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	20Kilos in South Africa
	Backpacker Etiquette
	Backpacking - is it dangerous?
	Nullarbor
	The Adventures of the $100 Bill

20Kilos in South Africa

20Kilos in South Africa

Backpacker Etiquette

The behaviour of backpackers is governed by an unwritten 'code of conduct'. This is necessary since - in hostels in particular - backpackers interact with each other at close quarters. Generally, Westerners are not used to such conditions; communal living to them being so alien the concept may as well have erupted from John Hurt's stomach.

Westerners may have experienced a derivative of this environment if, for example, they had attended boarding school, were in the military or had shared a bedroom with a sibling or partner. These, however, are instances of sharing with known persons. In hostels, it is common to share a dormitory room with complete strangers. These strangers could come from a variety of countries and hold one of a range of religious, spiritual, ethical or political beliefs. Each has his or her standards of cleanliness and hygiene. The mixture of personalities could create a harmonious environment, or a cauldron of tension and antagonism. This is where the code steps in, to ensure that the backpacker is able to show consideration to his or her fellow traveller, whilst at the same time having as much fun as possible.

1. When residing in a dormitory room ensure there is enough space for everyone's possessions.

Space in sleeping areas is often at a premium. It is therefore not a good idea to sprawl one's stuff over a vast area. If everyone does so, the floor of the room turns into a sprawling metropolis with suburbs including guide books, deodorant, knick knacks, food and clothes. Possessions can get mixed up and easily lost. This is particularly important if there are bunk beds present. There is nothing worse than having jumping down from the top bunk in the middle of the night, to go to the toilet, and having to negotiate an obstacle course of someone else's dirty underwear.

It can be argued that this can be extended to all walks of life. The concept is self explanatory, so let's give an example. Imagine a four person dorm room. It is a cold night. Three occupants have hired the hostel's bedding, which comprises thin sheets and moth eaten blankets so ancient that the druids had previously made use of them when taking their picnics at the newly constructed Stonehenge. The fourth inhabitant is the proud owner of a state of the art sleeping bag, designed by NASA scientists and capable of use in each of the four seasons and in a variety of environments. These include storms, mountains, deserts, tsunamis and Mars. Let's call this person Mr. Swank-Bag.

In the middle of the night, Mr. Swank-Bag is too hot, the NASA scientists having neglected to make the bag suitable for 'hostels'. He opens the window wide and goes back to bed. Everyone else wakes up freezing under their druid blankets, praying to the sun god to warm them up. Consequence - Mr. Swank-Bag is unpopular and the others are cold. Clearly a lose-lose scenario.

3. When retiring for the night, if others are in bed before you try to make as little noise as possible. Do not turn the light on.

This is aimed at people who go to bed in the small hours and in an intoxicated state. Admittedly, going to bed quietly in such circumstances is not an easy task and so this is all about 'best efforts'. Additionally, experienced backpackers used to the communal living have become acclimatised to the environment and not even a workman's drill in the street outside would awaken them. Nonetheless, stumbling into the room at 4 in the morning, turning on the lights and singing very badly will not make you many friends.

This one is appropriated from the Old Testament. Most backpackers are on a budget, and there is the temptation to covet the possessions of others. Not in the biblical sense, for not many backpackers take their oxen with them, but perhaps food items or hard currency. Luckily, most backpackers appreciate that their fellow travellers are in the same situation, and that stealing from them would be like taking from one's own brethren. The thieves amongst backpackers are in the minority and are generally considered to be ranked between mass murderers and corporate lawyers in the morality tables.

Fishing tackle emits an awful smell. People generally want dorm rooms to smell as pleasant as possible. The smell from the tackle permeates everything. Just don't even think about it. Or some irate backpacker may decide that the most appropriate receptacle for storing the tackle is your sleeping bag.

That'll do for now. There is a whole list of others, such as always clear up your mess when cooking in the kitchen, don't cheat when playing cards and don't pick your nose (not in public, anyway). However adhere to the five principles listed above and you'll be the most popular person in the whole hostel.

