On Natural Seleciao
As an 18 year old I remember hauling a backpack onto my shoulders for the very first time in anger [1], as I set out on my first expedition. I was standing in the hallway of my parent’s home, taking one last look at the photos on the floral wallpapered walls: there was my older brother winning the 100 metres on school sports day; there was my older brother on graduation day; my older brother working for the Red Cross in Kenya, and so on. None of them suggested either of us would go on to achieve anything significant, let alone my unrivalled standing within the backpacking community. [2]
All except one, that is. Hung proudly on the toilet door at the foot of the stairs is a photo of me sitting in a Moss Side McDonalds in 1992, head in hands, hunched over my Weetabix Wonder World Atlas, in full concentration. In retrospect, it wasn’t just a pivotal moment in the life of Alex Garland (see The Secret Santa, published 26 December 2017), it foreshadowed my future life on the road. For as I stood with the burden of 30 kilos of belongings on my back, I realised my whole life had been building up to this moment – of my first steps into backpackerdom [3]. For what other child studies an atlas with such interest? [4]
Fast forward a few years and there I was, ready strike out into the world.
I considered that photo with pride one last time, then asked dad to pinch it off and wipe up [5] because the backpack was beginning to weigh me down and I thought it best if he drove me to the train station after all.
STICK A FLAG IN IT: Some at The Big Galah feel massively on edge at the sight of Rafinho strutting around the common room, or incensed at his decorated backpack. I'm too wise to get drawn into such pettines. Why bother when you're as well travelled as I am? As if to prove it, I grabbed the The Times' Atlas of the World off the bookshelf in the common room and opened it to a random page. As I suspected, I'd been to all of the countries on that page (see above). When Rafinho began asking questions (such as: What's the capital of Lebanon?, or, Where is Lesotho?) I simply closed the atlas and pushed it into the game of chess being played out between two Koreans. Why tell him when he can look it up himself!
I used to keep count of the number of countries I’d been too - that’s what you do as a youngster. I’d buy a badge of every country’s flag and sew it on to my backpack; I’d keep a map and mark a cross over each country I visited; I’d record in my journal the peculiarities of the locals and the weird food and customs. Within a year, my backpack bore the flags of Scotland, Ireland and Wales. It was intoxicating and addictive.
Ultimately, though, you grow out of it. Keeping count becomes less important and a greater emphasise should be put on the quality of time one spends in a foreign land, rather than the quantity of countries one has visited. In fact, if one is older than, say, 20, I think “keeping score” is probably a sign of low self-esteem and intellect.
I mention this in passing because, of late, I’ve noted an increasing number of backpackers (old enough to know better) stay at The Big Galah, their backpacks covered in badges. They literally scream of desperation.
Yet Rafinho - who I may have mentioned last week – isn’t even content with just letting his bag do the talking. Ok, Raf, we get it. You’ve travelled to a few countries. I can guarantee I’ve been to more! But you won’t find me propping up the bar in the Big Galah Bar boasting about my travels [6], or manspreading on the grimy sofa in reception and using a “sexy” Brazilian accent to describe a lame trek around Milford Sound, or, again, making fresh sushi in a transparent attempt to appear cultured [7]. And I certainly don’t strut around the hostel in a vest all day so others [8] ask questions about the tattoos on my bronzed arms.
His need to make friends and ingratiate himself into the Galah’s lifestyle is quite painful to watch.
I think of any hostel as having its own micro ecosystem in which its inhabitants [9] have evolved together. It follows that any disturbance to this delicate symbiosis would have some kind of effect, be it adverse or favourable. For example, when yours truly first stepped foot into the hostel some years ago, it was inevitable my position as the “alpha” would/should be respected and not/never be challenged. The hostel, naturally, accepted this and let the alpha/me do as I pleased. [10]
Occasionally, however, a pretender arrives: younger, more tanned, “stronger” and seemingly more “physically imposing”, more gregarious, more exotic, “wise beyond his years”, friendly, caring, “funny”. Etcetera.
FEIJOADA: Rafinho's sloppy bean stew took approximately 5 hours to make and used all available space in the kitchen. Meanwhile, my noodles took 3 minutes to prepare.
I completely understand this fascination with the “new”, but I struggle to understand how, three weeks into his stay, Rafinho is still able to “cast his spell” [11] over the Galah. If people really observed him they’d realise how selfish he is. Example? Last night, he took up all the cooking space in the kitchen and all four of the gas burners while cooking up a batch of feijoada for the whole hostel. By the time I found space to boil some water for my noodles there wasn’t a clean bowl in sight!
That’s probably why I felt compelled to pick a number of the badges off his backpack while he was out volunteering to pick up the rubbish from Bondi Beach last night. He just needs to learn his place within the ecosystem.
[1] Prior to this I “play backpacked” by filling a backpack with sand and stomping around the garden for 15 minutes a day – part practice, part play
[2] e.g., Mr Backpacker, Photo of the Month(s). Read “about” for more details.
RIO MAGDALENA: The word "rio" is Spanish for river. Here I've roughly traced its route, from Huila in the south-west, all the way to the Caribbean. The river is probably the subject of countless indiginous myths and legends, though in modern times its mostly used, in it's shallower stretches, as a drive-in car and motorcycle wash, while the deeper stretches are used to dispose of abbatoir waste.
[3] My parents liked to joke the reason they took the photo was because I’d thrown a massive wobbly on our drive back down south. They said I was crying my eyes out because I’d specifically asked for a fillet o’fish but instead was given a cheese burger, which my older brother then ate. In actual fact, I was probably studying a map of Colombia. If there were any tears – which would be impossible to tell from the photo – they’d have been at the shear wonder of tracing the rio Magdalena from its source in Huila, all the way to its delta in the Caribbean in Barranquilla.
[4] Answer: none.
[5] I should have mentioned, the photo is hung to the inside of the door but I could still see it because dad poos with the door open. As he's always said, there’s nothing shameful in taking a dump.
[6] For starters, I’m not boasting when I regale other travellers with my experiences. Secondly, I only talk about my travels and life affirming stories when I’m asked, or if I sense a fellow traveller needs inspiring.
[7] So what if sometimes I just crave fish and chips and mushy peas?
[8] Usually the European women, though, with this week being Mardi Gras, there have been a number of homosexuals equally interested in Rafinho’s tattoos. He’s so vain he’ll accept any attention.
[9] Including the cockroaches, of which there are many – some of which are capable pushing a 6 pack of Maggi noodles back to their lair.
[10] Darryl and Quentin have such respect for me they have made it part of the induction tour for new arrivals to the Galah to point me out in the common room. It’s clear from their respectful whispers that they are explaining my importance to the newcomers.
[11] Darryl even went as far as to claim Rafinho was sent by the “Mardi Gras gods” to celebrate last weekend’s 40th anniversary of the gay parade.