The fall out of my wallet theft was a few dark weeks in this sunny country. After the initial shock of getting robbed in plain daylight, having the perpetrator in my grasp, then releasing her into the sea of degenerates from which she was spawned, I was of course a bit dejected. A wallet, in it's entirety, is a pretty crazy concept. We stroll through our day holding any number of rather important articles in a 2x2 square of leather neatly pocketed and organized, taking it out and replacing it hundreds of times a week. While snuggly living in our pants pocket, the life of a wallet is secure, comfortable and wholly expectant of what it's duties are. Hold my money, carry my cards, just be there for me, and you can live beside my ass for as long as your stitching holds out. When released from this agreement however, all hell breaks loose.
With the wallet gone, and swallowing my anger, I accepted the situation as a result of my own carelessness/others maliciousness. Done. You can imagine my surprise then, when I went to withdraw some pocket money to get me through the week while me new bank card was being sent, when $550 was missing from my account! What's this! A clerical error? Some sort of problem with decimal points you silly australian banks! No. Of course not.It goes like this. After the chick got away with the wallet, she called her homies, got a lift about 15 kms outside the city and and hit up an IGA, which is the ever prominent express grocery store out this way. Taking her time, she swiped my card for $20 in the pharmacy (for what I'm hoping was ointment for an incurable STD), then realizing that this particular stolen wallet was ripe for the picking bought herself two $200 gift cards, $50 of phone credit, and $50 worth of cigarettes. This really pissed me off, because at no point in Oz have had the financial standing to buy $50 worth of phone credit OR cigarettes.
Of course I didn't realize any of this while standing at the teller as she's telling me my account balance has been chopped in half in one fell swoop. The fraudulent purchase paperwork took about 45 minutes, and was capped with the cheerful smile of the bank lady telling me it can take 'up to six weeks' for a refund.
Never one to enjoy a dull day, my mexican amigo Edgar, Emily and myself drove down to the particular IGA to enquire over my lucrative spending habits. After a bit of receipt searching, marked by a wavy, girly J Purdy, they said 'Sorry Joshua, this was the one she used your card at'. Thank god Emily was there, because always the congenial Canadian, I said 'Thanks for your help, Eh!'. Her advice was a little more American 'don't take it lying down' oriented, so I politely asked them how a 5'3 black woman could spend $500 at some second rate grocery store in the ghetto, with a bank card that said Joshua D Purdy and a signature that was about as far away from mine as you could come.
'Sometimes Josh can be a girl's name'
Hmm. Thanks for your help, mate. I did get a phone number from the grocery store that was apparently used to purchase the phone credit, so after compiling receipts, bank statements, descriptions and a phone number I turn it all over to the police. When I call a week later I'm told;
'Ahhh, I can't find it in the computer, the officer you filed with is only part time, she'll be back in 2 weeks'
Hmmm. Thanks for your help mate.
After almost 3 weeks of listening to the banks 'musak' on the phone, I eventually got through to a nice chap who, with a click of a few keyboard taps, had the money back in my account. This was after I told the poor Indian girl that answered it would be a cold day in New Delhi before I hung up the phone and she got me somebody to sort this out, please.
I called the number attached to phone credit a few weeks ago. It belonged to girl called Rosalin who sounded uncannily similar to the woman who snagged my wallet, but who can tell with the australian accent? When I told her I knew she was the woman who stole my wallet, and the diligent Aussie police force was after her, she said 'I don't steal wallets mate! Awww fuck off!'
The feeling was mutual.
Chapter 37: The Birthday
I had a birthday this year! Surprised? Me too!
June 3 marked another 365 days of debauchery, moving aboot, treading/sinking in the career pool and hair growth! I swear to god I thought I was done sprouting chest hair, but at the rate it's going I could probably weave a throw rug that will cover a medium sized living area by 2017. Score!
The pre celebrations commenced at about 11pm June 2nd. As per usual the goon was flowing and the people were merry. Our Dutch roomates Roy & Isabelle showered me with gifts a plenty, including a dried kangaroo scrotum and the real-deal boomarang! Can it get better? We'll see. Champagne, cake and speeches quickly followed.
