Becoming a Backpacker

Looking around me, I felt intimidated and yet... inspired. Lounging across the airport seats were several hardened backpackers.

My backpack was a vibrant blue, clean and bright. It was still stiff and not a mark had crossed its path. My boots were shiny and clean. Their tractor-like tread was spotless. No dirt clung to the soles. No scuffs were visible on the surface. My clothes were clean, ironed and smelled of fabric softener. I was so obviously a beginner!

I held my new passport and ticket carefully in my hand. I watched the clock, knowing I wouldn’t miss my flight but constantly checking - just to be sure. I was at the airport, waiting for my first flight – the flight which would take me out of Australia and into my year of travel.

Soon enough, I found myself in a far-off airport. My backpack was dusty, dirty and scuffed. My boots were dusty, dirty and scuffed. My clothes were dusty, dirty and no longer smelled of sweet fabric softener. My passport was dirty, creased and wrinkled. I no longer held it carefully, but tossed it into my jeans pocket. I was at the airport, waiting for another flight.

My backpack was tossed onto the hard airport seats. I used it as a pillow, leaning my head against its dusty surface. I lounged across the hard plastic seats, feet folded over the plastic armrests. The noises of the airport and the glare of the lights didn’t stop me from falling into a deep sleep – so deep that I slept through my alarm. Waking to realise that my flight was now boarding, I raced to get myself on the plane bn. A lady at a counter noticed my just-woke-up-and-running-late-face and processed my passport at a side counter, letting me fling my backpack onto my back and race for the boarding gate.

I’d made it. I was a real, hardened backpacker!

afternoon storms

As the steamy hot temperatures of the day sapped my energy faster than I could replace it, I was exhausted but happy when I pulled into my driveway. The clouds hung low in the sky and the faint scent of dusty rain lingered, teasingly in the air. A sudden flash as lightning ripped its way across the grey clouds. Thunder – tentative at first and then rumbling louder and louder through the sky. A faint wind picks its way through the leaves of my jacaranda tree. The tin roof ticks as it adjusts to the changing temperatures.

And then it comes... the rain. A splatter and a drip across the roof. A sprinkle on the steamy ground. And finally... the steady sound of rain. The heat of the day is gently washed away as the rain tumbles down and freshens everything it touches. The wind picks up and the cool air delicately washes over my skin. Over my neighbours house I see a splendid rainbow, wrapping itself across the sky.

I lean back on my chair, savouring the cool glass of wine and revelling in the afternoon storm.

Bui Doi - the Dust of Life

Though I had been lucky enough to live overseas for a while and had been to a couple of countries, I had never yet travelled alone. Someone had always helped with the organisation. There was never a real worry about visas, foreign currency, tickets or accommodation because there were always a group of us.

Finally, it was time to step out on my own. My “Cambodian Story Friend” handed me a Lonely Planet guidebook for Vietnam. He was handing me an obligation to go there. He was handing me a ticket of strength and freedom.

I was nervous – nervous about how I would cope. Where would I sleep and how would I get there? Would I get lost? Who would help me to communicate? I had booked my ticket, but these thoughts niggled away at me.

Then I met a Frenchman.

He spoke so terribly of the street children. He warned me that I would hate Vietnam. I would regret going there. The street children would steal everything from me. He spoke words of hate and disgust.

For a while, I believed him...

Then I bought a book – Children of the Dust (Street Children in Vietnam and Children in Extremely Difficult Circumstances; Ngo Kim Cuc and Mikel Flamm).

The photographs in it are hauntingly beautiful. Large black and white photos capture the hope in their eyes and the squalor of their life. While most of the photos shine with smiles, several photographs are gut-wrenchingly sad. Who could blame their resentment and hate when they have been sexually abused by foreigners since they could walk? They scrounge for scraps to sell and food to eat. In the photos, some children hide behind bars or in dingy corners, unloved and forgotten. The text is filled with their words, their stories – their sad, tormented stories.

Soon I was in Vietnam and within the hour had met my first street children. Some monsoonal rain flooded the city of Hoi An and I became stranded for a few days. The local street children got to know me and I got to know them. They never tried to steal from me. Not once did they try to scam me for money. They would see me and run to me. We would sit together, learning about each other without the use of a common language. My pale pink fingernails amused them no end and my eyelashes were often stroked with gentle, dirty fingers. Their smiles were glorious and their eyes sparkled. If other foreigners walked into the area, they would run off, trying to sell their wares. They would often look back at me, over the shoulders of the foreigners and give me a cheeky grin. But they were never rude or disrespectful.

My first trip “all by myself” was many passport stamps and countless flights ago, but my time with those kids is still a clear memory. They have helped me to see the best in so many other people I have met.

Tinglish

Somewhere in Thailand, a whole collection of young men are confident in their ability to use English. They were taught by us. Lessons were filled with spoken language and a confident child would happily share his English skills. The following was very typical of what our students would say.

I live in a how. I have is a mutter – one, farter – one, bruttar – two and sittar – no.

I live in is class tree-sewen. (I'm in Class 3-7)

I am wearing is a white shirt, brown belt, blue short, white sock and shoes black.

I like animal is a cock. I like food is a hen and pig.

My birthday is in yoghurt.

I go to Silom Complec by motorsigh. (I go to the Silom Complex by motorcycle.)

May I have is a sharpen my pencil, please?

May I have a toilet, please?

How are you? I am nine year old.

Stop your mouth.

(I wonder how much better they are now?)