Backpacker v Brat

They reek of dirty clothes and failed deodorant. They stop in front of you on the footpath to consult their map. They hang pungent hiking boots off their daypacks that swing around and hit you on the train. Although they can be irritating, I realised recently that backpackers live by a worthy and wise ethos that we can all learn from.

This realisation occurred when I caught up with my friend Alana, who was visiting Perth from Houston. I affectionately refer to my dear Alana as “A Llama” because we travelled through South America together and had many encounters with Peruvian fauna of the furry, long-necked variety. As we reminisced about our adventures, it struck me that the routine of normal life has eroded my adventurous backpacking attitude and turned me into a brat who deserves a slap in the face with a cold salmon.

When I was travelling, I made new friends at the drop of a boarding pass.  Excited by English-speaking voices and weary of loneliness, I formed friendships with people I met in hostel kitchens, in queues for public transport and at museum gift shops. I once spoke to a Brazilian guy for 20 minutes before I decided to join him on an impromptu excursion out of Madrid. We spent a day together sauntering along cobbled laneways, whispering in cathedrals, posing for photos and sipping hot chocolate in the sun. On the bus ride back to the hostel, my tired friend shut his eyes and I thought about how strange it was that I could spend a day with someone, watch him fall asleep beside me and then never see him again.

My catch-up with A Llama made me realise that, even if I were to bump into my Brazilian Friend-For-A-Day at the train station tomorrow, I would be too stubbornly engrossed in my novel to even notice him. The daily grind has become so familiar that I no longer expect or seek friendships in surprising settings.

Perhaps my lack of readiness for conversations with strangers is caused, in part, to my perpetually harried state. Since I stopped backpacking, I have become a slave to my watch, which is a ruthless master that tells me I am always running late. I make ‘tsk-tsk’ noises when people climb stairs too slowly. I write lists while waiting in line at the butcher. I sometimes brush my teeth in the shower to save time. By contrast, when I was travelling, I was much more adept at relaxing. One of my favourite nights in Rio de Janeiro was spent sprawled across a wicker seat with a Dutch friend, chatting and listening to the intermittent rain patter on the palm leaves. We lolled in the sultry humidity, nibbled on gouda cheese and swilled red wine until, suddenly, it was morning. When I eventually unfurled myself out my bunk bed the next day, the most productive thing I did was to meander down the road in my bikini for a nap on the hazy Ipanema beach.

My beach time in Rio was often interrupted by men selling haloumi on a stick or boys hiring out umbrellas, however; I never felt impatient at their intrusions. Backpackers are much more forgiving than regular people. Residents whinge and moan about traffic jams, inclement weather and petrol prices. Backpackers are just grateful for toilet paper and salmonella-free chicken. Each time a rotund Peruvian waitress hurled a bowl of tepid rice in front of me with only a grunt, I whispered “Gracias” and assumed that was how table service was done in Peru. I learnt how to say “thank you” in whatever language was spoken at each destination and I used to be thankful for the most inane things. After bathing with cold water from a bucket in India, the first hot trickle from the mouldy showerhead in London was bliss. I remember rejoicing as I walked past a Laundromat after months of bashing soapy clothes against a rock with my bare hands. I clapped in excitement when A Llama and I checked into our first hostel that had no bunk beds, although I still found myself habitually impersonating Quasimodo each time I sat up in bed.

Back at home, my soft mattress and bedbug-free sheets go unnoticed. Instead of waking up each day with a sense of excitement and thirst for adventure, I groan at my alarm and coax my uncooperative limbs into action. I spend too much time sighing with impatience and staring past potential new friends to check the clock.

I am very glad that my dear A Llama came back to Perth and reminded me of how much better life is when you live like a traveller.