Just Trying to Get There

My back aches as I shift my weight on the pack. With my fist creating a resting post for my tired head, I’m slumped over like a tree branch. I pick up my guidebook for the tenth time and check the transportation guidelines for getting to Waitomo.

I’ve just spent the last five weeks backpacking around Australia and New Zealand, staying mostly at city hostels above local bars. I’m tired of the noise and constant beat of music, especially when my dorm mates come barreling in at 2:30 in the morning. One of the hostels I stayed at was so horrible it makes my stomach queasy just thinking about it. I want to see something different, a place out in the country where there’s fresh air and peaceful surroundings. And with Christmas just around the corner, I definitely don’t want to spend it downtown.

I check my watch. It’s 3:30 pm. The bus should have been here by now. The woman at the Information Centre said it’s supposed to pick up at 3:00. It’s too far of a walk back to the Centre, so I guess I’ll just need to wait.

A young couple sits down on the bench beside me who can’t seem to keep their eyes off each other. Groomed in designer-brand outfitter clothes, they flip through tourist flyers and brochures with big grins on their faces. They must be honeymooners on their first trip together. They cast a glance my way, but after seeing my well-worn backpack and disheveled appearance they quickly go back to reading their flyers.

It’s now 4:00 and no bus. I stand up and squint at the road ahead.

“Excuse me, do you know if the bus is still picking up here?” I ask the canoodling couple.

After seeing a look of confusion on their faces I knew they wouldn’t be any help. 

With a huff I sit back down. My fingers start tapping a beat on my pack, and soon my feet join in. After a while I think I’ve created an original hip-hop beat. That is until I see the couple stare at me with a look of disapproval.

I’m just about to check the time again when the bus finally pulls up along the side of the road. The door slowly shifts open for people to get in. At the steering wheel sits a fat, bell-shaped man with wrinkles sloping down from years of exhaustion.

After I find a seat the driver puts on his headset and announces, “There was an accident on the highway. On behalf of City Bus Lines I’m sorry for the delay.”

He peels off the headset and throws it onto the dash. He wasn’t interested in hearing any complaints. He just wanted to get home and open up a bottle of beer.

The bus ride was three hours, and luckily I was able to sleep through most of it. The landscape is spectacular here, but after half a dozen rides it all starts to look the same - rolling hills, grazing cattle and one-street towns. Lately I just want to get to my destination and crash on the bed. Unfortunately I’ll need to transfer to another bus to get to Waitomo, but it’s only an hour’s ride.

We arrive at another one-street town for my transfer. I grab my pack and drag it onto the sidewalk. My arms are so tired that it’s a strain to lift anything heavy. All the other passengers quickly disperse, getting into cars with people picking them up. According to the schedule the next bus should already be here. I scan the parking lot but don’t see any other buses. There doesn’t seem to be any information booth around, just discount stores and small cafes.

The bus drives away while I stand stranded at the side of the road with my packs. Where is the next bus? Did I miss it from the delay on the last bus? I scour the sidewalk, looking for anyone who might be able to help. After a few attempts, I decide to ask the shopkeepers instead.

“Excuse me, can you tell me if the next bus will be along shortly?”

“Sorry, I don’t know the bus schedule. You don’t have a car with you?”

“No, that’s why I’m taking the bus.” I roll my eyes.

“Try the bakery shop two doors down. The owner might be able to help you there.”

I hike down to the bakery, hoping that someone will have some idea of bus schedules. No such luck. The owner was out for the afternoon, and the rest of the staff didn’t even know that buses stopped in town. I check three other shops, but still no success. 

I walk back out to the sidewalk, trying not to panic about the situation – I’m in the middle of a strange town, and there’s no bus to get me out of here. I stroll down the street looking for any sign of a bus stop or schedule. I walk up and down the street several times, but don’t see any signs posted. 

Gravity is not being kind right now as my pack pulls down onto my tense shoulders. I find the nearest bench and collapse. I feel alone. Everyone else has somewhere to go, a purpose. I bite my lip, staring out onto the street with wide eyes and flushed cheeks. I can feel each muscle in my stomach pull inward as my breath becomes barely noticeable. My hands grip the bench like a nervous cat, making my arms and shoulders feel even more strained.

I drop my head down, trying to ease off some of the tension in my neck. I start doing neck circles, and when I look up I see a man standing in front of me.

