Backpacking and Inflatable Unicorns: A comical misadventure into the interior of a third midlife crisis

By Bruce Anderson

Once described as ‘a Rottweiler trapped in a Chihuahua’s body’, a very short Bruce Anderson embarks on his third middle-life crisis.
“The first two weren’t good enough, so I decided to have a third one.” – Bruce Anderson
Bruce hates winter and is consequently somewhere in the Pacific, hopping aimlessly from island to island in search of tranquillity, beer and, more than anything else, romance. Can anyone combine the three? Strap in for some comic madness and thought-provoking reading as Bruce embarks on a quest to find a girlfriend who never complains.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Apr 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781528987578

Bruce Anderson

Bruce Anderson is a former everything, from Shakespearean actor and VIP chairman to avid traveller and explorer on a low budget. He lives in New Zealand, but preferably not during winter.

Book preview

Samoa?

About the Author

Bruce Anderson is a former everything, from Shakespearean actor and VIP chairman to avid traveller and explorer on a low budget. He lives in New Zealand, but preferably not during winter.

Copyright Information ©

Bruce Anderson (2021)

Cover page and illustrations © Marcus Goldson 2020 Copyright on all illustrations are reserved by Marcus Goldson and may not be reproduced without the artist’s prior written consent.

The right of Bruce Anderson to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528987561 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528987578 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2021)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

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Foreword

When I was six years old, my parents emigrated from England to Australia. I felt it necessary to tag along. I arrived, the Son of a Ten-Pound-Pom, high up in the Blue Mountains of New South Wales, in a place called Katoomba. It was cold up there, but beautiful. My father was studying to be a Minister at the Illawarra Bible College. My mother was a nurse. We lived at the college in Katoomba and it was there that I first got up on stage.

My formative years were spent down under, before an unexpected return to England led me to the Royal Central School of Speech and Drama, and then inadvertently into the safe hands of the English Shakespeare Company. After a tour of four African countries, performing Macbeth, more doors opened and opportunities followed, that took me from London to Tokyo, from Budapest to Wellington, from Berlin to Nuku’alofa.

In need of clarifying exactly what I may or may not have achieved whilst travelling, I have often narrated the numerous, and sometimes, absurd and farcical situations that I have encountered. Many a stranger, a friend or a concerned relative has uttered the phrase Oh dear! during my recollections.

There are times when we all do stupid things. Why do we behave differently when abroad or indulge in a propensity that is so carefree and only later do we give our actions sufficient thought to see them for what they really are? And what is that exactly? Well it’s a form of risk taking and perhaps for me, it has also been a path to seeking the absurd in a world that can be hideously predictable and often boring. In hindsight, I wish I’d spent a little more time considering the consequences of, for example, paddling down the Zambezi River in a leaking kayak, fearlessly stepping out onto a sand bank and then coming within a metre of a crocodile. As I said, there are times when we all do stupid things. I’m just surprised I have never been given an award!

For the record, I have only been detained by the police once, and that was for ordering a midnight pizza in Budapest. But that’s another story.

Prologue

Freetown, Sierra Leone, West Africa

As I approached, both soldiers saluted me. I thought this was a little odd, but returned the gesture with a long arm up and a short hand down. We shook hands. My guide looked extremely nervous. It had taken Joe, as he called himself, all night to pluck up enough courage to approach the SSD – The Special Service Division. He informed me that they were not the type of people you can or want to meet in Sierra Leone.

‘They will beat us up,’ he had assured me several times.

Bollocks, I thought and after few cans of lager, I dug at Joe once more and told him that if he didn’t stroll over with me to talk to these guys with the red berets, then I would just have to go it alone.

‘Stay here,’ he said. ‘I will go talk to them first and see if it is OK and then you can come over,’ he instructed cautiously. I waited 30 seconds and then strolled across the road. Even though it was late at night, it was still hot and humid, and only the moon, which hid behind a slowly drifting cloud, lit the streets. It didn’t feel like a capital city. It was so small, dry, dusty and dark. There were no flashing neon lights or taxi stands. It was quiet. This was a city sitting calmly between military coups.

Joe looked worried and uncomfortable. He was clearly out of his comfort zone and a tad edgy. I was awash with Dutch courage, a happy Larry full of youthful bravado that was bulletproof.

I wanted to start with ‘Aw di bodi?’ which is the Krio greeting meaning: How are you? Or if taken literally, it translates word for word into How is your body? However, on this occasion, and having only been in the country for two days, I shied away from the informal and tried to look and sound sensible.

After a polite exchange of pleasantries, I started asking the two soldiers questions about their training. It was all going pretty well. They informed me that they did most of their training in the northern part of the country. The conversation, in broken English, was flowing with ease and the so-called Presidential Guard seemed happy to chat. Perhaps they were bored and a little curious.

