Fleeing the Hostel Funk

The finest hostel we inhabited on our journey through New Zealand was called “Mountain Jade Backpackers” in Hokitika, New Zealand. What impressed us upon first arriving—and gave us a sense that proved true through our three-day stay there—was the smell of the place. It smelled clean. At midday it smelled as if someone had been cleaning; not that “hospital smell,” but at least a smell of mild soap applied in liberal measure. In the evening the hostel had only a faint scent of cleaning agents, but no other odour had taken over the place, save perhaps the pleasant aroma of someone cooking.

Many hostels are not like this.

Take the hostel in Newtown, Sydney known as Billabong Gardens. We chose it because it was cheap and close to a train station. I emphasize cheap. In exchange for its cheap price, we received the hostel funk.

There is a smell that coagulates around travelers who have been living out of a backpack for some time and who have been giving minimal or limited attention to the details of personal and garment hygiene. Now, I dare not judge backpackers for the aroma on their persons and belongings; when one is one the road for weeks or months on end, something must give. Something must be afforded second, third, or twentieth place in the list of priorities because there is only so much time and space one has when one does not possess one’s own apartment or house. The funk of long-term backpackers is normal and, in some strange sense, poetic.

However, we dare not extend the same grace to the hostels who host backpackers. It is one thing for the pig to wallow; it is quite another for the farmer to insist the rooster do the same. Hostels, if they are to have anything worthy of commendation, must be clean and tidy, with a good kitchen. Should they have pool, patio, billiards, free internet, hang gliding lessons, and live jazz every night but not have cleanliness and good kitchen facilities, they are to be scorned.

Upon first step into our present hostel dorm room we encountered a heavy cloud of funk in the air.

What’s more, the kitchen has proven to be sub-par in terms of cleanliness, repair, and availability of utensils. Sigh.

To be fair, some of the funky state of this hostel was certainly due to the fact that Sydney has a big Mardi Gras celebration on the first Saturday after Ash Wednesday (for those of you who know the liturgical calendar: I know, I know—I didn’t schedule this “Mardi Gras”). Because of this celebration and the parade that passes through downtown Sydney, all the hostels are booked up. What’s more, people have begun warming up their party skills. They spend lots of late nights out, drinking and making merry. And they accumulate more funk that is brought back and allowed to settle in the dormitory rooms.

Friday morning I woke up to the acidic, tangy smell of gastric fluids. After three days of walking through our dorm room door from fresh poolside air to dingy man-sweat funk, the smell of used alcohol broke my resolve. Memories of nights long past, nights as a Floorfellow and Hall Director cleaning up the nasty regurgitations of over-indulgent college students reared their ugly heads in my psyche. That was it—we were out of there. We found a hostel way up the coast north of Sydney with a double room open and took it. As it turns out, this impulsive decision put us in the best hostel we’ve stayed in so far: Sydney Beaches YHA Backpacker, better even than Mountain Jade. This one had cleanliness, style, great facilities, and a huge kitchen. Ten gas burners and six stainless steel sinks! To top it all off, this backpacker had alleviated the problem of guests smashing their food into small refrigerators by installing a walk-in fridge with cubby holes. Wow! Hostel heaven, here. We’re glad we spent the hour on public transit to get here. I’m especially glad we escaped one more night of hostel funk.

~emrys