“Are you waiting for the bus?” the man inquires.

“Yes! Do you know when it’s coming?”

“That bus over there is leaving in 5 minutes, so you better hurry up or you’ll miss it.”

The man points to the bus parked across the street, which seemed to pop up out of nowhere. I grab my packs and barrel across the street in a panic.

“Thank you so much!” I shout back to the man.

The bus driver was just settling into his seat when he saw me sprint across the street.

“Are you going to Waitomo?” I shout, almost out of breath.

“Yes, you got your ticket?”

“It’s right here!” I wave the ticket frantically over my head as I’m running.

“OK, let’s get your luggage loaded on. You’re lucky you made it. The next bus doesn’t come until tomorrow morning.”

“They didn’t tell me there would be a different bus line picking me up.” I replied defensively.

“I keep tellin’ them to pass that information on, but I guess they forgot again,” the driver said while hauling my pack into the luggage compartment.

I shrug my shoulders and step inside the bus. I look down the long aisle of seats with passengers staring back at me. The only seat left is beside a teenage boy listening to his iPod at full blast. His eyes stay focused on the tiny screen while I settle into my seat, his legs spread apart in that typical boy fashion. I squeeze my small pack into the overhead compartment, then try to maneuver into a somewhat comfortable seated position. This was going to be a long ride. After a few minutes my head slowly droops down, and I drift off into sleep.

My head jerks up as I hear the sound of the driver’s voice.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are approaching the town of Waitomo. For those of you getting off at the Big Apple bus stop, you can call for your pick-up now. We’ll be there in about 10 minutes.”

Has it already been an hour? I check my watch, and sure enough I’ve slept through almost the entire ride. The boy next to me hasn’t moved from his original position, his iPod still pumping out tunes while he sleeps. 

I suddenly realize what the driver just announced. I thought he was dropping me off at the hostel? Crap, how am I going to get there? I dart up to the front of the bus to ask the driver. He shakes his head, and I slowly return to my seat. My day of mix-ups wasn’t ending.

I’m dropped off at the side of the road, my pack sitting in a heap on the grass. As I look down at my belongings, I quickly realize what I’d done. As the driver starts to pull onto the road, I bang on the doors like a madman.

“Driver, please stop! Please stop!”

The driver looks down at me with confusion, then stops the bus. The door couldn’t open fast enough during my moment of panic. Before the driver could say anything, I race down the aisle to where I was sitting. Flushed with embarrassment, I grab my pack from the overhead compartment and run back toward the door.

“That would’ve been bad. Have a good day miss.”

I slink out of the bus while the other passengers stare at me with bored interest. I collapse onto the grass, wishing the day was over by now. Unfortunately I still had to figure out my way to the hostel, and there didn’t seem to be any other local buses going by. What am I going to do? Well at least I’m a woman, so let’s see if I can attract some attention.

I stick out my thumb to cars passing by, trying my best moves. I’m a newbie to hitchhiking, but maybe it’s not as bad as people say. I smile and try to make a good impression on anyone who may be nervous about picking up a backpacker.

Ten minutes pass and still no takers. I decide to sit down for a rest and admire the countryside. There are rolling hills and forests, a field of cows, an old abandoned barn, and mammoth-sized trees in the distance. Wow, those are the biggest trees I’ve ever seen. They’re like the kind of trees you’d see in fantasy-based movies with goblins and wizards. Actually, I think there was a movie filmed here with some famous director. What was the name of that movie? Oh well, not really my kind of thing anyway.

Just then a truck pulls up beside me. 

An older man sticks his head out the window and asks, “Do you need a ride into town?”

“Yeah, that would be great – thanks!”

I load my packs into the back of his truck and slide into the front passenger seat. He looks at me for a moment, then pulls out onto the road.

“Where’re you headed?” he asks me.

“The Backpackers Lodge. Is it far from here?” I asked, hoping it would be a short ride.

“Not far at all. Just about a 10-minute ride.”

Ten minutes. That’s about all the time I want to spend with this man. He reminds me of a man from another place I stayed at. He’s got that creepy old man look, with pale skin and deep-set wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. I wonder how many other young girls he’s picked up on the side of the road, and how many actually made it to their destination.

“Where’re you from?”

“I’m from Canada” I reply hesitantly.

“Canada….hmmm….we don’t get too many Canadians in these parts.”