‘Is that an AK-47?’ I asked, pointing to my left.

‘Yes,’ replied the Private who was eyeing up my British high-leg army boots which I had decorated with rainbow-coloured shoelaces in a sorry attempt to redesign them with an anti-camouflage motif.

‘Can I have a look?’ I heard myself say without much thought for the consequences.

Without any apparent hesitation, he lifted the strap over his head and past me his gun. This wouldn’t happen in London, I thought.

‘Where is it made?’ I continued as I pulled back the cocking handle and peered into the chamber.

‘It was made in Czechoslovakia,’ he said in a heavy accent. Then he asked, ‘Do you want to sell your boots?’ which I thought was pretty funny because the multi-coloured laces made them look a tad camp. His Colour Sergeant would have had a few things to say! I quickly explained that I would need them, which he readily accepted with a nod of disappointment.

Looking more closely at the AK-47, I was surprised that he had handed me a weapon with a magazine loaded in it and even more surprised that the AK was already cocked. A round lay in the chamber. I let the cocking handle gently slide back and then handed the gun back to the Private.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘What kind of weapon do you carry,’ I asked the Corporal.

‘This is also a Kalashnikov,’ he replied.

‘May I take a look?’

He hesitated, looked at me for a second or two, gazed at my flamboyant bootlaces and perhaps, sensing my earlier surprise, he wisely removed the magazine and put it into his webbing. The Kalashnikov, the Corporal informed me about, was made in China. It felt lighter and as I peered into the chamber, I realised that it too had been cocked and was ready to use.

Whilst I had been focused on the weapons and gauging how far to push my luck with the two apparently elite gun slinging, SSD soldiers, I had not noticed that a small crowd had started to gather behind me.

In 1992, not many tourists walked into the town at night. I had been forced to escape from the hotel through a small hole in the tennis court fence, having previously been stopped the night before by security as I had casually strolled down the main driveway, oblivious to all dangers. Guests simply were not allowed out of the hotel at night, unless, they were in a vehicle and I was told point blank by a rather stoned and gargantuan security guard that going into town was not safe. But being young and extremely stupid and in need of excitement, I’d gone anyway with Joe, who was the hotel tennis coach, pimp and local drug dealer. He had spotted my break out via the tennis court and told me not to go into town. I’d convinced him to join me.

That evening, Joe had watched me eat everything available on the market. I knew I would regret it in the morning. I can still see his face, full of genuine concern as he uttered the words, ‘You don’t want to eat that!’

To this day, I still don’t know what I ate that night. He tried to explain the various animal parts and ingredients to me, but there were times when he just stared at me in disgust. At one point, he looked positively mortified by my inquisitive persistence and endless hunger. I may well have eaten garlic-marinated pig’s testicles, garnished with sugar glazed, goat’s eyeballs. My theory was that any single midnight market snack could kill me, so why not just attempt to eat everything. I’d survived post beer kebabs in Birmingham, so figured the risks were on par. Throughout the evening, I had just continuously pointed at each strange foreign delicacy and forked out a hundred Leonies per plate load. It was an experience I needed to have and one that would probably provoke a loss of weight that I could ill-afford.

Youthful madness and misadventure had driven the night haphazardly in every direction, constantly reminding me that I had actually made it to Sierra Leone. I was in Africa for the first time and it was exhilarating. For several months, I had carried doubts about my ability to get there and be a part of the theatre company. Within a week of arriving in Africa, the English Shakespeare Company had decided to pay me and I was no longer just on secondment from drama school. I was working, professionally and playing the Gentle Woman! But that’s another story.

As I stood holding the loaded Kalashnikov, I suddenly noticed the faces. In the faint light, a hundred people had silently gathered to see the short, white dude with funny laces, holding a loaded SSD gun in his hands. I turned, my feet twisting in the dry dirt, swinging the gun to my left and there watched as a hundred panic-stricken innocent Leoneans drove for cover, hit the floor flat to the ground and then slowly and somewhat cautiously got back to their feet. The reaction resembled a wave at Wembley Stadium as bodies went up and down. Had they thought I was actually going to shoot them?

Clearly not impressed with this blatantly stupid public relations manoeuvre, the Corporal motioned that he would like his gun back and I was only too happy to oblige, having just scared the shit out of a hundred people who had been quietly going about their business.

Joe and I recognised that perhaps it was time to retreat. We quickly saluted the soldiers and it was only then that I started to think about what had just happened and realised the extent to which my audacity bordered on stupidity. With that in mind and as we walked away, we started to get the giggles. I quizzed Joe.

‘Why did they salute me?’ I asked.

