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The locker business--having determined that my locker wasn't going to open, I tried a new approach: I cancelled my locker and then rented a new locker, in the hope that this would reset the system. So I did just that, but only realized that I could just as easily have a new locker assigned to me other than the one that I had previously had... but luck was on my side in this crooked late nite business and I received the same locker I had started with. Unfortunately, the bastard still wouldn't open.
So I called the help line; local calls in australia are 40c each, if one doesn't have the right change, the machine just gobbles up your one dollar or two dollar coins and then keeps the difference. The phone operator at the locker company headquarters started off my telling me, automatically, that the reason the locker wasn't opening was entirely my fault. 'You didn't push your bags deep enough into the locker and they are pushing out against the locker door, causing enough friction to keep the bolt from withdrawing from the slot.'
'Look,' I said, 'I read the bloody instructions when I filled the locker and was specifically careful not to contravene the ONLY instruction you guys had about sticking your gear in a storage locker. Your locker ain't working and my bus arrives in 15 minutes.' Buses in Australia don't wait for latecomers: a five minute delay spread over a 1200km journey adds up quickly.
'What can you do to help me?' The situation improved dramatically when I learned that this guy was situated somewhere in Victoria, one state over, and wouldn't be able to get a repairman out to the bus depot until the next day.
So he trouble shot with me--first he dissarmed the locker security system via the internet. He then instructed me to pry off the little red button on my locker door and, once the locker had been unlocked via the touch screen, reach into the quarter sized hole and manually pull the bolt along. As instructed I did so--with increasing frustrati on from repeated failure. The telephone was situated on the opposite side of the bus depot and I would walk from one side to the other, fuming, and chat with the dude from Victoria.
The bus arrived and the driver even came over to help me out with flashlight and bigger tools than my swiss knife.
Alas, things fell apart when we managed to trip the alarm system (despite our man in Victoria's assurances that we wouldn't be able to) and shut down the entire bank of lockers for good.
By now it was time for the bus to go... it was cold out and I was poorly dressed for a night out in the cold. The bus driver let me onto to the bus and let me sleep for the 3 1/2 hour loop that he travels to the main highway... I spent most the trip chatting with the bus driver about the merits of working seven days a week (none) and how driving around Australia&nbs p;must be cool. Sleepy headed, I returned to the Exmouth bus depot near four in the morning after a 400km junket. Disconsolate and weary, I slouched to a bench and tried to meditate on warm things, like breakfast, and the clothes inside the damn locker.
As I stared bleakly into the darkness, another traveller appeared from the other side of the depot. 'Any place to stay around here, mate?'
Well, yes and no--you could get a room at one of the backpackers, caravan parks, or hotels across the street, but they'd charge you a one day fee for three hours value. The alternative is to sit out and wait until a new day has begun and then get a room without doubling the cost.
The fellow agreed with me and then looked a bit lost for words. 'It's pretty windy out,' he said. Yes, it was, especially if you were on the windward side of the depot, like he was. Come to my side, I said, it's less windy here. 'Yeah!' he said, and dragged all his gear over to my side.
I hung out with West Taylor, carpentry apprentice, and learned a bit about Margaret River and surfing while he smoke cigarettes and asked me about home.
Eventually, things grew too grim for West and he unrolled his swag between the otherwise useless locker banks and curled up for the rest of the night.
Tired and hungry, I notic ed that the nearest gas station had opened its doors for business, so I walked over and bought some peanuts and a chocolate bar. 'High energy food,' observed the cashier, obviously noting my well-rested features.
So the sun rose and a new day began, birds chirping and the whatnot. The bus depot is also the visitor's center where all bus tickets are issued. When they opened I entered and told them my sordid little tale. I was compassionate because I thought that I was innocent of blame: after all, they were the ones who had originally suggested that I store my gear in these conveniently situated lockers. As things turn out, any missed bus is usually not refunded--a missed bus is a missed bus, even if the traveller is utterly innocent of any wrong.
At this point, I pointed out that irrespective of policy, I wanted a new ticket at no extra cost and all my gear out of that locker, as soon as possible. A manager had to be called in for reinforcement, but my ticket was soon re-issued free of cost. The locker, however, still wouldn't open. 'Bugger that--give me a call when it is, ok?'
West had earlier crossed the street with his gear and rented out a room at the caravan park--so I trudged across the street and knocked on his door. The kid--18 years old--had rented the most expensive room in the place and was proceeding to go on a bender for the rest of the weekend. We spent the day drinking beer on the veranda with his new neighbours, a sheep shearer and his ranch hand sister who were on leave from the station for a week. At one 1pm, my gear was thankfully released: the manager explained, somewhat apologetically, that they had unlocked the locker only unplugging and replugging the power cord into the power point (the outlet). Goddamn, I thought, and thanked the man.
My bus wasn't leaving until 1215am that night/morning, so I spent the rest of the afternoon drinking beer, then rum, with West and his neighbours. I made some sort of chow mein with peas and carrots, beans, and tuna, spilling a whole of oil in the process. West went out for the night but I stayed behind, packing up and taking a nap. At 1130pm I woke up and got ready to cross the street--but these two norwegian girls prevented me from crossing. They explained to me that they had locked themselves out of their room just down the veranda (true, since we had spoken to them earlier that day) and they needed somewhere to sleep. Graciously, I let them into West's room and figured that at the very least, West wouldn't be too upset to find two Norwegian backpackers sleeping in his bed, whenever he got home.
Relieved of my duties, I crossed the street, caught my bus and slept.
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