After an awkward pause he asks, “What’re you doin’ in Waitomo?”

“Uh, just here to see the caves.”

“Caves, huh? Do you like deep, dark holes in the ground?”

I gulp, feeling like tennis ball just went down my throat.

“Ummm….uh, yeah I guess.”

My face starts to go flush from panic.

“Well that’s good, ‘cause those caves are pretty cold and damp.”

OK, thank god he’s still talking about the caves.

I see the Backpackers Lodge in the distance and take a deep breath of relief. The last ten minutes seemed like an eternity, but finally I made it to the hostel. He barely stops the truck when I jump out. I grab my pack, quickly thanked the old man, and raced towards the hostel. It was now 10:00 pm, and I was nervous about getting my room this late.

The only person still up was a young guy sitting on the couch watching television. He barely moved his eyes as I walked around the common area.

“Excuse me, do you know where the staff are? I need to check into my room.”

With broken English he replied, “Not sure. You don’t have key?”

“No, my bus was late getting here. They didn’t tell me which room I’m in.”

“Uh, they stop working at 8:00. They return at 7:30 next morning.”

Great, that’s just perfect. I finally made it and I have no room. Guess I’ll need to make friends with the couch for the night. I grab my back and pull it over to where the young man is sitting.

After a brief pause the young man adds, “There is spare bed in my room. You want to stay with me?”

Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!

“Ummm, sure. I suppose that would be okay.”

He sticks out his hand to shake mine, and both our eyes lock on one another.

“My name is Peter. What’s yours?”

“I’m Kate. Thanks so much for letting me stay…”

“No problem. Let me show you to my room.”

Peter grabs both my bags with surprising ease and leads me down the hallway. I follow behind him, biting my lip to hide my ear-to-ear grin. He opens the door and we step inside.

That night I forgot all about my day of confusion and mix-ups. 

In the morning I added my name to the bunk boards overhead with a smile on my face.

Hostel of Horrors

I look down at my map again to double check the address. Make a left turn here, and then follow the road to the end of the street. I am halfway down the street when the building starts coming into view. I squint to try to get a better look, but the beads of sweat are starting to drip into my eyes. The afternoon sun is intense, and my clothes are so wet that there’s no separation between my skin and the fabric. My pack is feeling heavier by the minute. It shouldn’t be much longer now.

I finally arrive at the building, but it’s hard to distinguish from all the trees and overgrown plants growing around the property. It doesn’t seem like the picture I saw on the website, but those pictures were so small and fuzzy you couldn’t see much. I walk up the cement stairs to the reception desk, and suddenly a strong wind pushes me into the doorway. Feeling startled, I brush back my hair to try to look more composed. As it turns out, there isn’t anyone inside. I peel off my backpack and set it down beside the worn-out chair. Scanning the room, it looks like nobody has stayed here for a long time. Maybe this is the wrong place? I glance down at the reception desk, trying to find something with a name or address listed on it. I notice a business card attached to a side cabinet with scotch tape that’s gone yellow over time. Sure enough, it’s the same information I have on my form.

I decide to walk around the dimly lit common area, looking around corners for any sign of life. Everything sits very still, as if it is frozen in time. I see a television in the distance, which looks surprisingly new, so I search around for a remote to turn it on.

“Can I help…” a deep voice echoes in the distance.

“Aaahh!!!” I whip around so quickly from shock that I almost knock over the TV.

The large, stocky man is standing motionless in the doorway, his eyes piercing back at me.

“I’m here for the room. I mean…um….this is the Darkwoods Hostel, right?” I asked with a quiver in my voice.

“That’s right. You got a booking here?” the man replied in a deep monotone voice.

“Uh….(say no! say no!)…um…I think so.” 

“What’s your name?” he shot back.

“It’s uh…it’s under Sanders. My name is Kate Sanders.” I said, feeling pressure to cooperate with the man.

“Let’s see…Kate Sanders.” 

The man scans down the dog-eared pages of the registration book. There are scribbles and notes beside guest names. Many of the names have giant Xs through them, which seems odd. Under today’s date, only my name is listed. Am I the only person staying here tonight? Before my thoughts carry me further into panic, the sound of birds cackling brings me back to reality.

“Here it is. Kate Sanders for 3 nights. You owe $24.00 plus a key deposit of $10.00. Hope you have cash, ‘cause we don’t take cards here.”