Sure enough, the news stories are dramatic enough to cause concern amongst a would-be backpacker and his or her relatives and friends. This leads to a belief that the environment that the backpacker is used to is safer than the one 'out there', on the other side of the world. The decision to go backpacking is perceived as a 'leap in the dark', a trip to countries and regions where the language and culture are alien, and where the backpacker would stick out like a sore thumb, an easy target for abuse.

Fair enough, the decision to go backpacking is a brave one. However, once the destination is reached, typically the backpacker finds that things are not so unfamiliar. The most popular backpacker destinations have developed a 'sub-culture' of travellers, and this acts as a buffer against the unknown. In Bangkok, for example, the Khao San Road is the first port of call. This contains a myriad of hostels, bars, restaurants and market stalls, all catering to the foreigner on a low budget. Familiarity is in the form of the goods for sale in the local convenience store - toiletries and other brands that are well-known in the West.

This is hardly the wild frontier. However it can be comforting that travellers seem to outnumber locals on the Khao San Road. The only apparent danger is that a fight or two may break out in the bars and clubs - an event that could occur anywhere in the world.

Travelling around has also been made safer by the establishment of a network of transportation catering exclusively to backpackers. It is possible to travel round much of South East Asia in buses without having to interact with any locals whilst on board, save - perhaps - the driver and border officials. In many parts of the world, internal flights are reasonably priced - if purchased once out there - and taking train is usually a safe method of travel.

The biggest 'danger' facing backpackers is that they may be 'ripped off' or have possessions stolen from them. The 'ripping off' is typically by a local that wishes to sell his or her goods or services, at a price higher than is offered to fellow locals. The 'bartering' system that is common practice in many countries makes these price differentials possible. It is not unusual for the traveller to get into the mindset that he or she has been conned out of a good price - even though that goods were bought at a far lower price than if they had been purchased at home.

There is a more sinister type of 'ripping off', in which confidence tricksters befriend a backpacker and extort cash from them. In Malaysia, it has been known for backpackers to lose the entire contents of their bank account after being persuaded to play card games with locals. The key is to be wary of such situations - but not to be paranoid and to suspicious of the population as a whole. As with anywhere, a majority of people's intentions are honest.

Theft from backpackers is a common occurrence. There are a number of security measures than can be taken to protect possessions, and it is important too to be vigilant. However, this is more of an inconvenience than a danger. Besides, it is possible that the thief may be a fellow backpacker!

The key to maximising personal safety is, therefore, to be sensible. Don't frequent urban areas you know to be unsafe. Don't venture out after dark on your own. Don't get lost in the rainforest. Don't dive into the watering hole with a sign adjacent depicting a crocodile. Don't get into fights. Don't get into trouble with the local police force, military junta etc. Use guide books as necessary. Adopt the same levels of practicability and vigilance that you would back home.

Backpacking is, for a majority, an unforgettable experience in which the good memories far outweigh the bad. Every year, a large number of backpackers set out in search of adventure; in many countries the backpacking tourist industry is significant and well-established. Although the media will always hone in on the negative aspects of backpacking, the serious events are extremely rare. As for the Bali bombing, it can be contended that this is part of a global campaign of terror which is not aimed specifically at any particular demographic group.

I traversed the Plain as a backpacker; my creaking Japanese estate car from the late '80's laden with my possessions as well as those of my three travelling companions. It was just about possible to glimpse some of the scene in the rear view mirror behind the bags piled high in the boot. None of us were on a strict timetable, having the luxury of roaming the land at our own pace. This freedom put us into a good frame of mind for crossing the Nullarbor.

Arriving in Port Augusta on the end of the first day, and desiring an alternative to youth hostels, we opted to stay in a cabin on a campsite. These typically contain a kitchen, TV and beds, with toilets and showers available in a nearby block. There is often a swimming pool. Generally, campsites in Australia are of a very high standard and cater to a whole range of people, from backpackers to travelling salesmen to retirees in motor homes. These mobile dwelling places are so large as to almost dwarf double-decker buses, and makes one wonder how much in the way of possessions the occupants left behind at their immobile home.

