the naive, which too added only another layer of humour, put a smirk on my face.

“Ahm Tom. Nahss tah meet yeh.”, he said warmly, penetrating his lanky arm through the small, square gap of the ladder and reaching for a handshake, a motion too ironic for me not to laugh.

When Tom dropped the comedic facade, we got to know each other somewhat. He told me of his travels with his friend George who he was on a two-month Euro trip with. He then filled me in on who else was in the room as he pointed to various beds. A few metres across the room from us he pointed to the bunk where a Canadian girl was staying on the bottom, and his friend George up top. The remaining bunk that completed the horseshoe formation in the small room, had a French girl staying below.

“You know who’s up there?”, I asked, pointing to the bed above, in response to Tom having paused.

“Pfft. Meht. He’s some weird Croatian guy here for the weekend. He’s a police officer. He brought his badge and his fookin’ gun!”, he answered, in a tone of unease, indicating some disdain for the guy.

In the moment, I remembered hearing what he said, “badge and gun”, but the “gun” part didn’t register. Either I suspected there was a reason like he was partly on duty, or I was in denial that a guy had brought a gun to a hostel. But the thought left my mind as quickly as it came in.

“Enywey, ya goona coohm owht meht?”, he asked.

I told him I’d join shortly and Tom left the room.

Not long after, an English-looking kid came in. He was short, ugly, and if his socks with slip-on sandals weren’t bad enough, his skin was torched bright red with sunburn. I presumed it was Tom’s friend and he introduced himself as George. In a Yorkshire accent also, he seemed like a nice guy. As we chatted for the brief moment he was in the room, the more George spoke, the more I suspected he too was a Larrikin, which pleased me.

I joined the group of people drinking around the kitchen table outside the door, in the common space. I became acquainted with the half a dozen or so Westerners, who seemed like they’d been at the hostel for some time. They seemed like a nice group of people, made up of North American and English folk. However, instinctively I got a strange vibe from all of them.

Thankfully, there was Jagermeister flowing, which helped to extinguish the constricting social anxiety that had brewed inside me, as a result of two weeks of reflective solitary, which I thought was more the explanation for that feeling. But I would soon learn my instincts were not off.

I met two young Canadian guys beside me who were cool. One, in particular, called Joe, was a hip hop dancer, with good style and a genuine vibe, along with that uncanny Canadian niceness. Then I was introduced to the rest.

It didn’t take long to notice that Tom seemed to be the most interesting of the lot. But he was quite elusive, as he seemed to need to be the centre of attention, with constant banter which he bounced off of George. Unlike Tom, who was utterly hilarious and frustratingly witty, equipped with a sense of social acuteness, far beyond the usual bounds of other Western cultures, George quickly turned out to be a drunk, obnoxious twat. He was the overbearing, white trash type, dominating the scene, but without the wit or intelligence to offer anything of value, at least when he was as drunk as he was. Which was a lot.

My dislike for George started when I began trashing the British monarchy, which initially was a joke, as Tom and I had already sparred back and forth earlier, innocuously taking the piss out of one another’s countries. But George completely overreacted when it came to my feelings about old Queen Lizzy, causing him to start personally insulting me and Australia, out of the blue. This only caused me to elaborate further without irony, to provoke him when I could sense him getting even more offended and emotional. He responded by trying to humiliate me in front of the group, with more low-hanging fruit insults, as a response, which was never going to work. At 5’7, with an ugly sunburnt face, and a clearly overblown ego to compensate for such, you couldn’t take anything from him seriously, even if his comments had an iota of originality.

In the bathroom a short while later, he was too cowardly to stick to his guns, and instead apologised saying everything earlier was a joke, when it was clearly more, which only lowered my respect for the guy even more so.

When I returned to the table, there was a new face. Jon, he introduced himself as. He was a tall and well-built guy about my age, with a cold, vacant look in his eyes and a shifty energy about him. He was English also, from London, and was in the military, which wasn’t a surprise. He was funny too, of course, seemed friendly, despite an evident dark streak to his vibe, which was just the unconventional types I hoped were lurking in hostels whenever I did stay in one.

In between taking the piss out of George, and somewhat dissatisfied with the overall company, particularly George’s presence, he gave me looks of recognition across the table as such, making it clear Jon and I were on the same page.

Over the course of the night, the six of them who’d hung out in the day together, talked about the motorboat they hired to explore the beautiful, exotic islands around Hvar, only to say that they landed at the closest beach they found, where they got too drunk to go anywhere else.

‘Riveting’, I thought, knowing they’d missed an abundance of pristine islands, unique to that part of Croatia, just to piss up.

They did, however, mention that the Croatian policeman whom Tom was telling me about, came along with them. And when I probed about who this guy was and how he was, Jon, with his characteristic unfilteredness, immediately described him as,

“Weird. Really fucking weird.”, with a devilish laugh and a hollow look in his eye to accompany the statement, indicating that there was a lot more that had gone on with him, which I had not been told about yet.

A curious smirk twisted my mouth when I sensed things could get interesting when this mysterious Croatian cop was to arrive. Before long he did.

“Alriiiight, let’s fucking goooo!”, was what was blurted out, in a thick accent, at an excessive volume, which made most people there uneasy. A young, flabby Croatian guy, in his early twenties, about 6’2, burst through the door and into the kitchen where everyone was. He was gripping a bottle of whiskey and showing heavy signs of intoxication. The more he talked and behaved, the quicker one could see there was something very off about the guy. He was at most an autistic psychopath, and at the least, quite autistic, or suffering from some kind of social dysfunction. The drunkenness aside, there was something very dark about the guy’s presence, and not in a good way. ‘Toxic”, would be accurate.

Nothing like this Cro Cop.

He moved about the room, from person to person, almost yelling at them to get ready to go out to the club. I watched on with amusement, when I saw the looks of subtle dread and disdain on faces such as Tom’s, and looks on Jon’s face which read,

“I told you he’s a fucking nutcase.”.

It was only when he came closer that I noticed that over his casual beachwear attire, he was wearing a brand new, authentic-looking police badge around his neck. But without a trace of irony. He was sporting it seriously, in a peacocking manner. It was a whole new level of hectic I’d witnessed and I just had to know if it was real. When I asked him, to my joyful entertainment, he confirmed it was.

‘Jesus…’, I thought to myself, concealing a smirk as I studied the behaviour of the buffoon.

An American girl, the hostel’s pub crawl guide began rounding everybody up to leave. As people got ready to head out, a few of us remained at the table, such as myself and George, who was next to me, busy running his yap.

“Let’s fucking go to dee cluuuub!”, yelled the Croatian, loudly and drunkenly to George, who ignored him, almost as if on purpose, when he approached the table. But what followed would determine the fate of the night.

“George, let’s fucking go!”, said the Croatian, standing across from him, before aggressively flicking George on the forehead.

It was clear. The guy was fucking nuts. And I’d be lying if at that moment if I didn’t feel butterflies of excitement, knowing a feud between him and George was likely to ensue.