Interesting, the key deposit is almost half the amount for the 3-night room fee. Maybe they’ve had problems with people losing their keys. Anyway the room is cheap, and I’m sure this place isn’t as bad as it seems. First impressions can sometimes be inaccurate, right?

I hand the cash over to the man, who places it into a tin can underneath the desk. There are wads of other bills in the can, so there must be other guests staying here. Just seems strange he doesn’t have a more modern filing system like other hostels.

The man hands me the room key, then asks, “Do you need help with yer bags, or are y’alright there?”

Uh no, I’m ok. Thanks.”

There is no way I am letting that man near by pack. So I heave it onto my shoulders and head toward the room. According to the key I’m in Room 3. Wonder how many rooms they have here? Walking down the hall there are four doors, but I don’t see a Room #3. I then notice a small hallway leading to another section of the building. It is dark except for a small flickering overhead light bulb. The old linoleum floors creak with every step I take, and I’m feeling nervous now. There’s Room 7, Room 5 and Room 2. Where is Room 3?

Then I notice a small door on the right near the end of the hallway. There doesn’t appear to be a number on the door, but I can tell from a faint outline that one used to be affixed to the door. I guess it had fallen off at some point. I turn my key in the lock, and after a few tries I finally open the door.

The first thing I notice is the dirty, musty smell wafting over me as I walk through the doorway. There is a small bed off to the side, just under the large window. The window is open, so at least some fresh air can get into the room. I sit down on the bed to remove my pack, and immediately feel springs poking up into my legs. Unfortunately the springs do little for cushioning, as the bed is flat from generations of use.

I stand up and immediately pull back the sheets, expecting little critters to come scurrying out. After a few months of backpacking I’ve seen a lot of scary beds in seemingly nice looking places. But no critters come out, and the sheets actually look pretty good. Not believing what I saw, I pulled the fitted sheet off from the right corner and scan the mattress. The mattress was certainly old, but there doesn’t seem to be any evidence of bug matter.

I sit back down on the bed and let out a sigh of relief. In front of me is a large wooden cabinet, which looks like it used to be a wardrobe unit. The doors have been taken off and some of the drawers are missing. Dust and spider webs have now made their home in this cabinet, so I decide to keep all my clothes safely in my backpack with the zippers pulled up.

I just realize that the owner didn’t show me where the bathrooms were located. After locking the door I stroll back down the dark hallway and look for signs of a bathroom. They all seem to be regular rooms, so it must be down another hall. I turn the corner and see a set of stairs leading steeply down into a basement area. It’s dark as well except for cracks of light shining between the wood planks. The stairs are worn and thick from dust, and with each step I hold my breath hoping nothing bad would happen. 

I finally reach the bottom, and to my right is the toilet room. There is a sharp pungent odour from chemical cleaner used to cover up bathroom smells, and barely enough toilet paper for one visit. The next room has a small shower stall, but the paint on the walls is peeling off so bad that the metal underneath is showing. I shudder with the thought of being naked in the stall, and run out the door.

I immediately hit a brick wall. Or so I thought was a brick wall. It was the man from the reception desk, standing firmly with a sneer on his face.

“Running away, are we?”

“No, no, no…I just realized I forgot something upstairs.” I replied with a lump in my throat.

I try to sneak past him, but his body takes up the entire width of the hall. Please let me past, please!!! I look for any possible opening to get by, and then suddenly he grabs my arm. I freeze with fear, and look up into his eyes.

“I don’t want no funny businesses in this place, got it? Or there’ll be consequences.” he snarled.

“Y-y-y-yes…of course. I won’t do a thing, I p-p-p-promise.” 

I’ve never stuttered in my life, but at this moment my jaw can’t stop trembling. Snapshots of the scariest horror movies I had ever seen are flashing through my head. Please let me live! I’ll stay in my room and be quiet, I promise!

The man’s overalls are worn and stained, and the shirt underneath is faded from the sun. His hands are gnarled up from years of hard labour, and they grip my arm so severely I’m afraid it will leave bruises. Several of his fingernails are black and purple, and there’s a scar along the indent of his left thumb.

The man must have noticed my look of desperation, and he slowly steps his left foot back to let me walk past. He watches my every move as I slither by with fear. Every muscle is shaking at this point, and I don’t know how I will make it up the stairs without tripping.

