A Pack of Lies
Two minute noodles and smelly socks. Dirk Strasser talks about the real backpacking experience.
Picture this: You've just finished your dinner - cornflakes for the tenth day in a row. Tomorrow you're really going to splurge and have some two-minute noodles. You look around you, and there are five strangers sharing your bedroom. You have so little privacy that you've got to wait for lights out to pick your nose. You decide to wait another week before you peel off your socks. You know it will be painful because the fibres have fused to your skin. Your T-shirt probably needs a wash, but, what the heck, another month won't hurt.
What is this place? A refugee camp? Some Third World outpost? No - it's a Youth Hostel. All the people in your room, including yourself, have chosen to be here. This is supposed to be fun. It's a holiday.
It's not my idea of a holiday.
The above scene comes from the descriptions various friends of mine have given of their backpacking holidays. I've never been on one, and, if I maintain all my senses, I'll never go on one.
Several years ago on a flight to New Zealand, I was earbashed by a loud, middle-aged American woman about the joys of backpacking. "Hey," she said, "be a traveller, not a tourist. See the real country."
It makes me a little nauseous when backpackers give you that garbage. Do locals really eat cornflakes for tea? What is
real about lack of privacy? What is authentic about smelly socks?
"I found the cheapest burgers in New Delhi," she said, as if she had just discovered a rare gem stone. "Great," I answered, "while you were doing that, I was visiting the Taj Mahal."
"There's a $2 all-you-can-eat in downtown Waikiki," she said, her voice breathless with excitement. "Oh, yeah?" I said. "I saw sunrise over the volcano on the Big Island."
"I just found this $8-a-night hotel. To think, I almost wasted all that money on the $12 place."
"Lucky you," I said, "I'm feeling a bit tired from all the sightseeing, so I'll probably have a massage by the pool this afternoon."
Try as I might, I can't see the attraction in backpacking. But what really gets to me is how sanctimonious backpackers are about their mode of travel. They arrogantly discard any other travel experiences. For God's sake, don't ever mention to one that you've been on a Contiki trip. Don't ever tell them that you spent two weeks on a bus travelling with a group of thirty people around the West Coast of America. Don't even think about explaining that it only took a fortnight to see Los Angeles' Venice Beach, Disneyland, Universal Studios, Las Vegas, the Grand Canyon, Yosemite National Park, Alcatraz, San Francisco's China Town, San Diego and Mexico. Don't ever be so insane. If you do, they'll give each other furtive winks. They'll nudge each other and make private jokes. They'll treat you as if your a little slow. They'll laugh in your face.
And yet, I'm still waiting to see a backpacker actually enjoying their travel. They're always too busy either searching for the cheapest accommodation or complaining about the rats they find there. They're always too intent on counting the pennies to stop and look at the view.
Backpackers, despite their vows of poverty, are actually the ultimate capitalists. For them, everything is measured in terms of money: travel, food, experiences. Even time itself has only a monetary value. They don't travel for two, three or four weeks. They travel "till the money runs out". That burger was "good" because it cost only one dollar. Yes, but what did
it taste like?
And in most cases it's not as if backpackers can't afford to travel any other way. While backpacking used to be the preserve of students back in the 50s and 60s, nowadays backpackers are usually middle class and often middle aged. People are voluntarily choosing to slum it. Maybe it's a Western guilt trip, and they feel it is necessary in order to gain empathy with the Third World. Maybe it's a Freudian urge related to the rejection of the mother figure. Maybe it's just stupidity.
I'm quite happy to have backpackers kid themselves about their mode of travel, but I get a little tired of listening to their claims of superiority. If you want to experience the real essence of a country, you're going to have to put down your roots, get a job, and live there. Anything less and you're fooling yourself if you think you are not a tourist.
Sure, by not backpacking I can only afford to travel for short periods - not months or years at a time. But what happened to the old adage about quality not quantity? I'm a tourist, I admit it. I like privacy, good food and good accommodation.
I like rustic, but I don't like slum. I know I'm only skimming on the surface, but at least I don't pretend that my experience is any more real than anyone else's.
The American woman on the flight to New Zealand didn't like it when I screwed up my nose at her backpacking all those years ago. "Wait till you get older," she said. "You'll see."
I am older now. But I still don't see.