In the bathroom again just before we left, George expressed his rage over the incident.

“Meht, thaht fookin’ coohnt, I swear.”, he vented, in a tone thick with hatred. It was clear that it wasn’t the only thing that had rubbed him up the wrong way.

“Putting up with his shit all day and now fookin’ flicking me on the head. I swear to god, I’m gonna punch that coohnt in the face.”

“What did he do today?”, I asked curiously.

“Meyht, he’s fookin’ weird. There’s something up with him. He’s annoying as fuck. He does random aggressive shit like out there, and he was creeping all the girls out today. They even said so when I asked if he was making them feel uncomfortable, which he was.”

“Some sort of autistic psychopath maybe?”, I suggested, laced with subtle irony. “I got a toxic vibe from the moment he entered the room.”, I remarked, and we left.

Most clubs hadn’t even opened yet, it was that early in the season. And this one, in particular, was fairly lacklustre in size and energy. The place was the size of a small kitchen and the drink prices were eye-wateringly high. Along with it being an utter cock fest, after one drink I was keen to go elsewhere.

With Tom desperately gunning for the American girl, and everyone else on the dance floor, I agreed to go with George in search of another place to drink. By that point, my resentment for him had waned somewhat. At least enough to not have to leave the club and go elsewhere alone.

George and I entered the only bar open on the main plaza, made up of several people inside and a group of three middle-aged guys at a table outside. George asked them for a lighter and we got talking with them. They were friendly Hungarians and asked us to join them. We did.

George talked to the only one who spoke English while the other two tried their best to communicate with me. It became futile, and after twenty minutes or so, they went home, leaving the last guy with us. He had the typical European social awareness and curiosity, starkly contrasted with that of Anglo cultures that George represented proudly. The more the conversation went on, the more it seemed how utterly unaware George was of anyone else but himself. When someone dominates a conversation with generic, mundane, and uncultured dross, whilst talking AT those present, well that really just grinds my gears.

George seemed to go around and around for an hour with the guy, about how Hungarians were not too welcoming of tourists, according to him. The guy and I struggled to contemplate. Having been there myself, and knowing it was a place of general middle European humility, it was apparent that George had had a trivial negative experience, which he used to overgeneralise the whole country as a consequence. I took it as a response of an ignorant, naive and uncultured fool, as George seemed.

The more the Hungarian guy tried to express his disbelief and gain an understanding, and the less George even seemed to be listening to what the guy was saying, let alone understand him, the more my resentment for George grew. I got to that point in such a situation where you are simply just staring at the person with disdain, resenting their entire being. These feelings in me only grew more so when my eyes scanned to the ground to find that George was still wearing his socks and slip in sandals on a night out.

But in hindsight, the negative feelings were less about George himself, and more me projecting my resentment not only onto the company I was with but on me for putting myself in the situation of ending up with the exact mediocre and “primitive” pack of Anglo tourists, such as George, I was expecting to meet the whole time.

Unsurprisingly, at a rigid and socially awkward moment to depart company from the friendly Hungarian gentleman, we walked back across the main square to the nightclub which had become busier. I found Jon inside, who had been chatting up a barmaid which resulted in a free beer for both of us.

The duration of the beer consisted of him regaling a compilation of his most sadistic stories of discipline towards his military inferiors, such as telling a young cadet to go and bear-hug a tree, fully suspended with his legs off the ground until he said he could stop. Jon had forgotten about the poor lad and came back sometime later to find the guy had been suspended the whole time and therefore berated him for being so dumb. It was pretty funny to fair, but the rest of what he told, only solidified in my mind Jon’s cold and somewhat psychopathic nature.

Shortly thereafter, the flirtatious American girl in charge of the pub crawl, who had just started the job at the hostel, seductively came up on me, wanting to dance. I obliged, not to be a prude, but was hesitant not to cut Tom’s grass, after seeing the spadework he had put in for most of the night.

That was to be in vain, as Tom approached me on the dance floor immediately afterwards, making a trivial joke but laced thick with passive aggression, in the manner a coward fires a warning shot but does so in such a passive way that you realise his intention, but ultimately lose all respect for him for displaying such insecurity. That would be the first red flag about Tom’s character. He’d been such a cool, charismatic guy up until that point, but you can always judge a person by their company. And if he was hanging out with an unconscious douche like George, then that was likely a partial reflection on him.

I retreated outside the club, down the short alleyway it was situated in, to the main waterfront where a few others were smoking. It was only then that I’d seen the Croatian guy for the first time since we had left. He was sitting in a doorway close by, on the phone, and seemingly in a serious, in-depth conversation. It was clear by his vibe that something was wrong. I smoked a cigarette and chatted to one of the Canadian guys and asked what his deal was.

“They were hanging out with him today. Apparently, his girlfriend is pregnant. I dunno, they said he’s kind of weird.”

Shortly thereafter we were interrupted when someone approached us from behind, placing an arm on each of our shoulders.

“I wahnt to brehk sum bons…”, said a voice, in a dark, harrowing tone, that made my skin crawl.

A spasm of cringe shot down from the contact point of his hand with my shoulder, and throughout my whole body. I looked back to see it was the Croatian Cop.

“Sorry, what was that chief?”, I asked in an upbeat tone.

“I wahnt to brehk sum bons. She killed my baby, and now, I wahnt to break bones!”, he grunted in his thick Croatian accent, just as thick with darkness.

“Um, nah it’s cool, man. Let’s not break any bones. We’ll just have a good time ey?”, I suggested, in anticipation of what the unpredictable animal was going to do next.

“I want to fucking brehk somebody. And I know who. That person…is going… to be George!…”, he replied, in a theatrical but socially awkward manner, with a trace of restraint in his voice, as if he intended to provoke a situation just for attention, and stormed back up the alleyway to the club.

Seeing as the guy was blatantly wearing his police badge at the time, like some sick way of showing off for everyone’s approval, it felt like a front. After all, what could he possibly do? He was a cop.

Tom appeared shortly afterwards and I filled him in on the bone-breaking desires of Cro Cop.

“I told ya. He’s fookin’ weird mate. We were with him all day. He’s a psycho. There’s something up with him.”

Not long after Cro Cop had made way for the club, I wandered back up and smoked a cigarette outside where the vibe was festive but chill.

All of a sudden, a giant ‘bang’ sounded and all forty or so people in the narrow alley outside looked to see the aftermath of a giant punch that Cro Cop had thrown at a wooden door. The vibe became immediately awkward as a result of the blatant ape-like action that had come out of nowhere, in a fairly confined space that had been civil. He stood awkwardly for a moment in front of everyone, panting with rage.

I walked up to the entrance of the club where he’d hit the door and saw back inside that some commotion had ensued with some of the people from the hostel, with George seemingly at the centre of it. George was being calmed and held back from going towards the direction outside, indicating something had kicked off between him and Cro Cop. I approached the crowd of them and saw that George had a bloody nose and a roughed-up eye.

