Unprotected Treks: The Politically Incorrect Blueprint for World Travel

By Bing Fraser

"I thought, maybe, this wasn't going to be great for my health. But what am I? A doctor?"

 

Sex, drugs, and unbridled stupidity? We've got it all, baby!

 

From negotiations with gun-wielding drug-dealers to near-death experiences throughout the Third World—jail, lost teeth, brain injuries, schizophrenia, robberies, booze, and more sex than one could deem necessary—these are the unfiltered, unbelievably true adventures of one lone idiot, as he travels the world by the very definition of the word "poorly."

 

Will there be nudity? You bet. Good decisions? Not one. Stories you wish you'd never heard? Oh, you better believe your sweet baby Jesus. All you need is to leave your conscience at the door and jump into the passenger seat. It's going to be a wild f**king ride. Who knows, you might even enjoy yourself along the way…

 

And that'll say more for you than it did for him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bing Fraser
• Release date: Jan 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9781393748045

Bing Fraser

My name is Bing Fraser, and I have a travelling problem. My 8 years of roaming the world have seen me arrested, held at gunpoint, lose my teeth, suffer a schizophrenic episode, crack my skull open (with the ensuing concussion lasting the better half of two years), get robbed more times than one could fathom, and greet death so many times, the Reaper is on my Christmas card list. Unprotected Treks is my first book; a compilation of humourous short stories compiled to teach people what NOT to do when travelling the world. When I'm not ruining my life overseas, you'll either catch me playing football, putting words on paper or keeping the bar company. If you will allow it, I’d love the chance to introduce a little bit of chaos into your life. Let’s have some fun!

Book preview

Contents

About the Author

Recurring Characters

Author’s Note

Foreword

I Love Travelling

Why do we do it?

My Favourite Robberies

A snapshot of times I’ve found myself on the wrong end of business negotiations.

Mardi Gras- Part One

How one man entered New Orleans with optimism in his pocket and left without a smile.

Mardi Gras- Part Two

Drug deals done poorly.

Schizophrenia

Smoking marijuana in doses fit to make Bob Marley comatose is only ever ending badly.

My First Rape

This is a difficult one to explain.

Jail

When the law doesn’t see the funny side of your life choices.

The Drowned, The Disabled, The Daring

A near-death experience and a run with a future Paralympian? Whaaaat?

A Birthday Disgrace

When you get robbed on your birthday, the only real option at your disposal is to hit them right back.

My Slip into Insanity

When you’re losing blood at a life-threatening rate, would it be too much to ask for a hospital?

Life in The Fast Lane

While elbow deep in the midst of a concussion, I didn’t need to visit Cancun.

Life in a Much Slower Lane

What are the consequences of mixing a three-day coke bender with a concussion? Usually death.

A Flustering Fap

Sometimes all you need after a near-death experience is a little alone time.

Comedy Night

Stand-up comedy has a bright future in Texas.

Shitgate

A harmless night of drunken activities ends in a very sticky situation for ol’ Bing.

The Perfect Week- Part One

One man’s ambitious quest for perfection.

Intermission- Sorority Date Party

A non-event for some loose ends.

The Perfect Week- Part Two

The nail-biting climax!

The Perfect Follow up

Does the perfect story exist?

Postface

Acknowledgements

About the Author

MY NAME IS BING FRASER, and I have a travelling problem. An addiction of sorts that has resulted in more damage than anyone should care to see in a lifetime. But as the saying goes: one man’s public calamity is another man’s... treasure?

... There’s a proverb in there somewhere.

I was lucky enough to grow up in Sydney, Australia, from where I set off travelling as a bright-eyed and extremely ignorant 18-year-old. It was all I ever wanted to do with my life; until I came to realise the illusion of the grass is far greater than the colour.

I have learned this the hard way, as my travels have seen me arrested, held at gunpoint, lose my teeth, suffer a schizophrenic episode, crack my skull open (with the ensuing concussion lasting the better half of two years), get robbed more times than one could fathom, and greet death so many times, the Reaper is on my Christmas card list.