The day of birth opened better than any down and out backpackers, living in a dusty house with scarce commodities, could imagine. My wonderful little partner in crime girlfriend walked up to the IGA (not the same one I might add) and started my new birthday year off with avocado, chocolate chip pancakes and champagne. Now normally I'm not one for the bubbly before noon, but seeing as how we don't wake up until noon it was okay! After polishing off this delight, and garnering a few B-day high fives, the second part of Em's present found us at the 'Whisper Wine Bar'. For once we could dress and act a little classier than we are, and I don't want to say the clouds parted strictly for me, but I have a sneaking suspicion.
 |
| Not-Goon wine! Unbelievable. |
As the sun went down, so did various kinds of liquor. We're big fans of wine under 10$ so that was our opening bid, followed by rum & coke, shotgunned beers and god knows what else. All I can say with affirmation is that we were denied access to the hot-spot brewery for lack of passports or ID (see stolen wallet) as well as lack of discrepancy as we shot gunned beers in the parking lot. After this I left half of my clothing on the patio in the next bar, where some opportunistic Canadian girl donned it as her night-life gear, much to everyone's confusion.
 |
| The Shirt Stealing Culprit |
As my peers who read this, what's your thoughts on 24 years old? Certainly you're no spring chicken anymore, but have not brokered through the invisible barrier that is your late 20's. I greet this limbo age with open arms, welcoming the minute amounts of wisdom it brings, as well nodding appreciatively at fact that mid 20's somethings buy houses, climb the career ladder, get married, and have babies. Another year older, but another year full of joy, adventure and good people. You as well? This is good.
Chapter 19: Dumpster Diving
You really can't extrapolate the meaning of this chapter much I'm afraid. Part of my favorite past times in Australia was balking at the heinous prices of pretty basic commodities like bananas, meat and booze. Unfortunately there's not much I can do about a $50 two-four of beer, but surely I can cheap out on that annoying and pricey past time of eating? While in Melbourne I didn't too bad. Taking cues from the Balinese before I landed, I sustained myself on Raman noodles and basically anything that could be chewed on, packaged and chewed on again. This is fine, but of course you have to stem the flow of funds going into restaurant dinners, MacDonald's and late night snacks to really cut out this 'eating' bill.
Luckily, the solution was waiting for us one night while crab fishing in Fremantle. And before you guess, it was not living off crabs. Nick is one of the 20 somethings wanderlust dudes from Germany, another good soul crammed into our little abode down under (I'll introduce some interesting people in another chapter). As we finish off boiling the crabs, he slides open his van door, which he lives in of course, and has baskets full of carrots, pineapples, fruits, chips and steaks. Pretty basic grocery order for most people reading, but with banana's at $14.99 a kilo, we're wondering which lottery this guy has won?
As we sit, tearing crab meet and sipping beer as the cold harbor wind whips through the sail boats bow lines....okay it wasn't this intense, but still...he told of us of how he hasn't spent a dime on groceries in months. Every day, at different intervals, stores must throw away TONS of food either expired, expiring, or unsellable in some way. Dented can? Toss it. Best before yesterday? No way. No room for the new grapefruits? Chuck the old ones.
Trust me when I say, the idea was a bit far fetched, even for a guy who ate deep fried scorpions and snake heart. But after gazing upon the mounds of seemingly perfect produce and various snacks in Nick's van, I though I'd give it a try. No one will ever know anyway right? (This means you. Shhhh)Edgar and I go out, covered by the dark of night, skulking about in work boots and pants with flashlights in hand. We quietly approach the rear of the store and shut the lights off on the van. Breathe deeply. Collect our thoughts. Come to terms with who, or what, we've become. And go.
CHRISTMAS!!!!!! Whatever trepidations I had when we left the house quickly vanished as we filled 3 boxes full of frozen french fries, chickens, watermelon, apples, kangaroo steak, hungarian sausage and god knows what other junk I can't quite recall. Literal junk I mean. Of course this idea didn't quite grab a full foot hold for a week or two, until we tallied up that our dumpster dives had produced $1300 worth of grub.
Are we taking stuff of the garbage? Yes.
Is it weird? Very.
Will you die if you eat the food? Quite the opposite, not only will you survive, but THRIVE!!
It is now a pretty regular past time to go out on a little dumpster dive. Roy and I found 24 wrapped up pizzas the other day. That's a pizza for every hour of the day! I can't quite explain it, but the thrill of finding all this food, possibly getting yelled at, and then having a massive cook out, enriches my soul.The previously mentioned birthday also brought me a superb team T-Shirt via Miss Patty Duffey reading 'Dumpster Diving Fo' Life' with all my fellow troops listed on the back. I should feel ashamed for digging through bins, as well as implicating my accomplices, but we're just too busy making barbecue chicken and corn on the cob.
My new motto: You are what you eat, except if you eat dumpster food. Then you're just awesome!
my brain and fingers are sore. Thanks for reading!
