I was one of them

The Livingstone backpackers’ hostel where we stayed was like all backpackers’ places around the world.

The same usual crowds hang out there, the same hippies, the same Australians, the same wannabe Rastaferians, the so-called adventurers which are often the bored and self-escaping youth of the Western world, carrying with them all the symbols and paraphernalia of their newly-found and temporary freedom: Arabic shawls, rings, tattoos, Jamaican dreadlocks, Moleskine diaries, Jamaican music, ganja, and a certain air of obsequious introspection and self-contentment. (Back in their home, you will find them dying a little death in corporate suits and boardrooms. Still they’ll remember, they’ll remember the respite).

Let’s not fool myself: I was one of them (although of the skeptical kind)