I slice down the dark hallway to my room and quickly shut the door. Pulling back the comforter I bound into bed and try to disappear under the covers. I shut my eyes, trying to recall happy memories that will transport me out of here. My breath is short and fast, and my muscles won’t stop trembling. The image of that scary man won’t get out of my head, and the sound of his voice echoes through me. I’ve never felt so scared in my life. Try to relax, try to relax, I keep repeating. It’s all just a bad dream. My muscles gradually start loosening, and my breath gets a little deeper. The intensity of my thoughts became tiring, and I feel a headache coming on. But after a while I slowly drift off to sleep, curled up tight as a ball.

Three hours later I awake with the sound of hammering just outside my window. Still feeling foggy, I push the covers back to get some air. I then realize where I am, and it wasn’t a dream. My muscles still feel cramped, and it’s difficult to move after hours of clenching.

I slowly peer through the crack in the window to see who is hammering. It looks like a man in his 20s, and he’s scruffy like the scary man. He’s hammering planks of wood together, and appears to be making a box.

My body suddenly surges away from the window and my eyes open wide in panic. Is that what I think it is? Is he making a COFFIN? I go back to the window to look again. The box is long and narrow, with a slightly curved end. The young man is hammering the last plank to the box, which appears to be made out of scraps of wood. After he finishes hammering he drags it over to a metal shed and puts it inside. The inside of the shed is too dark to see if there are more of these boxes, but my guess is this isn’t the first time he’s made something like this. The young man comes out of the shed and glances up to see me staring at him. I shudder, then crouch down below the window. Oh crap, he’s gonna be after me too! I consider hiding under the covers again, but I’ll try to be braver this time.

I try to process what I just saw, wondering if I had mistakenly assumed the worst. The box did look coffin-like, however maybe it wasn’t actually a coffin. But what else could it be, and why aren’t there any other guests around? Maybe I should take a walk around the property to investigate. Wait, are you crazy? You might see the scary man again! Do you really want to risk running into him again?

Although I know logically it would be safer to stay in my room, the curious part of me takes control of the situation. So down the hall I go, wandering through the place until I am outside. By the time I reach the backyard area where the young man was making the coffins, there is no one to be found. These people would be experts at hide and seek, or a murder mystery game. Yikes, don’t think of that right now!!

The backyard is full of junk – old signs, rusted cars, appliances that haven’t worked for years and odd sheets of metal lying around. Obviously no one has made an attempt to clean up the junk, as the plant life is curled up around the junk in an effort to keep growing. Generations of mess have built up over the years, but nobody cares.

I then spot the young man, who is whispering to the scary man by a large tree. Scary man yells something back then stomps off. I find an old washer to hide behind, but his quick footsteps are getting closer. Should I sprint back, hoping he won’t catch me? Or should I crouch down small behind this washer? No time to think, hurry up!

My body starts to sprint out of instinct, like an animal running away from its predator. My feet know exactly where to go, before my mind could process obstacles like stairs and tight corners. I’m almost to my room when I realize I left my sweater by the washer. Crap, that was my favourite sweater! For a second I think about going back, but I don’t want to risk it this time. They might put me in the coffin and store me away forever.

When I return safely to my room, I notice the sun is starting to go down. It will be dark soon, and things will seem even scarier. I haven’t eaten any dinner, but hunger is the last thing on my mind. Surviving three nights in this place without getting kidnapped, mamed or something worse become my priority.

I try to take my mind off this horrible situation by reading one of my novels. Although I seem to be reading, my eyes are simply scanning over the same paragraph a hundred times. I can’t focus on anything but the scary man, the coffin, and the hostile discussion those two men had. What are they planning, and does it (gulp!) involve me? What am I going to do? I don’t have a phone to call anyone, and the closest town is an hour’s walk. The buses don’t run on the weekends either. If I try to escape they could easily catch up with me by car, especially since there’s only one road out of here. I’m stuck here, and there’s nothing I can do.

With that thought in mind, my eyes start welling up with fear, and I wish I were back at home with my family. This wasn’t supposed to happen, I do a lot of research on good, safe places to stay. I was sure this place got a high rating on the hostels website, but it clearly should be shut down. My mind is spinning with confusion, and I can’t take the stress much longer.

I then hear a knock on the door. Oh crap, they’re after me! They’re gonna put me in that coffin! I jump off the bed and try to squeeze my body under the bed frame. Maybe they won’t see me under here…be very, very quiet.

