Backpacking. An entire travelling pursuit constructed around one specific luggage type.
Of course, anyone who has allowed themselves to undertake the dangerously ad-hoc avocation of backpacking, knows that it comprises many more facets than simply the type of bag you keep your belongings in. Its main defining feature is moving around within and from your destination, as opposed to the deliciously simple concept of ‘holiday’, where you arrive, relax, and then come home. Backpacking has no time for relaxation. It disregards many of the concepts usually associated with ‘time away’, ‘taking a break’ and ‘going abroad’, like unadulterated enjoyment, blissful serenity and decent sanitation. And yet it offers so much more.
Like many of my peers I’m sure, my first experience of backpacking occurred during a horrendously under-researched, pre-university, round-the-world trip. My best friend Rachel and I set off aged 18 and 19 respectively, laden with supplies we wouldn’t need, ludicrously large and embarrassingly new backpacks, and naively positive attitudes. Our trip was five months long, beginning in the steamy coastal jungle of Caribbean Costa Rica, meandering through Peru, Chile and New Zealand before ending on the sweltering streets of Singapore.
Suffice it to say we learnt a lot in those five months, not all of it useful or applicable to the lives we would go on to lead. But the most important and salient lesson we learnt, was what the hell we were doing. We learnt how to pack and unpack in 60 seconds flat. We learnt how to nab the optimal bunk bed in every hostel room. We learnt how to befriend literally anyone by using our unique blend of girlish charm (Rachel) and searing sarcasm (me). And we learnt that despite our relatively sheltered upbringings, we could survive (and sometimes even go as far as thrive) in numerous unfamiliar situations, on four different continents.
Since that transformative trip, Rachel and I have failed spectacularly to travel together again, despite having visited over 60 different countries between us, and remaining the most solid of solid bros. That all changed seven months ago, when Rachel moved to Bangkok for two years, and I vowed to visit her before 2017 was out. The travelling team would be together once more, and in Thailand no less. From the comfort of Rachel’s central Bangkok apartment, we would plot and follow a route that would take us not only north through Thailand, but also back in time. Back to backpack. ‘Seven years on’, I wondered to myself, ‘will I fall under the spell of transient travel, hostel dorms and fleeting encounters as I did before?’
In addition to being a nostalgia-fuelled adventure of self-discovery, this Thai jaunt also involved my first solo flight.
As a person of a generally anxious disposition, I was anxious about it. Spending time alone is not really my forte, and so you can probably understand how the prospect of 11 hours sat in the same seat, with only myself for company (quality of fellow passengers as yet unknown), let alone three hours at the airport prior, was making me slightly uneasy. As all anxious people do, I elected to massively overestimate the journey time, and set off promptly at 9am for my 4pm flight from Heathrow. In my defence, to access Heathrow I was having to take a Megabus from nearby Stansted airport. Which involved the M25.
After an incredibly (and slightly annoyingly, given how much time I had allowed for disasters) punctual coach journey, I bowled on into the airport and took a seat for approx 28 minutes (which I spent mindlessly watching an advert for Chanel No5 on a continuous loop) until the clock struck 1pm. At this point and no sooner, I expertly rose to make my way to the assigned check-in desk. 'Arrive 3 hours before your flight leaves'. I was killing it.
Fast forward 2.5 hours, and I could be found sat at the correct gate, leisurely reading, sipping on the dregs of a cappuccino and feeling pretty darn smug. The entire airport experience had gone suspiciously smoothly, but I wasn't gonna stop to ask questions at this stage. Before I could bask in my own remarkable (and as yet undiscovered) ability to live as a fully functioning adult for too long, it was boarding time. I strolled down the tunnel with an arrogant bounce, which could very well have contributed to my utter obliviousness to a young guy walking next to me, trying to catch my eye. I had no time for such things. I had 11 hours of inward self-congratulation to get through.
It will come as no great surprise to learn that this disaster-free atmosphere did not last. Approx. 1 hour into the flight, around the time that most people were flicking through in-flight movie choices, adjusting eye-masks and sipping on plastic beakers of overly acidic white wine, I was attempting to fill out my Thailand entry card. With a further 10 hours of flying stretching ahead of me, there was no sense of urgency, but it's nice to get the admin out of the way. The trouble all began when, after having filled out my passport number from memory like AN ABSOLUTE BOSS, I came across a section entitled 'Visa Number'.
At this point, we must journey back. Back 1 month to be precise, when the last-minute thought occurred to me that I should probably double check my visa entry requirements for Thailand. Feeling fairly confident that I wouldn't need one, I very much half-heartedly opened up gov.uk, typed 'thailond' into the search bar, which thankfully autocorrected, and scanned the page with a vague and arrogant lack of interest. Nah, seemed fine.
Given this less than thorough check, and faced with a form demanding that I provide it with a number I simply didn't have, you can understand why I panicked. Within seconds I had cast my gov.uk memory aside like the fabricated mistruth it so obviously must be, and gone from relatively-calm-passenger-on-a-plane to stranded in Bangkok airport, living behind the baggage carousel with a friendly migrant named Seo-yeon, surviving on discarded dried banana chips and penning emotional memoirs and odes to my triumphant return home like some kind of millennial Tom Hanks. Added into the mix was the fact that I legit work for Lonely Planet, one of the biggest and best known travel brands in the world. Imagine having to walk back into the London office of Lonely-frickin-Planet, and admit that you didn't actually make it to Thailand, because you forgot you needed a visa. I was sure they'd fired employees for lesser examples of travel-related idiocy. The shame. No-one must ever know of this.
I understand I was being over-dramatic, but, anxiety. I also understand that I could have quite simply ended my excruciating hysteria and existential dread, by asking a member of the crew to clarify the visa situation. But, like a bizarre iteration of Schrödinger's Cat, I elected not to, lest the answer was affirmative and I'd be so overcome with stress I'd be forced to spend the rest of the flight having to be coaxed down from the baggage compartments with complimentary biscuits and kind words.
After literally 5 hours of panicking, I had managed to resign myself to the fact that whatever the outcome, there was simply nothing I could do about it from 39,000ft in the air. However hard I freaked out. Fast forward to me waiting in the queue for passport control at Bangkok airport, quite literally doing everything I could not to openly weep with stress. When my turn came to present my travel documents, I walked tall and faced my fear, like a British lamb to the Thai slaughter. After barely even glancing at my passport and card, the weary guard waved me through. I pretty much fainted past him and onto the baggage carousels (which were oddly placed less than one human pace away from passport control) with uncontrollable relief, and settled in to await my bag's equally successful arrival into the country. At that exact moment, I was shaken out of my extreme fear/relief/not having spoken to anyone for 10 hours induced coma, by the guy from the aeroplane walkway earlier trying to strike up a conversation with me. I think I stared blankly at him for a good 15 seconds before I remembered how to talk.
At least things could only get more competent and less stressful from here on in...
