(We Don’t Talk Anymore)

There was a time – an older time – when putting on a backpack on was making a statement. I want to see the world: meet different people; explore different cultures, run away or, indeed, some other reason.

He gets out of the minibus in the smalltown in Northern Thailand, one which is, for the moment, fashionable for backpackers. He heaves on his backpack. Most backpackers nowadays are very stylishly dressed, they wear designer labels, are clean and well groomed. With a few adjustments, they might be going to their job in a bank. He fits into this category.

I watch from a small café where I’m sipping a splendid, iced coffee which Thais make so well. He already has his smartphone in his hand and is gazing at it intently. He has, obviously, already booked his room and is now finding his way to it via Google maps. He speaks to nobody: doesn’t need to, maybe doesn’t want to, doesn’t look around him.

Modern backpacking has changed its shape to the point that it is unrecognisable to me. While it is a futile exercise to compare different times, it is enticing to do so.

As I walk down the main street where backpackers are having their western-style breakfasts: smoothies, café mochas, toasts- everybody is connected – not so much with each other as with their smartphone. They don’t lift their eyes; there are no gazers. They seem comfortably relaxed and are, quite likely, virtually immersed in the world they are taking a break from.

I started backpacking in the very early 1970s: an epoch ago. What planted the seed of saying goodbye to what I knew best and see the world were two trip (teachers’ holidays) sleeping rough, for the most part, in Greece.

The deep, deep blue of the Aegean, the luminosity of Greek light had a strange effect. I listened to the stories of travellers coming back from Iran, Syria, Turkey, Afghanistan, India, Nepal, and elsewhere. I knew I had to go. I resigned my job and bought a backpack.

I  sit at lunchtime on the two-table veranda of the small restaurant in another South-East Asian country – the Philippines. A good looking young couple in their mid-twenties, well-groomed in their casual clothes – probably German or Scandinavian – they take the other table. They don’t glance at me. They point to something on the menu and both take out their smartphones. They don’t speak to each other but are perfectly at ease.  When the food arrives they take their phones in left hands, a fork in their right and begin to eat. They are so engrossed in their phones that, at times, they have difficulty finding their mouth, the fork searching blindly to find it.

Normally we might have spoken but it is difficult to interrupt a user on his smartphone. Probably no profound contact would have taken place but even slight contact might have generated a little warmth.

In the early 1970s travelling meant talking to people, it was an inevitable part-the only way of getting information. There were no guidebooks for that kind of travel. Lonely Planet and Rough Guides came later. Where to sleep, where to eat, the price of things, what to avoid could only be learned by meeting those who had been there, done that. It created a type of fraternity, an openness with others that was natural and refreshing. Real travel started when Europe was left behind.  The first important information exchange, for those going east,  was ‘The Pudding Shop’ in Istanbul. I remember well its smoky – fusion of tobacco and weed – atmosphere and notice boards crammed with its warnings, propositions and invitations.

There is no need of that openness now, people who travel are self-contained, less dependent on others. Everything is on their smartphones.

Something gained, something lost. Things are much easier to organise, pay for, find but the exhilaration of the unknown waiting around corners is almost gone. With the smartphone, you can see around corners. Surprises are few.

For travellers, knowledge of the planet is more extensive and accessible and human contact less needed. But the smartphone is also about insecurity; there is a freneticism and gentle desperation in the constant glancing and scrolling at man’s best friend. And indeed, there is something fascinatingly sad that young people and their backpacks going to far distant places who want to spend much of their time gazing at a small screen linking them back to their comfort zone.

Now where is my smartphone? It was there a moment ago. Oh my God! If I’ve lost it….