The next day's drive commenced with a flock of galahs flying across the car, just missing the bonnet and windscreen. Galahs are a type of cockatoo that are known for acting the fool - sliding down children's slides or hanging upside-down on clothes lines. Calling someone a 'flaming galah' is a mild insult. Heading west from Port Augusta the land was flat and green and the distances between towns increased. We arrived in one such outpost, and stopped to admire the totem that is the 'Big Galah'.

Now, Australia is obsessed with big things. On the East Coast, for example, there is a big shrimp, big banana and a big pineapple. Each model proudly erected on the side of a highway, and each promoting some business venture. However, this homage to the silly birds was advertising nothing. The reason for its erection was not ascertained. However, in a land where the emu and kangaroo - the national animals - are eaten, it is always prudent to expect the unexpected and the unexplained.

The town of Ceduna was something of a border post - the gateway to the 1,200km of plain separating it from the next town. We were filled with trepidation upon reaching the Nullarbor proper, like we were entering some sort of modern day antipodean wild west. This was in part due to the whole host of dangers we had been warned about - principally from 'dyed-in-the-wool' Aussie males (i.e. those descended from convicts). These pitfalls ranged from motorcycle gangs straight out of Mad Max to corrupt cops to the obligatory snakes and spiders. Then again, given the propensity of this type of Aussie male to exaggerate, perhaps the level of trepidation was fair, middling at best.

Nullarbor is bad Latin for 'no trees', and the shrubbery to the side of the road became less evident. After driving for several hours, we reached our resting place, the imaginatively entitled 'Nullarbor Hotel Motel Guesthouse'. This is one of the roadhouses along the Nullarbor, the distances between each of these being up to 200km. We had stopped at several already, paranoid that we may run out of petrol and thus be placed at the mercy of the fabled bike gangs. This particular roadhouse offered a range of accommodation choices - a motel, a rather dusty campsite and a small flimsy shack. We opted for the shack, the cheapest option. This comprised two dormitory rooms separated by a wall so flimsy that even the constructors of the sets in 'Neighbours' would have cut it up and given it to Rolf Harris for wibble board practice.

The receptionist advised us of the local sight - a cave, accessible by following a dirt track behind the roadhouse and into the desert. 'You can't miss it', he implored, but somehow we did. Instead of finding a cave we ended up at a toilet. It was unplumbed and exposed on the plain, the setting sun glistening on its enamel. Like the Big Galah, unexplained.

We were also informed of the amenities. In terms of food, we could go for restaurant or self-catering. The second option was an area for a fire, exposed to the wind on the far side of the truck park. 'Just collect some wood and you'll be ready to go', he enthused, without a hint of irony. For our location was the closest the Nullarbor came to resembling its bad Latin name, and there were no trees, no plants and no wood. Luckily we had our own catering option - the camping stove. We set about cooking our dinner in blustery conditions, ate the food, washed the utensils in the toilet block and retired to our shack to read the graffiti on the wall out loud until the inhabitants of the other dorm room told us to shut up.

The next day, we drove precisely 911 kilometres. The road took us close to the edge of the Continent, into the Great Australian Bight. Looking out and across the ocean, the next land mass is Antarctica. We were standing on the edge of the inhabited world. We reached a check point, the border between South Australia and Western Australia, but this was not manned by armed guards like many others around the world. Instead a woman appeared and asked us questions about the food produce we were carrying. We were obliged not to carry perishable items, such as fruit and vegetables, inter-state, and so handed over our half eaten bag of salad leaves. We also adjusted our watches, for we were crossing a time zone.

We had hypothesised that we would not see much traffic on the Nullarbor. A vehicle was passed once every few minutes at times - hardly an urban rush hour - more than was expected. It is customary in outback Australia for passing drivers to acknowledge each other. This would typically be by lifting an index finger off the steering wheel, or a wave if you were lucky. Since the volume of traffic was not indicative of a true 'outback' road environment, many drivers didn't bother at all.