“What happened, George?”. I asked.

“He fookin’ hit me! I was talking to Ali inside here, he came up and told me not to talk to her. I told him to fuck off, that we were friends, and not to tell me who I can and can’t talk to. Then he just fookin’ hit me and we got into it!”, he said, furiously and seemingly taken aback somewhat.

I walked back outside to see if Cro Cop was anywhere to be seen. He wasn’t. I took a moment to process the situation, when a group of four black English guys whom George had attempted to befriend earlier in the night, and failing miserably, were running and chanting up and down the alley from the waterfront to the club, with their shirts unbuttoned open. It was an obvious attempt at humour mixed with attention-seeking. But their vibe seemed to have an unseasonedness far too common in British/Anglo culture and therefore lacked the swagger to pull off such a charade and just came off awkward and try hard. Which was bizarre because black dudes usually ooze swagger and are cool enough to pull off almost anything. But not these guys for some reason.

Shaking my head with disapproval, I scanned around again and there was still no sign of Cro Cop.

‘I can’t believe he fucking hit him. He’s a cop.’, I thought to myself, scratching my head with perplexion.

It was at that moment when I became aware of how strange my experience on Hvar had been thus far, since arriving that afternoon. From the people I’d met, to the other western tourists who comprised the club and the several dozens outside. I couldn’t help but look around at the people I knew there, and the ones I didn’t, all in close proximity, and realised how distant I felt from them and their strange vibes. I felt like I was an alien creature, thrown into a foreign environment with a species far from my kind.

At the same time, I was aware of the amount of time I’d spent fairly isolated the past couple of weeks, and that it could have just been in my head. But the more the night carried on, the stranger I felt and the more I felt like I was in an episode of a dark, abstract comedy show, such as Louis CK’s “Louie”. I couldn’t help feeling how Louis CK’s character does in the absurd, abstract situations he finds himself in, that only he is aware of, and as if made for him to be the butt of the joke in. That’s exactly how I felt at that moment and the feeling would grow as the episode evolved to more absurd depths.

Within the next half an hour, the club had wound down. I strolled back across the waterfront of beautiful Hvar town, with the two young Canadian guys, and Jon the English military guy, who I guessed I’d liked the most out of the lot by that point. As I walked, I admired the serenity of silence of the gorgeous limestone town, lit up seductively by amber lights which danced along the pristine, crystal clear waterfront. In the day, even the dirtiest parts of the water in the port were turquoise and completely transparent to the ocean floor.

Right as I felt a blissful moment of aesthetic appreciation, I heard a loud waterfall-like splatter, that seemed to echo through the air and bounce off the surrounding walls. I looked back to see Joe, one of the Canadians, was pissing a likely toxic, dehydrated piss, right into the pristine, glassy, beautiful water.

“Lovely.”, I uttered to his friend beside me, as we both looked back to observe. I shook my head in disgust. I felt more disgusted in myself for staying in a hostel and subjecting myself to such uncultured swine, more than anything else.

Military Jon, who was hovering back near Joe had noticed also. Drunk and with a mischievous vibe, he made a move slowly towards him from behind. It seemed, that surely, he was only going to scare him and pretend to push him in. If I had been with a normal group of people that’s would have gone down. But no. Right before Jon got behind a still pissing Joe, who was a good foot shorter, he said,

“Ay Joe, how deep is it down there mate!”, and shoved the kid into the water, right into the spot he’d been pissing, fully clothed, wallet, phone and all.

I was in disbelief, and even more so at the stoic reaction of his friend when I said as much.

“Are you fucking serious? That is not cool.”, I said to his friend, with indignation, who made an awkward smirk, not knowing how else to respond.

We waited for the moment of truth to see how Jack would respond. But when he climbed back up onto the pier, and pulled out his phone and wallet, soaking wet, I cringed when he showed inordinate agreeableness, giving as little as a laughing curse.

“Wow. I can’t believe he’s not even at least mad.”, I said in disbelief.

“That’s Joe, man. He’s Canadian.”, the friend said, with a sick sense of pride. “What should he do?”, he asked with an awkward laugh, upon seeing my look of disapproval.

“I would punch him in the face if that were me. Even if he’s bigger. We’re fighting after that. He had his phone on him for fuck’s sake.”, I replied, with disdain.

The kid didn’t even get mad in the slightest and remained agreeable as if it were a prank of far less magnitude. But out of pure passivity and a lack of integrity that makes one cringe. In his way of ‘getting back at him’, Jon obliged with letting Joe throw a measly, pathetic punch to his stomach. I couldn’t stand it any longer. I’d had enough of these people. I walked back to the hostel alone, desperate for the night to end, and dreading about the extra night I’d already paid for.

‘I am in the company of pigs.’, I thought to myself as the epiphany became fully crystallised.

My hostel dorm was empty when I returned. I brushed my teeth and got into bed as quickly as possible, with the hopes of passing out before having to interact with any more of them. I draped more items of clothing over my bunk to further fortify my coffin space, isolating myself away from the absurd, abstract world of this night. I shut off the light and peaceful darkness followed as I fell soundly asleep.

Half an hour later I was awoken by none other than George. He came into the room, laid sprawled out on the floor, and proceeded to yap at the Canadian girl sleeping in the bunk below him. She too had been woken up and told him to go to bed. Apart from disregarding her, George persisted to talk utter drunken nonsense to her, despite her repeated requests to stop and go to bed.

It was the situation with the Hungarian guy all over again. He’d disregard anything the other person would say and continue to talk rubbish at the person until he was bored of doing so. I was infuriated the more he yapped on until I told him to go to bed also. The obnoxious idiot didn’t but I passed out after five minutes nonetheless.

Amidst deep sleep of pure unconscious darkness, all of a sudden, I was yanked from the depths of my slumber and back into immediate wakefulness, as I felt two bodies fall onto me with the sounds of groans and swearing. A fight had broken out in the middle of the small dorm room. I lept up immediately out of bed to see a bloodied George and Cro Cop yelling and coming forth at one another in a series of scuffles, in between Joe the Canadian kid, who was standing desperately between them both, in his underwear, attempting to break up the fight.

My eyes darted to the two girls sitting with their backs against the wall of their bottom bunks, horrified by the scene ensuing which was blocking the doorway, preventing them from escaping the violence. Still, within the midst of grogginess, I could see Cro Cop coming towards George, who, was yelling and swearing at him provocatively, but conveniently shielded by Joe who had halted the action momentarily. George kept provoking but only to fain wanting to fight him, but with a hesitance to do so. Joe didn’t stand a chance to hold Cro cop back, who was a foot taller and thirty kilos heavier.

Despite standing at least an ok chance of having been able to have done so myself, there was no way I was laying a hand on a cop, off duty or not. Especially not in Croatia. Life in the Balkans is rough, and people do not fuck around. Least of all the Cops, who are likely corrupt.

