I squint upwards at the peeling white paint and cobwebs. Is this really the place? Instead of suburban Melbourne I find myself whisked away to the set of Fight Club. Tyler Durden should stroll out any moment now with a carefree belch amidst sounds of breaking glass. Number 12. This really is it.
A few days previously I had chanced upon an online ad for what seemed to be backpacker heaven; a 12-person international shared house half an hour outside of Melbourne central. Close to the beach, complete with pool and party room. Sign me up.
I had just arrived in Australia; a few things were on my mind. First of all, like on most of my travels, I had come alone. Despite this penchant for solo travel I am so far towards extroversion that more than a day without company turns me kooky. I guess you could say I’m highly dependent upon others. I desperately wanted some new friends to plug the void that had been created when I left my best friends at home, and a family atmosphere to fall back upon in the tough times. I also wanted to save money. Melbourne is not a cheap city, most flat shares and hostels in the area work out at $200+ per week. The house in question advertised a paltry $140 per week.
It is for these reasons alone, and a history of general impulsiveness, that I find myself at the present moment. And this is where the story begins, an experience communal living down under.
I should begin with a quick portrait of the owners of the house, so that you are prepared to accept that this is no normal living situation. You didn’t presume after all that 12 backpackers could conjure up such a large house in a city this expensive? There is clearly a more stable element behind the operation.
This happens to be two gentlemen named Twang and Phil. Phil retired from I.T a few years ago and is the house owner.
Rewind sixth months. Post-retirement solitude and boredom urges Phil to explore. Normally a man of order and habit, Phil feels an unexplained compulsion and applies to join a tour of the outback. Several days later he finds himself on a two-month trip in a crammed, stuffy jeep (which happens to be our house car)
The organiser of this trip is a fellow named Twang.
Twang used to run youth hostels; his most recent “The Rock” in Melbourne. Twang looks and behaves like the lovechild of Jack Sparrow and Crocodile Dundee. With The Rock closing shortly before Twang departed on his yearly outback tour and Phil having a huge empty house in Melbourne backpacker central, the stars seemed to align. Two months presented just enough time to wear Phil down. They were to embark upon a bizarre living experiment.
We are back to the present. The two unlikely suspects are joined by 12 internationals of varying ages at any given time, with usually a few friends along as baggage. They pass their days steadily drinking in the sun as rejuvenated party animals. I’m happy for them, they definitely do it very well. They break the mould of social conditioning and live a life many are forced to give up in adulthood. While doing so they maintain a strict and thorough set of house traditions, the only constancy at play here. There is one particular house rule concerning nicknames, currently including
Silly Max
Cloggy
Nick
Beardy
Beef
Flaps
Crabby
Moisty
Nappy
Spastic
Terrorist
Barney
I never said the atmosphere was politically correct. The sensitive do not belong here.
Political incorrectness is sprawled over every available fridge surface. I guess the way you avoid causing offence in a house of numerous nationalities and backgrounds is to abandon cultural sensitivity completely. At least then it’s not personal, right? I actually feel like it does a lot to diminish the passive aggression of shared houses. But I’ve never been easily offended.
The living arrangement is rough. But, if like me, you have spent any more than a month skipping between the grimiest, loudest youth hostels you can find, you’ll be just fine. I sleep in a room with two others, conjoined to a room of two more, and an adjacent “private” room. Realistically, in the case of the private room you should picture Harry Potter’s cupboard bedroom, except not as cosy. To claim the private room one must sacrifice sunlight for an improved nights sleep. The other room does not privilege a door, but I still call it a room. There is a dividing wall-like surface. I have no idea who broke the door.
In our room, I constitute the filling of a very international sandwich, Japan to the left of me, Ireland to the right. Ireland is a snorer and Japan is a very light sleeper, I am the only barrier between open war. Nappy represents Germany in his “cupboard”, and we have yet more representatives from England and Ireland in the conjoining room, sweating it out every morning as the rising sun bears down through their window. England is currently upset at Ireland for snuggling with a girl in England’s bed.
It’s summer right now, so socialising happens in the garden. Most nights we form a constellation of personalities around the campfire in order to share stories and drink cheap wine. This constitutes an important ritual in our community, as hilarious backstories and more subtle mannerisms become known, leading to slanderous tales and new nicknames. Occasionally a crazy party will form. The most recent party saw 35 guests, and the men and women of the house swapping clothes. I’m not sure who invited the police but they showed up fashionably late. This would be all well and good in the privacy of our own backyard, if the neighbours didn’t have such an eagle-eyed view of events. The neighbours do not make contact; we remain a strange and culturally distant tribe separate from the wider world. They must think we are barbaric, uncultured, insane.
These parties tend to attract a few friends, and the house receives no small amount of abuse before a morning cleaning ritual restores normality.
Every few weeks we take the house jeep and embark upon a road trip. Previous destinations have included camping along the gold coast, and a nearby lake. Away from the lights of the city, the sky is incredibly clear.
Twang’s family own a cabin in Gibbsland, set upon the edge of a beautiful lake. The wildlife is incredible, and we woke up to feed the birds each morning. Staying there truly is an amazing and alien experience for a European – I don’t dare think how much the property would cost in England. There isn’t much to do, but the road trip is truly scenic, and we leave feeling tranquil. The juxtaposition between idyllic lake and busy heat of Melbourne summaries the variety of Australia.
Communal living encases you in a bubble. Your life within the house exists almost as a separate culture to what is happening outside. And for those of us, such as myself, that have jobs – the outside world looms large. You find yourself flitting between the two, never sure which should gain precedence. Sometimes normality wins out, sometimes anarchy. An internal dialogue develops between the sensible you who wears black shoes to work, and the you that just wants to be silly. Working life can separate you a little bit from the social goings on in the house – I work an evening bar job and often find myself desperately trying to get a Friday or Saturday off in order to not miss out.
Despite this, communal living does not demand you work a lot. Life in the house is cheap as a box of goon[1]. Your incredible and vibrant social life is free.
It seems at some point society filed socialising away as an expensive and esoteric commodity, something that is elusive rather than free and easy. Living here has made me realise something – free is just how socialising should be. Spending hours around a campfire sharing stories and not worrying about the time you just spent is how true friends are made. I never thought I could learn so much about a person again without stalking their facebook. Your time is not too valuable to do what humans do best. To sit around, and talk. I find myself struggling not to look down upon the grim-faced and dour Melbourne professionals that compare new watches over $20 cocktails.
Maybe when everything is cushy and under one roof, you miss some chances to really experience Australia, to truly “grow”. For now, I am growing with my communal family, I can feel a new level of happiness that I haven’t explored before. I’m not living in the real world, but neither are they. And that’s just fine for us.
[1] (slang term for dirt cheap Australian wine at $2 a litre. Has been described as “woman-repellent sleep juice”)
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