How does one person’s luck allow these things to happen? Well, I like to see myself as a pursuer of all things fun, and sometimes there’s some collateral damage in such pursuits. And if nothing else, I hope this collateral damage can bring a little entertainment into your life.

The following book occurred over four separate trips:

-  A semester studying abroad in Mississippi, USA (2016).

-  Backpacking through Central America and Mexico (2017).

-  A campervan trip across the United States (2018).

-  Backpacking through Europe (2019).

With most books, I understand that there are specific rules of formatting that are implicitly agreed upon, held together by a consistent narrative. This results in a well-told story that offers the viewer an enriching reading experience.

Well, due to my ongoing problems with the bottle, I can promise neither of these things. There shall be no chronological order, no educational benefits, and the only semblance of an overarching story will be that of our collective hatred for the French.

But I do guarantee one thing: a journey of unbridled entertainment, as we go down a rabbit hole that should never have been explored in the first place. There will be drugs, there will be sex, and there won’t be a single good decision made. Just one man’s journey of self-destruction as he travels the world by the very definition of the word poorly.

All I ask in return is for you to leave your conscience at the door and jump into the passenger seat. It’s going to be a wild fucking ride. Who knows, you might even enjoy yourself along the way...

And that’ll say more for you than it did for me.        

Recurring Characters

DILLON—Tall, dark and the sharpest tack I know; I was lucky to have Dillon as my seeing-eye dog throughout Central America. From distributing pamphlets in Panama to dealing with my mental capitulation as we ventured North, he was there from beginning to end on our journey throughout Central America.

Pete—A fellow Aussie on exchange in America, Pete dragged me through the disaster that was my first few months in Mississippi. He lived in the same housing complex as me during my semester abroad and was always there for me—beer in hand—as America’s Deep South repeatedly violated me. 

Hank—I met Hank at the university bar in Australia and that’s where we remained for the next four years. He is one of the wittiest humans I know and is a constant reminder that I will have good company in hell. He was one of three people I had the pleasure of living with as we campervanned our way across the United States of America.

Nathan—Another participant in the depraved social experiment of four fully grown men living in a 3x3 cube together. Nathan is the kind of guy every Dad wishes their daughter to bring home: he’s funny, domesticated and could get along with the shit on your shoe. He could very well be the second coming of Jesus... if Jesus liked drugs.

Brett—Born three months apart and growing up on conjoining streets, Brett and I have been mates since before we could walk. When we were teenagers, we talked about embarking on a road trip across the States, and together we made this teenage dream a reality—then two weeks before we left, the clown decided to sabotage his trip and get a girlfriend. Idiot.

Ella—One of two Aussie girls I lived with in Mississippi. A gorgeous brunette and wickedly friendly, she was one of my best friends abroad, and my conscience throughout.

Bayley—If Ella was the angel on my shoulder, Bayley was the good-looking devil on the other. Mixed-race with a fiery wit, Bayley was an absolute gem, and the second Aussie I was lucky enough to be housed with abroad.

Tommy—Another Aussie, who was both captain and coach of the rugby team in Mississippi. Amiable and mild-mannered, Tommy was the balancing act my social life needed while I was studying in the South.

Bryan—Standing at 6"6’ of pure muscle and American conservatism, Bryan was the final piece of my social puzzle in Mississippi.

Marteen—A bald Argentinian of medium height, who was never found without his wide-brimmed sun hat; Marteen was a fellow worker in Bocas Del Toro, Panama, where we distributed pamphlets for a hostel.

KP—Mixed-race Englishman/Indian; I first met KP when he was an import for our local Aussie cricket team. He then accompanied me on a few journeys throughout Europe.

Author’s note

THE EVENTS THAT ARE retold in the following stories are all 100% true... except for the parts where I’m partaking in illegal activities. Those parts are obviously fabricated and never took place, Your Honour.