So with the luxury of not having been awake long enough for anxious hesitation to kick in, my first instinct was to grab George and hold him back, when the two of them tried to engage again. I locked on a seat belt grip from behind, managing to pull him back onto my bed below. I narrowly avoided smashing my head on the bed frame in the process and secured two hooks in for the full-back mount to restrain the small, pathetic fool.

“Calm down man! Calm down! There are fucking girls in here, George!”, I urged whilst he made his feeble attempts to escape. He flailed around yelling for me to let him go. But I was surprised he even had the intelligence to realise the effort was futile, having never had a Jiu-Jitsu player clamped to his back like a python. As soon as the girls made their escape from the room, I let him go.

He got straight back up and came back towards Cro Cop, who had been locked onto him like a tractor beam all the while, and still wanting his blood. This time I turned to Cro Cop and tried to calm him down. But aside from his cold, vacant eyes, locked onto one thing and one thing only, the attempt was futile. Especially with George still swearing and provoking him, but of course in between the barrier of myself and Joe who separated them, making no attempt to come forward. It was clear that George was a coward, with his ego and obnoxiousness enough for him to cuss and provoke Cro Cop, but not the balls to come straight at him and fight.

Shortly thereafter, the Serbian receptionist girl arrived, along with some others, who yelled in Croatian to the Cop to get out of the room. He went outside and sat in the kitchen. George angrily went off at the hostel staff, saying that Cro Cop had assaulted him for no reason and that he wanted him kicked out of the hostel. He exclaimed that Cro Cop was not even staying in the hostel anymore and had come in to further assault him. Unbeknownst to George, he was actually staying in our dorm.

“Well, that’s it. If he’s staying here then I refuse to stay in this hostel! He’s a police officer and he’s assaulting people! He’s a fucking disgrace and you’re letting him stay here.”, he said, still topless and face bloodied, as he turned and began packing his bags.

The staff tried to plead with him, saying it was too late to find somewhere else. But when his bags were packed, George marched out the door, repeating the same things from before over and over.

With only Joe and I remaining in the room, I shook my head at him and asked what had happened.

“I was out here in the kitchen and I heard both of them get back here together and go into the bathrooms where I heard a fight break out. I walked in to see that the Croatian guy was wrestling on top of George and dominating him. I ran in to break it up, but the fight spilled out into the kitchen. I tried to break it up again but then it spilled into the dorm and that’s when you woke up…”, Joe regaled.

Joe went to bed and I sat on my bunk, alone in the room, listening to the receptionist girl talk to the young Cop in Serbo-Croatian. I couldn’t understand the words but the tone suggested that the cop was trying to appeal emotionally to the girl and describe his position. Before long, he broke into tears, and his weeps filled the silence of the hostel. It seemed clear the receptionist hadn’t been convinced from the beginning and made no attempt to console the weeping mess of a man, despite probably having been told of the news of the abortion of his baby that was against his will.

After some time, I heard the receptionist leave momentarily and the cop came back into the dorm, still a weeping mess. I sat awkwardly and observed the guy and felt for him somewhat. He started packing his bags. Then he started to talk.

“I can’t believe it. I am police officer. I am supposed to protect, and I assaulted someone. I can’t believe it…”, he said regretfully, in between tears.

There was a pause.

“I want to shoot myself….”, he said, in between snuffles, to my horror as adrenaline shot through me, recalling Tom saying he had brought his gun with him.

“Whoa man, it’s all right. You just had a shit night. Just sleep it off. Everything will be fine.”, I said, in an attempt to console the guy, who now appeared unpredictable and capable of anything.

I started to fear those capabilities. If not harm to himself but possibly to others, namely George.

“I fucking hate myself. I am to protect, and now, I assault somebody. I want to shoot myself…”, he repeated, my words having evaporated into thin air.

“Come on man…”, I pleaded.

“…I want to shoot myself…”, he repeated again, as if I wasn’t present.

The receptionist returned and called him out to the kitchen. He went, leaving me alone in the dorm again.

He began weeping again and the awkwardness filled the halls once more. My eyes wandered around the room searching for something to distract me from the discomfort, if not momentarily. My eyes fell to a wide-open shoulder bag resting against a locker near my bed, less than a metre from where I sat. On one side of the bag held a camera. The other, a gun. Adrenaline shot through my body in a disassociative manner, when I comprehended the modern police handgun that lay right near my feet. Tom wasn’t kidding after all. The guy literally bought his fucking gun.

‘I want to shoot myself…’, rang his harrowing words as they echoed in my mind.

In between a moment of silence, I managed to catch the attention of the receptionist who was in eyesight and ushered her into the dorm.

“This guy’s got a fucking gun. Did you know he brought a gun into the hostel?!”, I whispered frantically.

“Yeah. But it doesn’t have any bullets.”, she replied daftly, without a shade of concern in her tone, causing my jaw to drop.

“Oh great, well I hope not. Because he’s just been saying that he wants to fucking shoot himself!”, I fired back. I saw only a mild expression come across her face, before returning to him in the kitchen.

I shook my head in disbelief, at how utterly different some people were in the Balkans.

When he returned to the room, he grabbed the shoulder bag and a sweater from his bed, being literally the only other thing he had brought with him, along with the bloodied clothes on his back, that his police badge hung over.

He left the hostel alone shortly thereafter, and I cursed the universe for its cold indifference. Instinctively, it felt as if he was saying those things more for attention, as that was the type of person he’d shown himself as all night, but needless to say, I desperately hoped he wouldn’t do anything impulsive.

The receptionist went to bed and I sat alone in the silent hostel, contemplating all the absurdity that had just unfolded.

I stared blankly at the floor, in a delirious state, shaking my head continuously. Then Tom arrived in the kitchen from where he’d been outside, talking with George, who followed behind him. At least I could have a laugh with Tom about it, given as he seemed like the colder type of guy to be phased by nothing with always a witty comment in return.

“Unbelievable”, I said with a smirk, expecting some form of humour in return from Tom when he came to the doorway having noticed me.

But I was foolish to think the night could, in fact, be any more unbelievable when his face turned sour and reproachful.

“Pfft. What were you doin’ mate?”, he replied, in a spiteful manner, as if I was seeing in him a glimpse of an entirely different person to the comedic, blasé character on display all night, that normally possessed an envious lack of fucks to give.

“What?”, I responded, perplexed.

“Pfft. Don’t worry.”, he replied abruptly, his reproachful tone shifting to more passive aggression as he turned on his heel to walk off as if having spoken out of impulse.

Anger blasted through my body, causing me to get to my feet and storm after him, without thinking.

“Nah, nah, come here Tom, what the fuck does that mean?!”, I asked furiously, as equal amounts of anger for George erupted in me towards him.

Now I was really pissed, and indifferent to my own altercation with one or both of them at that moment.

