By Ayun Halliday
Ayun Halliday explores the hi-octane underbelly of the low cost backpacker way of life From drug-induced Apocalypse Now re-enactments in Vietnam, difficulty within the crimson mild district in Amsterdam to an unforeseen come across on a camel in Pushkar, Ayun bargains an armchair portal at the adventure of the shoestring vacationer. With a knack for putting herself in to extraordinary events world wide, Ayun stocks the go back and forth tales such a lot are too self-conscious to bare.
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Extra info for A Sarong in My Backpack
No wonder he’d thought to bring a Polaroid camera. What overjoyed astonishment when he handed a small gaggle of children their photograph and gestured for them to keep it! These children had never seen themselves in a photograph. They lived alongside a red clay canyon too remote to attract busloads of day-trippers on photo safaris. Unlike their Masai countrymen, they had no exotic necklaces or stretched earlobes or ceremonial face paint. They wore rags approximately the color of the canyon. No one was going to seek them out anytime soon, and here was Pete, passing out Polaroids as if Polaroid film grew on trees.
Basically, we had shit, and we fought over who had to prepare it and who had to pack it away. Every time we stopped for lunch, a crowd of locals gathered. They stood at a slight distance, watchful as we choked down the unappetizing grub. The villagers who came closest were the children, and they were never shy. My long hair went over particularly well with the little girls, most of whose heads were shaved for lice prevention. They handled my locks like 54 RWANDA antique silk and admired the very stinky pink T-shirt I’d been wearing all week.
They seemed to like each other only slightly better than we liked them. Several group members availed themselves of the hotel’s helipad to buy their way out of this mess. The others camped on the grounds. In the mornings, they ventured into the preserve on the truck, returning to the cocktail lounge at night. The frat boys and I 60 RWANDA slept, the hotel’s clean sheets and firm mattresses a pleasant hallucination. Madge made me take three tablets of Fanzidar to carpet bomb the malaria. A doctor back in Chicago had prescribed them for me, along with chloraquine, but he warned me not to take them unless I was dying because they caused blindness and kidney failure.