My last name has been changed out of respect for my family, and for no other reason. I am not hiding behind an alias, I have no regrets, and this has nothing to do with anonymity. If you have any quarrels with the words within, I’m not a hard man to track down.

The names of certain characters have also been altered as a courtesy to them and their careers. This courtesy extends to individual establishments. They don’t deserve to be associated with such tripe. 

Foreword

I DO NOT IN ANY WAY condone or endorse the contents of this book. — Bing’s brother.

I Love Travelling

MILOS, GREECE. JULY 2019

Choosing accommodation while travelling is a lot like picking a vehicle in Mario Kart. Unless you have the game’s cheat codes (Daddy’s money), you have to be willing to make a few concessions in your attempts to maximise performance. Except, instead of the metrics of ‘Acceleration,’ ‘Top Speed,’ ‘Weight,’ ‘Handling’ and ‘Traction,’ you have the hostel’s ‘Cost,’ ‘Location,’ ‘Accommodation Type,’ ‘Breakfast’ and ‘Atmosphere.’

Cost is where I usually go wrong. I’m a sucker for a cheap hostel, as the $2.50 saved opens up a world of potential at the bar. I remember one time when it was my turn to pick our accommodation in the South of Mexico, where I found a place for $5AUD! The only issue was it had a rating on HostelWorld of 4.1/10, which swayed Dillon away from allowing me to book it. I’m pretty sure you have to murder a few customers to get a rating that low. Dillon almost got raped in Panama, and we still gave the hostel a healthy rating of 6.5/10. Sure, the chef tried to violate him, but the ocean views were magnificent.

The Location of a hostel is critical. If you’re going to save $5 by staying somewhere between the sticks and the boondocks, then you’re going to lose that money on travel expenses anyway. I’m always under the impression that if it’s not convenient to get back to at 3:00 am after a bottle of vodka; then it’s not worth the price of admission. With that being said, drop me anywhere in the world at 3:00 am after a bottle of vodka, and I’ll be able to make it back to my hostel. Hell, I’ll even run.

Next, you have the Accommodation Type. Do you want to be crammed into a 14-bed dorm, splash the cash for a private room, or sell your self-respect and camp? A mixed-dorm is generally the way to go as they are cost-efficient, a good way to meet people, and are decent for travelling groups. But they do have their shortcomings, as they smell of feet, sound of foghorns, and are often occupied by French people.

Breakfast is key when it comes to choosing the right hostel. You must look not only into how good the breakfast is, but how late they serve it. It’s all well and good to be serving a continental breakfast with a blowjob as a side, but if I’m getting in at 6:00 am, I may not be up for your 8:00 am cut-off... unless you start serving breakfast at 6:00 am. Then, take my money, baby!

The Atmosphere of a hostel is where research is vital... I imagine. The utility of the common area could make or break your trip, given the necessity of finding a place where it’s easy to meet people. This is not to be confused with a bar. Bars in a hostel are terribly overrated as you have to buy their beer, which is far more expensive than drinking store-bought alcohol. Remember: when you’re on the road, anyone worth hanging out with doesn’t have money for full-priced beer.

Also, be careful with party hostels. Don’t get me wrong; if you find one with nothing but positive reviews, they can often be the best time you will have abroad. But any joe-blow establishment can call themselves a party hostel when they’re usually as much fun as chlamydia. They’re often full of try-hard workers, with a customer base predominantly made up of Australians. And we suck.

If you’re still undecided after weighing up all these options, you can look into the finer print, such as late check-out, quality of staff, or how hot the girls are on their website.

(The following events took place during my backpacking trip throughout Europe, as KP joined me for a two-week hop around the Greek Islands.)

After a healthy dose of solitary confinement, I was glad to be joined by KP for a romantic getaway through the Greek Islands. Five weeks of inebriated sightseeing through Europe had been fun, but I was looking forward to some consistent company as we ventured into one of Europe’s most diverse landscapes.