“Are you implying that I did something wrong when your fucking mate here is trying to fight a guy in the dorm that two girls were in and that woke up them as well as me?”, I fired at Tom, which received an instant response of timidity.

“You’re pissed because I held you back aren’t you?”, I fired, turning to a meek George who too looked to be cowering. “Well in case you didn’t realise, I risked smashing the back of my head on my bunk bed in doing so, so the two scared girls could leave the dorm room you were trying to fucking fight a guy in, that literally physically woke me up.”

His eyes remained as blank and devoid from empathy as they had been all night, reflecting from inside, a being of antisocial, narcissistic self-absorption.

“And I was trying to keep him getting to you!”.

“Why? I was fine.”, he said weakly and incongruently.

“He would have fucked you up! Look at the size of him. And look at your face!”, I pointed, referring to his black eyes and bloodied nose that looked broken.

“No, he wouldn’t of. I punched him in the face in the club…”, was his petty, incongruent response similar to that nature, like someone with a giant ego trying to save face after an embarrassing defeat.

I shook my head in disbelief, at the ego and the audacity of the kid. He was deluded and clearly didn’t appear to have the ability to comprehend another person’s experience.

“Fair enough mate. You did what you thought was the right thing in the moment.”, Tom replied, breaking the awkward tension in the air, to be agreeable for the sake of it, not because I believed he understood my position either.

I resented the incongruency of his words too, realising the both of them were not only self-absorbed pigs, equivalent to English versions of bogans, but also cowards, unwilling to stand for their position, regardless of how stupid it was.

I shook my head spitefully, and returned back to the room, closing the door behind me, indifferent to potential awkwardness to come, given we were all staying in the same room.

Shortly afterwards I heard Tom return upstairs to the American girl he’d been with during the altercation and George came into the dorm where the light was still on. Realising it was better to break the tension, I piped up and explained to him that I would not have held him back if I knew I couldn’t prevent Cro Cop from hitting or hurting him in any way, which was true. We ended up being able to find common ground, probably because the words relating to him that came out of my mouth, of ‘protecting him’, appeased his ego.

Now, at around 5 am, with just the two of us in the dorm, the light switched off and the nightmare was finally over.

Early the next morning, I was woken by loud talking from outside. I checked my phone to see it was 9 am, only several hours later. I rubbed my eyes and my delirious, blurred vision regained focus. I glanced across the quiet room to see an unconscious George, bloodied with a fucked up purple face. The memory of the fight returned as I gazed at his face disdainfully. In my peripheral vision, I noticed there was somebody else in the dorm, sleeping on the top bed of the third bunk. My eyes raised to the top bunk, and who did I see? None other than Cro Cop himself, in the same bloodied clothes, as George was, passed out cold.

Both of them snored away obliviously, only metres apart from one another, above the floor they’d been scrapping on only hours ago. My numb gaze shifted from one person to the other, unsure of whether I was actually awake. But I was. Laughter was the only reaction that could be had, as if right at that moment hearing the music cueing for the punch line at the end of an episode of, ‘Curb Your Enthusiasm’. I took a moment to take in the absurd humour of the moment, before the owner of the hostel burst in minutes later, waking up Cro Cop to kick him out.

Cro Cop took his things out to the kitchen where several people were, and I followed in, unable to help myself. The awkwardness in the air was thicker than the night before as people looked on curiously. It became tense when George came out, who appeared scared of the guy and demanded him to leave the hostel once more. George’s demeanour hadn’t changed, apart from seeming afraid, but Cro Cop’s certainly had. Cro Cop seemed to be embarrassed and regretful but not remorseful as he was when crying about assaulting someone. Instinctively, it felt like he knew he’d fucked up but was not willing to face the consequences.

I returned to bed after Cro Cop left and later heard George on the phone to the Police station, reporting the assault. I shook my head, knowing the futility of reporting violence in places such as in the Balkans, least of all with police. If anything, reporting something to do with an officer would likely cause more harm than good. But knowing this full well, I was happy to keep that to myself and be content with whatever fate was to meet young George.

I rented a bike for the day to explore the rest of the beautiful island of Hvar. I spoke to Tom shortly on the way out. There was an air of tension still which was to be expected.

“Is his face all right?”, I asked with a fraction of concern.

“What do you mean?”, he asked confused.

“His nose. It looked broken”, I replied.

“Eh. That’s what he gets for having one so big.”, Tom fired back with acid whit but delivered in a manner of true indifference, showing a glimpse of a cold nature that seemed to run constant.

When I set off on my mountain bike an hour later, I stopped at the first beach nearest to Hvar town. My heart sank with dread when I recognised three people from the hostel, including Tom. Everywhere I went on this fucking island, these swine haunted me. With the beach being too small to avoid them, I reluctantly pulled up next to them and had a swim. Joe’s friend and the Canadian girl from our dorm, who’d witnessed the fight, were there. A bitter taste filled my mouth, as he only reminded me of Joe being pushed into the water fully clothed the night before. And she, that morning had given a vague obligatory thank you when I’d seen her in the kitchen as if having all but forgotten what seemed a horrific episode to her the night before.

Severely underslept, becoming irritated by Tom’s yapping and an utter desire to pedal my bike as far away from these strange people as possible, after fifteen minutes I gathered my things to leave.

“Well in case I don’t see you.”, I said to Tom extending my hand rigidly as if having avoided each other for the short time I’d been thereafter he said he wasn’t sure whether he was leaving that day or not. I looked at him with resentment, as well as sorrow for who he resembled so strongly.

“Yeah, mehyt.”, he said indifferently. “Oh. you hear about George?”, he continued, right as I went to turn away.

“Nah?”, I said curiously.

“So the police came to the hostel before. They said they needed to take him back to the station in Split. When they did, they put him under arrest. Cro Cop’s been saying that he’s got a concussion and thinks he needs to go to the hospital because George hit him.”, he continued, with a hint of concern in his voice.

“Shit.”, I said meekly, desperately trying to suppress any trace of amusement on my face.

I hopped on my bike and bombed down the winding island highway, drinking in the stunning views of the Dalmatian coast, laughing to myself and in the face of such an uncanny universe.

When I got back to the hostel in the evening George was there in the kitchen, along with an array of others. I greeted him immediately, needing to know the full extent of the details.

“What happened mate?”, I asked in an ironic tone with enough genuineness to mask it.

“Oh mehyt. I thought they were taking me to the police station in Split for me to make a report but when I got there they put me under arrest. Apparently, he went to the hospital saying that he thinks he has a concussion because I hit him. So they arrested me, then they gave me a bunch of paperwork to sign, all in Croatian so I didn’t have a fookin’ clue what I was signing. I signed it all and they let me go but I’ve gotta go back to Split in the morning to go to court. Not sure what’s gonna happen.”, he said, all with his usual, somewhat stoic tone, seemingly nowhere near as concerned as he should have been.

Perhaps it was a sense of naive entitlement, coming from a strong country in the EU, but little did he know how different things were in the Balkans. I retreated to my bed for the night, laughing to myself every time George’s situation came to mind.

