One heavy backpack

by Elliott Bakker (Niger)

A leap into the unknown Australia

I was standing in front of Southern Cross station, sweating in my jeans and sweatshirt under the blazing Australian sun. The massive backpack I had hurriedly packed the night before was leaning left, my sunglasses hopefully somewhere inside. I was carrying my sleeping bag in my arms; my tent strapped to my shoulder. Dangling around my neck, the large expensive camera I had recently bought was strangling me slowly. I was going to hitchhike for the first time, starting on the famous Great Ocean Road. It was not a holiday but an adventure, following the footsteps of my road companions Kerouac, Bouvier and Tesson, who were busy making my backpack and my mind heavy. I had devoured travel stories, read about countless travellers wandering across the globe. I wanted to be one of them. I had made the road countless time, scribbling the route on the back of my notebook, crossing borders on Google map with my cursor: China, Pakistan, Iran, and eventually, France, traversed in a simple swing of the mouse, The Great Ocean Road started in Geelong, and I had planned to leave five hours ago, but the many beers and newly discovered Korean soju from the previous night had decided otherwise. I was feeling terribly hungover. But all this discomfort was not important. The journey was about to begin. Goodbye Melbourne, hello the Road! I descended from the train, feeling slightly better and thrilled to be on my way. The mood, however, quickly changed. The size and weight of my bag was clearly a problem. I had to take a break every few hundred meters to rest. In my inexperience, I had packed too many things. The night before, every item had seemed indispensable. I dispersed my possessions under the quizzical looks of bystanders, hoping to somehow re-equilibrate the weight. After repacking my bag into something more suitable and finding my sunglasses, I was finally ready to hit the road. I started to walk. My sleeping bag wrapped in a garbage bag as I had not been able to put it back in its original packaging was making a creasing sound after every step. I got lost, making detour after detour, creating small earthquakes every time I dropped my bag on the road to rest. I came very close to throwing away my tent and pretty much everything in my bag just to lighten it. Sacrifices had to be made, so I abandoned Ayn Rand and her Fountainhead on a bench. She was too heavy. Finally, I found the right way and raised my thumb for the first time. Doubts crept in as I stood uncertainly on the side of the road. It felt unnatural. Minutes were like hours. I felt judged by the few cars that passed me without stopping. As soon as I would hear a car approaching, I would mentally get ready. My backpack standing proudly in front of me, a traveller’s ID. Arm and thumb firmly raised, trying to secure eye contact as soon and as long as possible, with a smile I hoped was not too creepy. Trying to convey solely through body language my purpose and peaceful intention, taking full advantage of my youthful face and non-threatening body. As cars passed by, one after the other, I started to categorise people’s reaction to hitchhikers. Some pretended not to see me, staring straight ahead on the road, refusing any sort of eye contact. Others were confused about my presence, and showed their incomprehension with a sign of the hand. Although rarer, some appeared offended, letting me know with their middle fingers. I also received apologetic smiles, friendly waves and happy honks, gracious reminders that someone would eventually stop for me. These furtive interactions were the barometers of my mood. The first ones would made me doubt my presence on the side of the road, question the validity of my adventure. The others boosted my mood, reassured me of my purpose. Eventually, a white van stopped., the driver asking me where I was going as he opened the sliding door for me to drop my bag. I was on the Road