The person knocks again, and then slowly turns the doorknob. I can see their dirty, worn shoes come toward me, so I slide further under the bed frame to hide. The shoes walk to the other side of the bed, then a hand lifts up the comforter. When I see the person’s face, it’s clear it doesn’t belong to the scary man or the young man. It is a gentle, grandmotherly face smiling back at me.

“Are you ok, dear? Did the fellas scare you?” the woman said in a soft tone.

I try to speak, but the words won’t come out. My throat is dry from fear, and the rest of my body can’t move.

“Come out from under the bed, dear. It’s ok, I won’t hurt you. My name is Betty.” The woman re-assured me, and reaches her soft hand out to me.

I hesitate, but feel like I can trust her. I stretch out my arm and place my palm in hers. Instantly I feel safe again, even though my body is still shivering. With the woman’s help, I pull myself out from under the bed. When I am able to stand up I see her gentle face again, and she’s wearing a dress with small pink flowers on it. Her eyes sense my tired, stressed body, and she reaches out her arms to hug me. It feels so comforting that I almost start crying again.

“My poor dear, those fellas take things too far. Every year I tell them….”

“What do you mean, take things too far?” I asked forcefully, wanting desperately to know what was going on.

“My dear, what you see is not what you think.” She tried to re-assure me.

The reaction of my blank, confused face prompts her to ask, “Dear, do you know what day it is today?”

“What day it is? What do you mean?”

“Dear, today is October 31.” She said with a smile.

“So? October 31….” I then realized today is actually Halloween.

“The boys like to fix up the place like a haunted house every year, and Sam dresses up in old clothes.”

Is Sam the scary man? Is that who she is talking about?

“Sam is my husband, who checked you in today. I’m so sorry if he scared you today.”

“He sure did! He grabbed my arm when I was down by the washroom, and wouldn’t let me leave! Why would he do something like that for fun?

“Sam does get carried away with the costume, and I’ve tried talking to him about it many times. I’m so sorry, dear.”

“OK, so I assume the coffins being built in the backyard are for Halloween too?”

“Yes, they decorate them with skeletons from the costume shop in town.”

Suddenly it all starts to make sense, except for one thing.

“What were the men fighting about in the backyard?”

“Every year my son Peter tries to make things a little scarier around here for Halloween. This year he wanted to put real pythons into the coffins to scare people. But Sam wouldn’t let him do it, and Peter got upset at him.”

“What??? What kind of….”

“I know dear, they go too far. But now you know what’s going on, and there’s nothing to fear. Come down to the kitchen and I’ll fix you something to eat.”

She takes my hand and leads me down to the kitchen. Halloween decorations are hanging from the ceiling, and a large bowl of candy is sitting by the door. Feeling relieved, I sit down at the kitchen table while Betty pours some hot beef stew into a bowl. My stomach is growling with hunger, so I’m glad to finally be able to eat. With the first spoonful of stew I notice it has a different flavour. The beef has a chicken taste, and I don’t recognize the vegetables.

“What kind of meat is this? I’ve never tasted it before. And the vegetables are different too.” I asked inquisitively.

“Oh, it’s a recipe I’ve used for years. It’s a special kind of meat you can only get around this part of town. We grow the vegetables ourselves, and mix other goodies into it for a unique taste. Do you like it, dear?”

“Yes, it’s pretty good. Can you give me the recipe?”

“No dear, it’s a secret that we’ve kept for years. Finish up, you want to get every morsel eaten up.”

I am almost finished the stew when I start to get a sick feeling in my stomach. Something wasn’t right about this stew. I stopped eating and put my spoon down.

“What’s wrong dear?”

“Betty, what did you say this meat was again?”

“It’s special meat that you only get…”

“What KIND of meat?”

It’s at that moment I realize what I just ate. I storm out of the kitchen and run directly to the shed. I throw open the shed door and stand there in shock.

***

To this day I still feel the shock from that evening, and cannot eat anything related to beef stew. My friends think I made up the story, but they weren’t there that horrific night at the Darkwoods Hostel.

Welcome to Easy Air

“Could I have a look at the menu please?” asked the middle-aged British woman, barely looking at the flight attendant while sorting things in her purse.

“Certainly, the menu is in the flap in front of you…just right here” Bridget politely replied, indicating where the menu could be found.