As KP was busy in the lead-up to the trip dealing with some trivial nonsense (meaningful employment), he entrusted me with sorting out our accommodation for the duration of our travels.

You’re in for a treat, KP!

Our first stop was Milos; a stop we had booked purely based on the account of a friend who claimed there was a boat trip around the island that was the best in Europe! Unfortunately, with our ferry delayed, we missed the boat trip and were now stranded on the Milos ferry dock without an itinerary.

Not the lingering type, KP and I pressed forward in the sweltering 30-degree-celsius heat until we came to a broken-down bus with our hostel’s name drawn down the side. I could only hope that our hostel was within walking distance because this thing wasn’t making it to the end of the road.

But as is so often the case, I was proved to be wrong once again, as the driver—clearly under strict orders to drive as far away from anything that might be deemed as civilisation—circled the bus to the remotest point of the island, stopping at the foot of our hostel. I’m not even sure we were still in Milos.

KP Where have you taken me, Bing?

Bing Paradise, baby!

KP was eyeing me off as we walked into what could politely be described as the single worst hostel ever built. Which accommodation type had I opted for? You better believe your juicy melon seeds it was camping!

We slumped our way into the place, handing our money and self-respect over at reception, before they gave us our mattresses—two rolled up pieces of asbestos-riddled foam, that couldn’t have passed as two-ply toilet paper.

I guess it can only get better from here.  

An angry-looking Greek man told us to pick up our slithers of foam, and to follow him, where he walked us to a congregation of broken, beaten-up tents, that looked to have been there since the hostel’s inception... back in 1923. He just pointed in their direction and walked off.

Bing Honey, we’re home!

KP (Stunned) Surely not. I get two weeks off a year, and you drag me here.

Bing Come on. It’s not that bad. You just need to change your definitions.

KP Not that bad!? I’m going to get syphilis sleeping in there.

Bing "Hey! ... We’re going to get syphilis sleeping in there."

Choosing one of the tents at random, we peeled back its door-flap to find your average, run-of-the-mill, broken-down tent with syphilis. It looked to be made of crêpe paper, was stationed on a body of rocks—which had me questioning the feasibility of our mattresses—and with the weather reaching apocalyptic levels, the tent conveniently doubled as a sauna.

What’s that? Was it located directly opposite the toilets? You better believe your rocky mountain oysters it was!

KP just shook his head as we wandered off to the shops, acquiring some beer, and four of the finest/cheapest/only bottles of wine Milos’s corner store had to offer. With the crippling thought of a night on the wines ahead, we slumped down a long, steep trail of bushland, until we found ourselves at the beach.

We drank our beer and watched the sunset descend over the mountains, where KP took some August centrefold shots of me in the water. I rolled around in the ocean for a while—just looking all steamy, and powerful, and super saucy—as two blonde girls watched us from the shore, filming our shoot.

Does this look like a free show, ladies?

Drying ourselves off, I thought I best pull them up on their indiscretions on the way back to the hostel.

Bing I’ll let this one slide, but next time you’ll be getting a bill in the mail.

Girl 1 Thank God! We thought you were serious with those photos!

Oh no. Did I hear what I think I just heard? Was that... a South African accent?!

A wave of fear rippled through my body as KP stood next to me. I was scared that they may mistake KP’s mixed English/Indian heritage with that of a black man.

Bing Well I’m Bing, and this is KP. He’s English.

KP Oi oi.

Pearl I’m Pearl, and this is Mel.

Bing You coming up for a drink?

Pearl We’ve got nothing better to do! I guess we will see you up there!

I walked away—my heart racing—just hoping KP was alright.

Bing Are you okay, mate?!

KP Yeah, why?

Bing Thank God. That was scary, ay? You could see the hatred in their eyes.

KP What?

Bing I don’t care how hot they are or how much they want my seed—I will not let them take advantage of you, just because they’re South African.

