There's an army out there. Bigger than Mother Russia’s. More tenacious than Afghanistan's rebels. Noses in more countries than the old British Navy.
Lose the wheeled Samsonite, grab an equally expensive backpack by NorthFace and enlist in the People's Army of Concerned Kids -- the PACKers.
They cringe at the thought, but Packer wear is more uniform than military dress whites. Tevas or other rubber-soled sandals are the base. Add socks if you're German. Cargo pants or zip-off, GORE-TEX trousers are next. Orange and purple for the Europeans, black and blue for the Americans.
T-shirts, long and short sleeve, are obligatory. Five points if the shirt displays the logo of an obscure product or outdated television show -- Brillo pads or Starsky and Hutch, por exemplo. 10 points for advertising an organization that cares. Anything with "Save our…" or "Concerned Citizens…" will do. Bonus round for shirts promoting a remote destination inaccessible to the tour buses. “The Mystic Mayan Mines of Myanmar.”
Bo Derek cornrows and Bob Marley dreadlocks will draw silent, unenthusiastic nods of approval from the community. Rings though noses, eyelids, chins, tongues, belly buttons barely garner notice anymore. Tribal band tattoos around arms and painted mosaics on lower backs are still prevalent, though usually on the bodies of club newcomers. Indian-style tattooed hands and decorated faces like the Maoris are more cutting edge.
Packer wear is fully androgynous, with uniforms for men and women often indistinguishable. In fact, the men and women themselves are often indistinguishable.
Like officers clubs and army towns, Packers prefer to bunch together along streets, in neighborhoods and throughout club-friendly cities. Most towns will have a Packer-designated section. If you’re looking for a cheap hotel near plenty of vegan restaurants and incense stands, just show your backpack to the cab driver and you'll be whisked there. Used bookstores, Internet cafes, henna tattoo parlors, natural food carts, and discount travel agencies comprise the prototypical Packer block. Koh San Road in Bangkok or the Sultanhamet neighborhood in Istanbul are the types of places that make Packers sit back in their hammocks and go "ahhhhhh." But remember, Katmandu is the Mecca. At least one pilgrimage is necessary for exalted status.
Boot camp, or shall I say Teva camp, is the three-month, dozen-country European summer spent hopping trains with a Euro-Rail pass. Packers learn to find the best cots in hostels, wash socks with hand-soap in sinks and look forward to cold Nescafe and stale bread for breakfast. Museums and historical sights are out. They cost money. Instead, Packers learn to glean the experiences through stories of the one well-to-do comrade who can afford to go and is happy to tell all to the group while waiting for the next midnight train. "Dude, that Mona Lisa babe is the bomb."
In conventional armies, stars and bars identify rank. The Packer hierarchy is maintained through the first topic broached -- years on the road, or, more specifically, "How long you been out?"
Rookie status for three months or less. Year-outs are the equivalent of bank vice presidents. Decent title but there's plenty of them. Two years on the road and you're an Australian General, a rank bestowed to honor the concept of Aboriginal walkabouts. Two-to-five years and you're out on top. More than five years and you’re just out…out of your mind. Five-plus years and even the backpackers begin to think you should put on a tie. More than five years and you're like the man we met in Ecuador. He'd been on the road for 25 years. He gave us some great recommendations for treasured spots way, way off the beaten path (in fact, I don’t know if he remembered there was a path). Then he started talking about cities 500 miles below Antarctica. Uhhh, check please.
No $500 hammers or other over-charges in the Packer brigade. $40 for an eight-hour train ride versus $50 for a flight covering the same distance in less than an hour? No question. Hop on the bus, Gus, because time is an unlimited commodity. Kurt says Packers have alligator arms -- they have a hard time reaching their wallets.
I can't be too hard on Packers, especially because I resemble them these days. And like the Salvation Army, they fight wars every day…and sometimes win.
Iran. China. Cuba. Packers are often the first tourists into a country after travel walls have been lifted. They're the West’s initial diplomats, albeit grungy diplomats.
An old Packer once told me he received the first Visa into Bangladesh after their war of independence. Bewildered guards at the border didn't know what to do with him, so they called the new president. He didn't know what to do either, so he invited the backpacker to stay at his house for two weeks. Great story. Don't know if it's true. But I do know that as soon as a country opens up, the Packer army stakes out positions well before McDonald’s picks a mall or Starbucks a street corner.
Kudos are awarded in the Packer community for knowing the language, wearing local garb or understanding traditions. Locals appreciate the effort, partly for understanding, partly for laughs. The longhaired American who chows down a guinea pig lunch in Peru performs two valuable services. He gives Peruvians a reason to smile and allows the rest of us to skip guinea pig and eat pizza. Muchas gracias amigo.
The Packer push has led to more book exchanges, chai teas, deep tissue massages, Internet hook-ups, hemp clothing, last-minute-travel fares, natural juices and deodorant sales around the globe.
Whoops. Strike the last one, but sign me up.