Fortunately, the ferry to Dubrovnik left early the next morning, allowing me to make a swift exit from the sty and avoid mostly everyone. Along the stunning ferry ride, a perpetual smile plastered across my face, as I thought of how utterly poetic the ending to the Hvar saga was. It was the last time I had seen or heard of George since that conversation, and to this day, I imagine George sitting in the Croatian court, after not knowing what fate he had literally signed for himself, and wondering whatever happened to him.

And of course, whatever happened to the supporting actor of the absurd Hvar episode, old crazy Cro Cop himself…

Saint Petersburg, Russia

September 2017

Cozy. Ain’t it?

In Saint Petersburg, I rented a room in a Soviet-era flat for three weeks. What should have been a two-bedroom flat, was split into five small rooms, each the width of a double bed and the length of two. In true Russian style, somehow eight people occupied the place during my stay. In three rooms lived five locals. The two remaining were rented on Airbnb by myself and another couple.

The first time I met the guy from the couple was a couple of days after they’d arrived when the two of us crossed paths in the kitchen one evening. His name was Victor, a late thirty-year-old guy born in Kazakhstan, raised in Germany, and now living on the road as a travelling salesman. Being in shape and looking years younger than he was, seemed to have helped him land his beautiful Russian wife who travelled with him and conducted her architectural engineering work along the way. Victor was an interesting character, speaking five languages from Turkish, to Polish to English, and more. He had an intriguing vibe to him as if he’d experienced a lot in his lifetime. Along with a dark streak and a young-at-heart attitude the two of us got on just fine.

He told me that business regularly brought him to Russia, but begrudgingly it seemed.

“How long are you here for?”, he asked.

“My visa is up in three weeks, unfortunately.”, I answered expressing disappointment.

He paused for a moment.

“What do you want?…”, he asked, narrowing his gaze.

I immediately understood his non-native manner of speak but couldn’t help laughing anyway. It was a strangely perfect way to express his confusion about why a young Australian guy would come to Russia alone, in a mildly disdainful tone. I smirked as I held my gaze, hoping for him to elaborate.

“Russia is for Russians…”, he said in a calm but stern manner, leaving to my imagination his experiences that led to his conclusion.

I was just as amused as I was impressed by such a genius adage causing my smirk to grow larger.

His wife passed by the kitchen to shower and Victor’s head turned to the doorway pensively. His face returned to me with a change of expression.

“Fun to dvink somefing?”, he said with a hint of mischief in his tone.

I glanced out to the Soviet apartment courtyard, still lit by afternoon daylight. I turned back to Victor and nodded with a smirk, studying the mysterious character, curious about what he had in mind.

He returned to the kitchen a moment later with a third of a bottle of Bacardi white rum and cut up some limes from the fridge. At the kitchen bench, he indicated to the salt after pouring us both a healthy tripled shot to slam.

“Nazdorov’ye!”, we toasted and downed the liquor.

To my shock, Victor immediately refilled our plastic glasses with an even bigger shot, reaching for another lime wedge. I complied.

“Nazdorov’ye!”, we said in unison and downed another.

I needed to make conversation to buy some time between another potential repour. But it was in vain. Victor refilled the glasses again. I hadn’t time to even question why we were shooting white rum like it were tequila.

‘Who is this guy!?’, I thought to myself in delight, as I stood in the Soviet kitchen shooting giant shots of rum at 4 pm on a Thursday afternoon.

I couldn’t get much out of him when I probed for information, as he seemed desperate to down as much alcohol as possible before his wife returned from the bathroom. It only added to the greater mystery and begged the question to the extent of his likely drinking problem.

To my disbelief we managed one last shot, completing a third of a bottle that we’d knocked over in less than fifteen minutes. His wife passed by the hall. Well-inebriated, we bid each other a due and Victor retreated to his room shortly thereafter.

I sat alone in the quiet kitchen for a moment processing the past half an hour which had escalated rapidly. Victor had swooped in and out of my life in a flash, giving enough for me to be utterly intrigued by his enigmatic character and yet be left with so many questions.

The following night when drinking gooseberry and vodka and somehow communicating with one of the girls in the house without either of us speaking a lick of one another’s languages, Victor came home with his wife after being at an ice hockey game. They greeted us at the kitchen doorway where Victor began chanting with elation for the team’s victory whilst loudly bashing a cardboard sign on his hand, blatantly disturbing the peace. The Russian girl found it far less hilarious than I did.

“Fun to party tomorrow night?”, Victor asked in his endearing non-native English.

“Sure.”, I said, excited by the ambiguous question without a clue of its meaning.

It was Saturday night and Victor and his wife were nowhere to be seen. I dreaded having to endure the terrifying experience again of going out on a night alone in Russia. But, thankfully, Victor busted through the door with Svetlana at around 11 pm, telling me they’d be ready to head out within the hour.

The three of us walked the dimly lit, shady Saint Petersburg streets to the nightlife near Nevsky Prospect, the main strip.

We arrived at a section of narrow streets lined with bars and strip clubs, bustling with people. When we got in the thick of the action, every second person held giant, almost beach ball-sized inflated balloons in front of their faces, inhaling nitrous oxide gas. Or doing “nangs” as we affectionately call them in Australia. It seemed to me a strange idea to do them right before going into a bar or nightclub but for many, it appeared to be the norm. I watched as groups of guys standing in the street, as well as carloads of people parked outside the bars, all inflating and deflating enormous balloons from their mouths, more than double the size of any I had ever seen. It was one of those small comic touches that made Russia as amusing as it was.

We walked past the many varied themed bars, each guarded by two enormous Russian silverbacks, and entered the first one we liked. Victor lead. After showing his ID, the security guard patted him down and felt something in his jacket pocket. Victor produced his keys, wallet and a small red cylinder object that had a diamond pattern. When the silverback asked what it was, Victor removed its lid, pressed a small button and flickered the light showing a torch. I analysed the curious object and all at once, questions circled my mind about its pattern and why Victor was holding what looked like an accessory of his wife. But my train of thought was cut short when I became face to face with the stoic Russian silverback of a security guard. We entered and went straight to the bar of the busy club.

Inside, as we approached the bar I walked past several people hitting nangs. The closer we got to the bar the more ubiquitous they became. I looked about to see if Russians carried some kind of nang package with them on a night out since the balloons appeared to come from out of nowhere. But when we got to the bar I saw one of the bartenders holding two fresh beach ball-sized balloons in his hands. I watched him hand them over the bar to somebody before turning back to where two giant hospital-grade nitrous bottles stood behind him. He rolled a fresh balloon over the nozzle of a bottle and blasted it full of nitrous gas that caused an eruption of laughter from me within seconds.

I’m here for the nang bangThe country never ceased to impress me.

“What’s that?”, I asked Victor inspecting his exotic drink when my attention had left the nangs.