One of the longest stretches of straight road in the world was negotiated - no bends for 145 km. This wasn't, however flat - like, for example, the highway on the credits of 1980's 'cult' TV series 'Knight Rider'. Hills were traversed. It was, at times, possible to spot a car travelling in the other direction several minutes before actually passing it. When the bend did finally arrive it felt unusual, as if roads were not meant to act in such a fashion. We cheered this event nonetheless.

The final roadhouse of the Nullarbor - the Balladonia Hotel Motel - had something of an unusual theme - Skylab. After the 1970's space station had outlived its useful purpose it was crashed into the earth's atmosphere. A chunk of Skylab came to land near Balladonia. Although no-one was in any way maimed, the event prompted US President Jimmy Carter to issue an apology to the local community.

We drove for another two hours and then - suddenly - the Nullarbor ended, replaced by the outer suburbs of Norseman. It was like being in a metropolis. Retiring to another campsite cabin, we toasted our successful negotiation of the plain. There were no biker gangs. There were no dangerous animals. If there were corrupt cops they didn't bother us. Instead we enjoyed a classic road trip, a place where as the foliage turns to scrubland, the world beyond the plain simply melts away.

The US Dollar is hard currency, arguably the hardest currency in the world. It is so hard that it once KO'd Mohammed Ali in 6 rounds. It is widely recognised and acceptable in many countries. Many local currencies are pegged to the Dollar or rely on it in some shape or form. It is a wanted currency; people covet it. In the physical sense they are, as sung by the O' Jays 'small pieces of paper that carry a lot of weight'. Once such piece of paper, a $100 Bill, somehow made it intact all the way from a Bureau de Change in Muswell Hill, North London, UK to the Capital Guesthouse, Phenom Penh, Cambodia. This is the story of that Bill, which - for ease of reference - we shall call, 'Bill'.

A few days after leaving the leafy boulevards and sports utility vehicles of Muswell Hill, Bill left the United Kingdom and arrived in Moscow. It was accompanied by another $100 Bill and a $50 Bill as well as travellers cheques and a credit card. As is standard in most airports, there is a customs area presenting the choice of anything to declare (red) or nothing to declare (green). Bill entered Russia via the green, as it was not accompanied by an abundance of cigarettes, cigars, cigarillos, alcohol or contraband.

This appeared to have been the right choice for about an hour, until the travel rep at the hotel in West Moscow handed over a piece of paper. This detailed the ramifications of going green. Essentially, it was not possible to take any hard currency out of the country - unless it had been declared upon entering the country. This could only be done by going through the red channel. The note made it clear that the travel company did not accept responsibility for anyone who did not declare their Dollars. $250 was a lot of cash to spend in Russia, considering that only eight days were to be spent there. It was estimated that only $150 worth of the local currency would be required. Therefore, Bill bade farewell to his American brothers and welcomed instead his Russian cousins - the Roubles.

Bill then went sightseeing, taking in Moscow's premier tourist sites - Red Square, the tomb of Lenin, the Kremlin and the stuffed animal emporium in the GUM department store. It then headed East on an epic journey that would take it through five time zones in four days, on a train called the Trans Siberian Express.

The occupants of the train passed the time eating, sleeping, playing cards, chatting to each other and looking out the window. There was not much else for them to do, however they did not seem perturbed by the lack of choice. The Roubles begun to steadily disappear, traded for Baltika Number 3 - a local lager - and vodka that was as clear as crystal. By the time four days was up, it was if life outside the train did not exist. Indeed upon exiting the vehicle it felt like the whole world was a train, until everything stopped rhythmically rocking up and down - 3 hours later.