The Australian Magazine 15-16 August 1992
Picture this: You've just finished your dinner - cornflakes for the tenth day in a row. Tomorrow you're really going to splurge and have some two-minute noodles. You look around you, and there are five strangers sharing your bedroom. You have so little privacy that you've got to wait for lights out to pick your nose. You decide to wait another week before you peel off your socks. You know it will be painful because the fibres have fused to your skin. Your T-shirt probably needs a wash, but, what the heck, another month won't hurt.
What is this place? A refugee camp? Some Third World outpost? No - it's a Youth Hostel. All the people in your room, including yourself, have chosen to be here. This is supposed to be fun. It's a holiday.
It's not my idea of a holiday.
The above scene comes from the descriptions various friends of mine have given of their backpacking holidays. I've never been on one, and, if I maintain all my senses, I'll never go on one.
Several years ago on a flight to New Zealand, I was earbashed by a loud, middle-aged American woman about the joys of backpacking. "Hey," she said, "be a traveller, not a tourist. See the real country."
It makes me a little nauseous when backpackers give you that garbage. Do locals really eat cornflakes for tea? What is
real about lack of privacy? What is authentic about smelly socks?
"I found the cheapest burgers in New Delhi," she said, as if she had just discovered a rare gem stone. "Great," I answered, "while you were doing that, I was visiting the Taj Mahal."
"There's a $2 all-you-can-eat in downtown Waikiki," she said, her voice breathless with excitement. "Oh, yeah?" I said. "I saw sunrise over the volcano on the Big Island."
"I just found this $8-a-night hotel. To think, I almost wasted all that money on the $12 place."
"Lucky you," I said, "I'm feeling a bit tired from all the sightseeing, so I'll probably have a massage by the pool this afternoon."
Try as I might, I can't see the attraction in backpacking. But what really gets to me is how sanctimonious backpackers are about their mode of travel. They arrogantly discard any other travel experiences. For God's sake, don't ever mention to one that you've been on a Contiki trip. Don't ever tell them that you spent two weeks on a bus travelling with a group of thirty people around the West Coast of America. Don't even think about explaining that it only took a fortnight to see Los Angeles' Venice Beach, Disneyland, Universal Studios, Las Vegas, the Grand Canyon, Yosemite National Park, Alcatraz, San Francisco's China Town, San Diego and Mexico. Don't ever be so insane. If you do, they'll give each other furtive winks. They'll nudge each other and make private jokes. They'll treat you as if your a little slow. They'll laugh in your face.
And yet, I'm still waiting to see a backpacker actually enjoying their travel. They're always too busy either searching for the cheapest accommodation or complaining about the rats they find there. They're always too intent on counting the pennies to stop and look at the view.
Backpackers, despite their vows of poverty, are actually the ultimate capitalists. For them, everything is measured in terms of money: travel, food, experiences. Even time itself has only a monetary value. They don't travel for two, three or four weeks. They travel "till the money runs out". That burger was "good" because it cost only one dollar. Yes, but what did
it taste like?
And in most cases it's not as if backpackers can't afford to travel any other way. While backpacking used to be the preserve of students back in the 50s and 60s, nowadays backpackers are usually middle class and often middle aged. People are voluntarily choosing to slum it. Maybe it's a Western guilt trip, and they feel it is necessary in order to gain empathy with the Third World. Maybe it's a Freudian urge related to the rejection of the mother figure. Maybe it's just stupidity.
I'm quite happy to have backpackers kid themselves about their mode of travel, but I get a little tired of listening to their claims of superiority. If you want to experience the real essence of a country, you're going to have to put down your roots, get a job, and live there. Anything less and you're fooling yourself if you think you are not a tourist.
Sure, by not backpacking I can only afford to travel for short periods - not months or years at a time. But what happened to the old adage about quality not quantity? I'm a tourist, I admit it. I like privacy, good food and good accommodation.
I like rustic, but I don't like slum. I know I'm only skimming on the surface, but at least I don't pretend that my experience is any more real than anyone else's.
The American woman on the flight to New Zealand didn't like it when I screwed up my nose at her backpacking all those years ago. "Wait till you get older," she said. "You'll see."
I am older now. But I still don't see.
The Australian Magazine 15-16 August 1992