KP I’m so confused.

Bing You know that I don’t care that you’re black, right?

KP Fuck off, mate, he laughed. I was wondering why you said I was English.

We made our way back to the hostel, polished off some grub, then found the South Africans sitting in the common area, overlooking the beach.

Bing Friends and family, you don’t mind if we join you?

Pearl Not at all!

Bing I’ll only sit down if KP is allowed to join us, though.

Pearl What? Of course he can!

Bing That’s good. KP, take a seat.

KP Shut up, dickhead.

We went through the pleasantries before sharing tales of our homeland. We spoke about life in England, life in Australia, and life in South Africa: the beaches, the animals, the apartheid. It sounded like a fascinating country.

KP You don’t mind if I ask you a question, do you Pearl? And I want you to be honest.

Pearl I guess...

KP Is this the first time you’ve let a person of colour sit at the same table as you?

Pearl Excuse me?

Bing "It isn’t your fault, Pearl—that feeling of animosity towards KP. You didn’t choose to be born South African, and white, and South African."

Mel Yeah, Pearl! Leave KP alone!

Bing If it makes you feel better, Pearl, I feel animosity towards KP too. Mine’s just based on his character, though. Not his skin colour.

Pearl I hate you all.

The conversation went on in this vein, as we polished off glass after glass of red wine—I despise wine. It reminds me of the French. Nobody needs to be reminded of the French when they’re trying to have a good time.

One bottle of wine disappeared into a second, before the third bottle found itself on top of a fourth? I guess what I’m trying to say is, I was wankered. After never properly acquainting myself with red wine, it seems I had underestimated her power. But if I was pissed, that must mean KP... well, between his work schedule and cricket contract, he’s only allowed to squeeze in one beer a year.

Mel Does anybody want to go skinny dipping?

Bing I love you.

KP FUCK YEAH!!!

We were on our way down to the beach with two gorgeous South African girls who had just proposed a lot of nudity! Some would call this the perfect scenario. But as with all good things in my life, something or someone had to come along and ruin it. As is so often the case, the something on this night was the consumption of alcohol. With the girls having just finished their first glass of wine, KP and I emerged from the table leaving four bottles in our wake.

Regardless, we all began the trek down the long trail to the beach, where KP—holding the only torch among us—began leaping ahead, leaving the three of us to navigate the path in the pitch-black of the night. I was beginning to think that he might be slightly intoxicated. But I couldn’t be sure. I was too drunk to make that kind of assessment.

Bing KP, get back here! We need the light!

KP WOOOOOOOOO!!

He was away! There wasn’t any stopping the man! Especially with sentences and such—I was beyond formulating them.

By the time we reached the beach, the girls had complained no less than 74 times about how sore their feet were from playing football with the rocks on the trail. But my intoxicated brain passed these pressing concerns off to the pile of no concern, as I remained hopeful about the night’s company. Unfortunately, after taking a seat down on the sandy beach, even my optimistic, drowned head was able to decipher that this story wasn’t going to have a happy ending.

KP I’m going skinny dipping! Are you guys...

Pearl No, she blurted out before KP could even finish his sentence.

Mel Well, if she’s not, then I’m not.

Bing Well, if Mel’s not, then I am! Let’s party, KP!

I stripped off and followed the naked KP into the water. It was the first time in my life that I had ever gone skinny dipping with just a guy. I know we’re in the age of open-mindedness and all, but I’m not going to lie to you... I’m not a fan. The only time you should feel the sensation of your own shrivelled, inverted penis, is with the payoff of seeing some boobies. Seeing your best mate’s cock just doesn’t provide you with the same satisfaction.

Still, this sight would prove to be the most satisfying part of the night.

So, how did our first night in Greece end up? Back in our tents, all alone? You better believe your

Reviews for Unprotected Treks

[Hakim Kharbouch · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Amazing read ! a rollercoaster of emotions, this books has made me want to travel south America,
Thanks for the inspiration