This was in the Siberian City of Irkutsk, temperature zero degrees centigrade. Bill felt lonely, for there were not many kindred spirits about. There was no McDonalds, GAP or Starbucks. It was like being on another planet, especially when Star Wars was shown on one of the TV channels - dubbed into Russian. There was still the issue that Bill could not leave the country, even though in a few days another train would be boarded, which would head for the border with Mongolia. The intention was, therefore, to sell Bill and purchase Traveller's Cheques - which could be taken out of Russia.

Despite having a population of 500,000 there was one place in the whole City where this transaction could take place. There was one day in which this could occur prior to a trip to Lake Baikal - where there wasn't even a bank - and subsequently the journey to the border. Alas! The Traveller's Cheques counter was closed on that particular day. The missed opportunity was rued. This would never happen back in the UK. One day, it could be contended that Russia will westernise further, and transactions of this sort would be possible even in the smaller towns. Then, e-commerce and mobile phones will become more popular. Then call centres will become widespread, and the Proletariat will rise up from being put on hold and made to listen to James Last and His Orchestra's version Chicago's 'If You Leave Me Now'. The Kremlin will be seized and history will be repeated.

For now, however, the problem remained. After 2 days of saunas and home made jam by the shores of Lake Baikal, the next train was boarded. It made its way towards the border, and Bill's date with destiny. The train was laden with goods belonging to Mongolian traders - cigarettes, shoes, pushbike tyres and lighter fluid, amongst others. Surely the border guards would not bother with Bill. There were, however, stories of corrupt customs officials out to extort money from Westerners. Putting two and two together, perhaps that was why the red/green channel procedure was not made as clear as Russian vodka back at Moscow Airport.

The train arrived at the border town, a depressing place where not much happened. If fleecing Westerners was commonplace, it was perhaps out of boredom, as opposed to an inherent evil streak in the perpetrators. Those on the train waited patiently for something to happen. The Mongolian traders had seen it all before, and had spent the past few hours shunting merchandise around the train. They did this to ensure that no-one went above their quota - those with a surplus of goods 'lent' some items to those with capacity. They knew what was to happen; the Westerners didn't.

The Customs officials entered the carriage and made their way through the 4 berth cabins. Presently, muffled voices were heard next door, as investigations were made and papers inspected. A short while later, an official entered Bill's cabin. It was a woman, the local shot put and hammer throwing champion, 1992.

The completed forms were handed over and the interrogations started. The questions revolved around whether any foreign currency was in anyone's possession. All occupants answered to the negative, however the official was not convinced and threw around accusations like she was wielding her championship hammer - trying to pummel into submission. In the end, nerves held out. One of the forms had been completed incorrectly; an Australian from Tasmania claiming that he had illegal drugs on his possession, taking the question to refer to a cold remedy. Another form was not completed at all. The official grunted, believing the foreigners to be idiots, and left.

A short while later the train arrived in Mongolia. The border guards were no longer a danger. The Mongolian traders retrieved their goods. The Tasmanian took his cold remedy. Everyone looked out of the window. The tension had gone.

Bill was hidden in the depths of the backpack. Behind clothes, books, shoes, torches, plastic bags, food a towel and a multi purpose knife, a first aid kit rested at the pit of the bag. The kit contained tablets, plasters, bandages and safety pins. The safety pins were kept in a small cardboard box, just big enough to hold six pins and a note of currency. Bill.

By hiding away, Bill was spared an extended stay in the border town, where he may have become gambling fodder, or perhaps used as a bribe. Instead, Bill travelled through Mongolia, China, Hong Kong, Vietnam and Cambodia. Bill experienced a desert, a Great Wall, high skyscrapers, conical hats, locations of war, islands, beaches, a river delta, museums and temples. Sunrises, sunsets, restaurants, bars, clubs. Buses, trains, rickshaws, trams, boats, bikes, airplanes.

Eventually, Bill was parted from his owner when a boat trip was purchased in Phenom Penh, and so Bill was exchanged for smaller bills (the US Dollar being acceptable currency in Cambodia) and the local currency - the Riel. The adventure, which had taken Bill from North London to South East Asia, had ended, however another was surely to begin.