“Long Island Iced Tea…”, he answered with a cheeky smile, as if excited by a sense of liberty granted to him that night.

“Of course.”, I replied, approvingly with a chuckle.

Two long island ice teas later and a bit of a boogie, the night was well on its way.

We bounced to another nightclub shortly thereafter where it had come time to indulge in a giant Russian nang. Beside the empty upstairs dance floor where Victor and Svetlana were boogieing, I made myself comfortable on a side stool and braced myself for the ride. I clasped my lips onto the mouth of the balloon and held onto it with dear life. I could barely inhale half the volume of nitrous gas in the balloon it was so enormous and continued to hyperventilate it until I faded away into a dark dream-like state, hearing the music echo in its uncanny nang manner. I went completely out of body before I came to, after having to take a moment to realise where exactly I was. The two dancing silhouettes on the dance floor before me moved mysteriously until I realised it was them. The nang put a warm pleasant glaze on my headspace for the rest of the time in the club.

We left shortly thereafter and Svetlana said that they wanted to show me club Coyote Ugly.

It was exactly as it was attempting to be like in the movie but a much tackier and lamer Russian version. The place was half empty and full of drunken Russian dudes who chanted along to the apathetic mediocre-looking Russian girls that danced on the bar top with far less enthusiasm than their job description demanded.

We pounded drinks with reckless abandon to the point where I found myself successfully fooling one of the female club hustlers into thinking I was from Antarctica.

Later on in the night, now well intoxicated, a fight broke out close to where we stood. It was the second scrap we’d seen inside since arriving which, judging by the general apathy of others, appeared to be the norm. I remembered seeing a wimpy-looking guy in the group where the fight broke out, being the victim and not sure whether he had engaged with consent. The fight got broken up but within minutes it was kicking off again and actually instigated by the wimp. The other guy had his number and got the best of him but each time the scuffle got broken up the wimp kept going back not learning his lesson.

For whatever reason, probably alcohol, at this moment, I found my feet moving and walking towards the group in the direction of the wimp. Completely and utterly out of character in such situations, I had zero idea what I was hoping to achieve. To try to reason with a drunk Russian guy to call it quits, who likely didn’t speak a word of English? Fortunately, however, before finding myself in an unfavourable situation, Victor locked on a headlock from behind dragging me back backward and yelling,

“Don’t you fucking do that! You never do that here!”, he said with distress.

“You just stand back and watch and you laugh”, he said with a smile immediately after letting go and I’d apologised for being so foolish.

And we did. The wimpy Russian guy kept coming forward, a bit of a scuffle would break out and then things would calm again. It was rather strange. It seemed as normal as seeing people dance intermittently.

Drinks were pounded to the wee hours of the morning as Svetlana danced on the bar top beside several other girls as I vaguely looked on.

We took a cab back to our Soviet-era building and stumbled through the quiet, dark, courtyard whispering drunken nonsense. At the front door of the building, Victor rustled for his keys and then produced the mysterious torch that he’d shown to the security guard at the club entrance. He shone a light on the keyhole and inserted his keys.

“What the fuck is that thing? A torch?”, I asked, confused about why a traditional Eastern European man would be possessing such a feminine-looking device.

He hesitated and turned to me.

“Not just a torch…”, he replied smugly, before moving his finger to the red button beside the other on the device.

*bbbbbbbzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzttt!!!*, the device amplified a loud, harrowing, high voltage crackle of electricity that filled the courtyard with a flickering strobe light. It was a high-powered taser.

I gasped with fright and before I could erupt into laughter, the apartment window right beside the door slammed open and the voice of a man began aggressively screaming at us in Russian. His barrage of curses had kicked off with perfect comic synchronisation with the loud crackling sound of the taser which made the moment that much more hilarious. Victor frantically apologised as we made our way inside as quickly as possible. When our apartment door closed behind us I erupted into laughter.

“This is what I do. I sell these…”, he confessed, with a grin to me as I keeled over in hysterics, finally answering the many questions that had surrounded him and this night.

“Goodnight”, Victor and Svetlana said as they made their way down the hall, with me still leaning against the wall, clasping my stomach with hysterical laughter.

“Wait, wait, wait!”, I beckoned when I caught a breath, needing more detail.

Victor ushered me into their room down the hall where he gave me the full spiel of his business. He travelled between Turkey, Poland, Russia and more, selling discreet tasers alike as self-defence weapons for women. He claimed they were fully licensed and documented for the owner and he spent his time with his wife, travelling between countries making sales.

I was impressed but not at all surprised that such was the occupation of a mysterious, shady, yet intriguing character like Victor.

“Dobroy nochi.”, he said as he closed their door, marking yet another peculiar tale of my Russian adventures …

Tarapoto, Peru – where mountains meet The Amazon

A few years back I dated a girl from a small town called Tarapoto, in the North of Peru where the Andean Mountains meet the Amazon Rain forest. It was a small, humble town with a tropical climate, that offered fuck all to do. Most of the inhabitants lived close-knit, working-class lives, my girlfriend’s family included, who lived on the outskirts of the city. Her house was situated in a poor suburb with run-down, dirt roads, that were littered with stray dogs. During the day, the stray dogs normally slept due to the humid, perpetual 30°C+ days. However, when the temperature dropped after sunset, they came out to play, when most people returned to their houses.

The locals were used to the good-for-nothing mutts and showed little concern towards them. I’d been informed that if a dog displayed aggression, which wasn’t uncommon, it was advised to pick up one of the many rocks on the ground and pretend to hurl it at the face of problematic dog/s. It sounded good in theory and I’d even seen it work from time to time, though it also seemed that a complete lack of fear was also necessary. At the very least, the fundamental rule when dealing with aggressive dogs was to remain calm, continue to walk by slowly, and by under no circumstance should you ever try to run away.

For the duration of my one-month stay in Tarapoto, most days were spent hanging out at my girlfriend’s house with her and her family until late at night, where I’d retreat back to my hotel. During the day I could take a moto-taxi straight to her front doorstep, but come nightfall, no taxis would pass through the dark streets of her suburb, since nobody was around. So instead, I would have to make the anxious ten-minute walk to the main road to hail one. Every one of those walks I made was a complete sweat, constantly being on the alert for mischievous strays, that would become aggressive if you wandered into their territory.

At around 1 AM one typical, nerve-racking night, when I turned onto the final, long stretch of road I usually took, I noticed a heap of garbage bags up ahead, on one side. I could see three dogs rustling through the rubbish whom I wanted no business going anywhere near, but the alternative was to turn back and gamble on a different road, none of which were illuminated and likely had other dogs lurking in the shadows. I took a breathe and continued.

When I got within eyesight of the pack, I turned on a fake confidence, to try to mask the utter fear that had overcome me. There was a good twenty metres between them and me when I passed on the opposite side of the road but a shot of adrenaline injected into my bloodstream when I got a better look at one of the dogs, in particular, that was of a large terrier breed. With a jacked and shredded physique, the size of a Shetland pony and seemingly bred to kill, I wanted no part in a tango with the beast. The other two were smaller but I sensed that they weren’t shy of an altercation either. I kept calm and remembered my training.

