Adventurers, backpackers, stray humans with a map tattooed on the brain. Pack an extra layer. Not for rain. For a brand‑new prejudice wrapped in polite smiles. Turns out the so‑called “developed” crowd still runs on tribal wiring.
Quick mental detour before the mosquitoes bite. We live in a world of many worlds. Every time progress tries to glue two together, three more pop up like stubborn weeds. I warned you it was a weird trip.
The spark? A real trip, heavy on backpack and reflection. A thought loop kept buzzing:
First-world people can be downright savage.
Yet, we Latin Americans carry that label. Go figure.
I guess I prefer being savage.
In Europe, birthplace of youth hostels and questionable techno, I spotted a different flavor of bias. Sexual hang‑ups might be dying there, racial ones still kick, and now this new strain: Backpacker Phobia. Culture clash or philosophical crisis? Hard to say. Being a backpacker is either a lifestyle or a wearable manifesto.
I felt the stares. People swerved like I carried dengue in my pack. Hostel roommates finally named it: Punkabbestia. Italian for gutter punk. Cute. They swore folks were feeling paura, good old fear, around me.
So I watched closer. Fear stared back. Fear of anyone who refuses the dress code: lone wanderers, immigrants, buskers, punkabbestias. Anything with legs, a pack, and no clear destination.
That fear is an export of the shiny world. I have seen the same jittery eyes in “modern” South American cities (Hello Curitiba 👋😊). A backpacker breaks every template. No shape. No flag. Just a walking question mark. Even we do not know what is hiding behind the zipper.
Maybe they are right to worry.
Get ready. This prejudice is sprouting new branches. Stand tall. Flash a grin. A smile still bends arrows mid‑flight.
Plenty of people swear this is not real. Maybe they have never met those feral travelers from Planet Elsewhere. The ones stubborn enough to learn a world that spins backward and never really belonged to them in the first place.
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