By Ayun Halliday
Ayun Halliday explores the hi-octane underbelly of the not pricey backpacker way of life From drug-induced Apocalypse Now re-enactments in Vietnam, difficulty within the pink gentle district in Amsterdam to an unforeseen come across on a camel in Pushkar, Ayun bargains an armchair portal at the event of the shoestring vacationer. With a knack for putting herself in to strange occasions worldwide, Ayun stocks the go back and forth tales such a lot are too self-conscious to bare.
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Additional info for A Sarong in My Backpack
The man, Pete, was wild to drive us to our hotel. After all the touts who swarmed around the truck in East Africa, the oft repeated anecdotes of Mickeys slipped in Eurailer’s drinks and the wooden shoe incident in Amsterdam, I wanted to know what his angle was. Was he a 64 SINGAPORE gypsy cab driver, a hustler in search of a hotel commission, or a villain who slaughtered backpackers like fatted calves? If the latter, his girlfriend provided him with an ingenious cover. Demure and nearly mute, she fiddled with the dainty gold cross at her throat, as bland as a Nilla wafer.
For those kids, we were about as exotic as it gets. I hope they’re still alive. I hope that all of the children in my photographs are alive. Rwanda came as a great relief. For one thing, it had paved roads. Our driver explained that this was because the Rwandan government used foreign aid for its intended purposes, whereas the Tanzanian government used it to throw lavish parties. Rwanda was green and hilly. Elsie confirmed that it looked something like Switzerland. After the dusty brown monotony of Tanzania, photogenic Rwanda’s tightly packed vegetable gardens seemed the very model of Swiss wholesomeness and industry.
I collected my pack, boarded the airport shuttle and tried to put the incident out of my mind. Only after I was aboard a KLM flight bound for Dar es Salaam, watching the lights of Amsterdam dwindle to tiny pinpoints, did it occur to me to wonder if my attacker’s accent wasn’t possibly East African instead. 48 49 A SARONG IN MY BACKPACK 50 Rwanda The mosquito must have bitten me the first night. Lots of mosquitoes bit me that first night in Tanzania, but this one was special. This one had a snoutful of malaria, or some jungle crud that caused me to stagger across our campsite two weeks later like a lion-felled gazelle, erupting at both ends.
A Sarong in My Backpack by Ayun Halliday