Bridget’s pearly-white smile, naturally light blonde hair and slim build made her seem young and innocent, therefore the British woman naturally assumed she wasn’t too bright.

“Oh yes, of course. Just checking to see you’re doing your job!” the woman laughed with contempt. She then went back to fiddling with the papers in her purse, grumbling to herself.

After a brief pause, Bridget asked nervously, “Would you like to order anything?”

The woman suddenly realized she forgot to look at the menu, and quickly pulled out the menu card in front of her. After scanning it over, she said, “Let’s see…I don’t see anything here that I like. Do you have a low calorie menu? All these items are far too fattening for my diet.”

“I’m sorry, we only have what’s on this menu. Would you like to…”

“No, not interested! This airline clearly needs to re-consider its menu options. Perhaps you could pass that on to your supervisor” the woman said sternly, not bothering to look at Bridget.

Bridget was warned about these kinds of customers in her training, especially for the flights into Sydney. She appeared to brush off the comments, but deep down the resentment was building. She continued down the aisle and thought, do I really want to have a career as a Flight Attendant? She only got into this career because her friend was applying, who said that it would be a glamourous job. Now thinking back, Bridget questions whether her friend was even serious about being a Flight Attendant.

It’s almost 4:00pm, and the flight would be landing soon into Sydney airport. Bridget knew it was time to gather the garbage from all the refreshments passengers consumed during the trip. The head Flight Attendant gave her a nod to get the necessary supplies and start down the right aisle. Bridget couldn’t help thinking that this job was more like being a waitress and janitor in the sky. It certainly wasn’t what they promoted in the Easy Air classified ads and course manual.

Bridget started down the aisle, carrying a large garbage bag and politely asking passengers to deposit their cups, lunch trays, and other rubbish into the bag. Most passengers deposited their items with a smile, but there were a few who threw their cups and almost missed the bag. It seemed like they thought the garbage bag was a basketball hoop, and they were scoring the last point in the game.

She finally reached the end of the aisle, the bag almost bursting at the sides. Quickly depositing the garbage into the bin, it was now time to get ready for landing. The other Flight Attendants would be finished shortly, as they were on seatbelt duty. Only another 20 minutes and she could get ready to go home to her peaceful apartment. She buckled up her belt and watched the other Attendants do the same, all with such great ease and a smile. How can they do this job, day after day? Why do they enjoy being a Flight Attendant? She couldn’t figure it out, although her first day seemed overwhelming. Maybe it would get easier over time.

The plane landed smoothly and according to schedule. Shortly after, the passengers began to gather their belongings from the overhead compartments and trotted out like cattle. They left behind pillows and blankets laying across the seats, empty water bottles stuffed into seat flaps, and a few odd pieces of plastic tossed on the floor leftover from lunch. Bridget figured that cleanup would take at least an hour, given the mess these passengers made. But before she picked up the first piece of garbage, the Head Flight Attendant signaled the crew with a snap of his fingers. Everyone else seemed to know what this meant, and Bridget didn’t remember this procedure in the course manual.

In a blink the garbage was gone, supplies tucked away, and everyone’s outfits turned into party wear. Bridget wondered if she blacked out for a second and was dreaming this. She blinked a few more times, but the scenery still looked the same.

“What’s going on?” she asked Charlene, the Flight Attendant next to her.

“Didn’t you hear about this? After every flight the plane turns into a nightclub! Here, let me show you around!” Charlene shouted enthusiastically while taking Bridget by the arm.

The interior of the plane didn’t even look like a plane – the windows were neon lights, most of the seats were gone except for a few lounge chairs, the television monitors aired videos, and music was streaming from every part of the plane. Soon a disco light spiraled down from the ceiling and made the interior sparkle. The head Flight Attendant handed out drinks and appetizers for everyone, and even the pilots joined in the fun. Bridget couldn’t believe what was happening, but it sure was a great way to end the workday!

Just to be sure, Bridget asked Charlene, “Does this really happen after every flight?”

“Yeah baby! Sure makes the pain-in-the-butt passengers a lot easier to deal with, knowing there’s a party after!” Charlene shouted, while trying to get Bridget onto the dance floor.

Bridget couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She quickly shouted back, “Yeah, this is unbelievable! I think I like being a Flight Attendant now, yeah? Let’s dance!” 