‘Before you come over, I tell them that you are British Navy Officer, here to instruct the navy!’

‘But Sierra Leone doesn’t have a navy?’ I pointed out.

‘Yes, it is true, but they are stupid and do not know this!’

Later and back at the hotel, Phil who was travelling with our theatre group, gave me a right royal rollicking and told me that I was lucky to have not been shot! I gathered that I needed to learn a few lessons about travelling. I decided that on all future occasions, I would refrain from going out with tennis coaching pimps who could, but didn’t supply me with drugs or young ladies, and never again would I insist on conducting midnight weapons inspections in foreign countries, unless I had completed all the necessary paperwork required, submitted it all in triplicate to the correct authority and had all three rubber stamps pressed firmly in the appropriate places. I’d do things by the book and make sure I had permission to act stupidly whilst travelling. This would definitely make future travelling a lot safer, particularly if I ever went to sensible countries like Switzerland.

Chapter One

Travelling Alone – New Caledonia

There are 196 countries. I’ve been fortunate enough to visit 45, that is, if I’m permitted to count Scotland as a separate entity to England and take one or two calculation liberties involving the Welsh. That leaves 151, which I won’t reach because I’m not keen on North Korean food.

On arriving at the airport in New Caledonia, I was surprised to be asked if I have ever had a Yellow Fever inoculation. That’s not very standard on immigration forms. I almost lied, but then the OCD kicked in and I ticked Yes.

Way back in 1992, whilst preparing to depart for Sierra Leone with the English Shakespeare Company, our group was collectively told that we would be getting jabbed by a London-based doctor, with a shot of Yellow Fever. This was an absolute necessity for our destination, but not something I’d willingly recommend, as it has remained to date, my least favourite inoculation. I can, however, highly recommend performing Shakespeare in Africa. This had been my first proper job after leaving drama school, and the start of my quest to visit unusual places that had the potential to land me in strife. We performed Macbeth in Sierra Leone, Ghana, Malawi and Namibia and to this day, few adventures that I have had, have come close to that incredible and at times absurd experience.

Whilst I stood expectantly by the luggage carousel at Noumea Airport, I wondered what would happen to all those immigration forms. There must be trillions of them somewhere. I hoped that somehow, they all got recycled. Perhaps someone at Department of Unnecessary Paper Production (DUPP) would scan them. I pictured that person sitting in front of a large machine, mindlessly feeding in form after form. Much to my relief, my backpack appeared on the conveyor belt and I was able to move towards the light outside that beckoned me from the florescent lit, tile-shining, trolley squeaking, announcement plagued, sterile interior of the airport. I hate airports, but I guess you gathered that!

Approaching the French immigration detective, I was convinced that my honesty would provoke an internal cavity search or disappointedly so just further mundane medical questions about an injection I’d had twenty-five years ago, but alas it was midday and lethargy led to a simple "Merci" as I handed in my pre-scanned declaration.

Excellent, I thought, I’m in and exempt from further scrutiny. And then,

‘What happened to your form?’

At least I think that’s what she asked in French. Had I paid more attention to French lessons at school, I would have told her the truth and confessed that I had accidentally dropped it in the urinal, but there were signs everywhere saying something to the effect of Don’t mess with Immigration Officers even if they do ask you to undress.

‘It got wet,’ I spouted.

‘OK.’

My slightly damp immigration form fell into a fistful of other DUPP forms destined for the Paris Investigative Secret Service (PiSS). My little acronym caused me such rapture and amusement that I felt a skip in my step as I picked up my bag and lunged towards the unknown. It’s always good to pass a urine test.

I headed out into brilliant sunshine and took the long bus ride into Noumea.

At the hotel, my room looked superb, luxurious even. I knew I wasn’t really backpacking. The bathroom gleamed brightly. The television almost functioned. I pottered back to reception, battling any conceivable hope of being understood in French. How do you say, My television has frozen, and would it make any sense? I’m not French. I look French, apparently, so they say! I think it’s my height or lack of it. I certainly don’t sound French. My French language skills amount to:

‘Bonjour, bonsoir and au revoir.’

’Comme ci comme ca’ meaning I’m not sure if I need the toilet yet?

And, ’La bouillotte’, meaning hot water bottle and feminine in form, which is reassuring, as I imagine a masculine hot water bottle to be hard and phallic in shape and potentially troubling in bed.

It’s 27o C and I’m in New Caledonia on the main island of Grande Terre, escaping the New Zealand Winter and an unpaid bar tab. The island is approximately 2000 kilometres from Australia and a French Territory. In 1774, Captain James Cook dropped in and gave the place its current name. By 1853, the French had turned it into a penal colony and, subsequently, must have been pretty pleased with