Charles and Guy sat looking across
a chaotic vista of jeans and khaki shorts with splashes of jade and ivory and a
tangle of shoulder-length hair. Signs hung on the walls warning of the dangers
of getting caught with hashish. For Guy, this was a bizarre environment.
‘So, this is your trip - hippies.’
‘No, not really. I work mainly in the big hotels, but
anywhere people have a lot of cash and no routine is good. Every day travellers
deal with new faces, and so it’s natural for them to make friends with
strangers. Once they decide you’re their friend, the guard drops. In this business you never turn down
a chance to meet anyone. A contact is a resource; if not now, then later. And
with the hippies it’s quick. It takes about ten minutes to take a wallet
and a passport.’
‘But what’s inside a hippie’s wallet?’
‘You’d be surprised. A lot of these kids are carrying $1,000
in travellers’ cheques; the drug dealers, more. Don’t judge by appearances.’
‘But all these - they must be junkies. So many of them are
so thin and sick looking.’
‘That’s what I used to think. Actually, most of
them are just nice young students having their last fling before they settle
down. Their resistance is lowered from smoking hashish. Then they get sick, and
go down with dysentery. After a few months on the road diarrhoea is just about
their only topic of conversation.’
I highly recommend this to all backpackers.
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