Bridget started dancing with her arms up in the air, waving side to side. The other crew members were also keeping the beat while gyrating their hips in synchronized motion. It was at that moment Bridget knew she made the right career decision. If passengers only knew the real story about being a Flight Attendant. Welcome to Easy Air!

A Prisoner's Story

You’d think I’d get used to the smell in this place. But every time someone new gets put into the next cell, the smell changes. It’s the small things I notice now. Seven years in here has made me defensive of my own space, so I get angry when things change. I never used to be like this, especially in the beginning.

Like everyone else, I came to Alcatraz by boat across the San Francisco bay. The rain blocked my view of the island for most of the trip. It was cold and damp, and the guards were starin’ at us to make sure we wasn’t gonna start a riot, or try to escape from the shackles. Then suddenly a light shone right into my eyes, makin’ me squint for a few seconds. After it went away I noticed a big brick building, and knew we were gettin' close. Dread filled my whole body. I looked across to the other prisoners and you could tell they felt the same way.

It was hard to walk with the heavy chains round our ankles, but by the time we reached the guardhouse at the top of the hill we didn’t notice the bruises. The guards took us into the cellhouse and ordered us to take all our clothes off. Some of them tried to resist, but the guards didn’t take no for an answer. They searched every part of us to make sure we wasn’t hidin’ anything. After that they ordered us into the shower. The water was cold but the spray burned our skin. We were like cattle bein’ sprayed on the farm for fleas. Then they gave us new prison uniforms to wear, and we were all given a number. Because they reckoned me not too high risk, I was put into “B” block.

Once I was inside the cell, the guard slammed the door shut. Even though I did time at other jails, the sound of this door gave me the chills. I remember feelin’ cold at first, but after a while you get used to it. Some of the inmates do tricks to pass the time, but I spied on the guy across from me in the next block. After a while he got angry, but I’d just pretend to be keepin’ to myself the whole time. It’s funny, the guards never caught on to my spying, so they kept changin’ the prisoner in that cell. I’ve lost count how many prisoners have stayed in there. 

Our free time in the recreation yard is alright, and it’s nice to have the sun shinin’ in your eyes after being cooped up in your cell for hours. But you still gotta keep your eye out for trouble. Everyone knows whose tryin’ to plan an escape, and who wants to fight the system. But the rest of us just try to do our time until our day of freedom. 

After a year they gave me work to do in the shoe shop. I got pretty good at it, even with the other prisoners hidin’ my tools on purpose. After I while I got more and more angry, so one time I used my hammer to teach ‘em a lesson. The guard didn’t like me breakin’ all the bones in their hands, so they sent me to “D” block for a while so I’d learn my lesson. After time in that hellhole I swore I’d be on good behaviour so I wouldn’t have to go through that nightmare again. It makes you crazy in there, and you start wonderin’ if you’re even alive. 

The prisoner next door seems awfully quiet. He must be new, he’ll soon learn how things are in here. Time in Alcatraz hardens you, and they strip any ounce of pride left in ya. You can’t trust anyone in here. Not even the quiet ones, they’re the worst. 

Here comes the guard, it’s time for dinner now. The food is pretty good here, better than any other prison I’ve been at, and it’s gotten better over the years. That’s the one thing we look forward to is the food. 

Shit, I gotta hide those spoons under the mattress before they get here. Won’t be much longer… 

Late Night Shift

The last streetcar for the night was approaching me. I contemplated whether to get on and enjoy the comforts of a warm ride home, or to keep walking and capture the urban nightlife. The bright lights, damp sidewalks and drifting fog seem magical this time of night, so I passed on the streetcar and enjoyed the stroll home.

Partner in Crime

My eyelids felt like lead weights pushing down, while my mind was trying to resist the urge to sleep. I’ll wait a few more minutes…it can’t be much longer. The numbers on the clock were slowly losing shape, and everything was a blur. I just couldn’t resist any longer…aaaaahhhhh sleep…how I’ve missed you so….Slam! The car door shuts suddenly, and my partner in crime was screaming at me to step on the gas. I couldn’t seem to move my body fast enough - everything in my world was in slow motion. Wake up! Wake up! It was when the rearview mirror showed spinning red lights that my brain quickly switched to autopilot. My foot slammed on the gas pedal, and away we sped along the empty city streets, screaming at the top of our lungs.