*Just walk slow. Don’t even look at them…*, I thought to myself, reassuringly. But less than five paces later, I heard a subtle but deep bark from one of them. Instinctively I knew it was the enormous hound that had noticed me. Nervously, I looked over again to see that all three now had their heads craned curiously towards me. The large dog barked again, but this time in an obnoxious, troublesome manner. One of the others followed suit.

In anticipation of a showdown, I frantically scanned the road to see a smorgasbord of rock-throwing options, just in case I became more appetizing to them than the trash. But when their barking increased and they began walking towards me, it became clear that I was at the point of no return.

“Fuck…”, I uttered to myself in distress, my squinty eyes widening to that of normal size.

I looked again to the rocks on the ground for much-needed ammunition; then back at them, as they closed more distance, then back to the ground again…

*Alright Ryan, no backing down here, you gotta hold your ground. Remember what they told you…*, echoed a voice from the logical corner of my brain.

The large terrier transitioned its walk to a trot, its confusingly large, yolked deltoid muscles, which looked to have been carved from the hands of God himself, flexing with terror every step. A second adrenaline dump came as my heart pounded violently.

*Do not run….Do not, run….Do not ru-…*, all of a sudden the logical part of my brain became overridden by an impulse of cowardice, causing me to come out of the blocks like Usain Bolt in the one hundred.

Within seconds I’m sprinting as fast as anyone wearing thongs can, with the eruptions of barking at my back, from the savage hounds hot on my tail. A panic-stricken glance over my shoulder saw that there were another three dogs who’d come out of the woodwork to join in on the chase for the fresh game that had been presented to them.

The enormous hound at the front of the pack of now at least six strong, with his enormous strides, I could feel closing in on me, like Phar lap galloping the home stretch of the 1930 Melbourne Cup. With a cold but indifferent look in his eyes, it seemed he’d be taking no prisoners tonight.

Looked a bit like this

At the top of my lungs, I let out an almighty, primal roar of, “Fwaaaarrrrkkk!!!…“, loud enough to wake up the whole of Tarapoto, whilst fed another ocean of adrenaline, never having run faster in my life.

With only the grim sight of bare, open road, I clearly wasn’t going to outrun six animals with twice the amount of legs as I, so I made a change of direction towards the footpath, which was to achieve God knows what. In an attempt to do so, the six-inch deep ditch, between the road and footpath caused me to lose my footing and fall face first, with my body coming to an abrupt, crashing halt. My body had gone from full sprinting speed to a sudden, stationary stop when the middle of my thigh caught the edge of a small footbridge. The footbridge and my femur bone shared a brief kiss, resulting in a deep, excruciating cork.

Scene of the chase

The adrenaline was enough to fend off the pain, leaving only the feeling of dread of the thought of the dogs about to tear my body to shreds with their rabies-infected fangs, whilst I helplessly lay crippled on my back.

Thankfully, however, when they caught up to me a few seconds later, they just stood over me whilst barking loudly, before dispersing, when several locals came out the front of their houses to witness the scene.

Vision blurred and in a state of panic, I got to one leg and limped up the street as if still amidst the thick of an on-foot chase, desperately trying to escape the canines. I hobbled clumsily up the road, panting deeply, for another twenty metres or so until I finally realised the chase was over.

Parked not much further up the road, a young driver of a rickshaw moto-taxi, looked on as I approached. He asked if I was okay, trying to mask his amusement but failing to do so, after having witnessed the whole ridiculous spectacle. During the chase, one of my thongs had gone astray, so the guy agreed to drive me back down to where I fell since I was too much of a wimp to walk back to where any of those blasted hounds may have been lingering.

Back at the scene, several of the dogs began barking loudly again, with little regard for the sleeping neighbourhood, as I proceeded to scan the ditch where I had fallen. Meanwhile, the taxi guy informed the small crowd of civilians dressed in their pyjamas, about what had happened.

“Fucking Gringo…”, was the disgruntled expression on most of their faces, when I’d shamefully glance over between rummaging through vegetation.

After a few minutes, right as I retrieved my parted thong, all of a sudden, a large Peruvian man, donning only Crocs and a pair of bright red, speedo-cut underwear, emerged from outside the house where half a dozen people congregated. Standing at around 6′4″ and weighing almost 120 kg, he was visibly mad for having been yanked from a deep slumber and wanted vengeance – to my horror, the target being, the young, innocent, and friendly taxi driver who’d only been there to help me.

After attempting to explain all the commotion, the young lad desperately tried to plea with the enormous, Peruvian giant but his words fell on deaf ears as the ogre came for him. The kid weaved in and out of the standing folks, desperately evading the grips of the oaf whilst I looked on in despair. At that point, my Spanish was far too basic to intervene and try to explain the absurd scene that I was solely responsible for. Nor did I particularly feel like having to break out any Jiu-Jitsu on a dirt, rocky road against a semi sleepwalking, irrational meathead. Fortunately, the giant’s gut weighed him down enough for the taxi guy’s agility to prevail.

Some of the civilians finally managed to calm the situation somewhat, which I took as an opportunity to slip away into the dead of the night, like a spineless coward. I slowly edged away from the crowd, unbeknownst to anyone, and began limping my way up to the main road to hail a taxi.

Upon the main drag, I impatiently stood for a good fifteen minutes, bearing the agony of what felt like a blade being inserted through my thigh, down to the bone.

Finally, to my relief, a lone moto-taxi appeared in the distance and pulled to the side of the road when it reached me. However, my elation turned to shock, when I recognized the face of, none other than, the young taxi driver who had come to my aid only moments ago, after having been dragged into a situation by some dumb Gringo and almost getting his ass kicked for it. On top of that, the cravenly Gringo didn’t even have the decency to stick around and offer as much as an apology. His face said as much, exhibiting a look of utter contempt.

“Oh, was that you who just helped me? I’m so sorry man…”, I said, in awfully broken Spanish, cringing with awkwardness.

His face didn’t change as he maintained a look of disgust, without saying a word.

“Ah, Jungle Hotel, please?…”, I asked sheepishly, causing him to turn his head forward, which I took as an indication to get in the rickshaw.

In between awkward meetings of eye contact in the rearview mirror, not another word was exchanged until we arrived at the front door of my hotel.

I made one more attempt at a sincere apology when handing him the money for the ride, but he didn’t so much as break his sour, forward gaze. As soon as money was in hand, with me mid-sentence, the disgruntled taxi driver hit the throttle, speeding off and billowing smoke into my face as I watched the rickshaw shrink into the distance.

I limped my sorry ass up the hotel stairs to my room, racked with an emotional cocktail of shame, guilt, and anger, before collapsing on my bed.

“Fuckin’ hounds…”, I muttered to myself, before passing out …