New life

Backpack attack

Zenga Longmore

Ireland is such a delightful country that it is small wonder so many holidaymakers want to go there. But why are they virtually all Continental youths with backpacks? This question comes straight from the heart. Time and again, Omalara and I would be waiting for a bus along with friendly Irish people, queueing together in harmony. All around us, perched on walls or sitting here and there in clumps on the ground, the pack of backpackers would

Are you going to sit watching that thing all night?' congregate, staring aimlessly at no one in particular. Some strummed listlessly on guitars, like lethargic Mexicans in a cowboy film.

All at once, a small, rickety single-decker bus would arrive and every Hans and Olaf would charge towards it, their backpacks transformed into formidable weapons that butted Irish citizens out of the way.

Take last Thursday. There I was, first in line, with two-year-old Omalara under one arm and a folded pushchair under the other. Bang! Whack! Knapsack attack! Buffeted by tall, gangling Swedes, I was forced to the rear, continually outflanked on each side. Outflanking appeared to be a Scandinavian speciality. Long Viking arms shot in front of me, barring my way like crossed swords coming from left and right. in two seconds the bus was full and sailed away, leaving yours truly and a grizzling toddler standing aghast.

Meekly, as if broken by tourism, the bus- ousted local inhabitants commiserated with me and with one another. Rain fell, and night seemed about to follow suit, when a second bus appeared. No Continental stu- dents were in sight, so we brightened up and began to pick up bags and pushchairs. Suddenly, as if by magic, a hundred Danes and Germans appeared from nowhere, led by a formidable bearded Norwegian who roared, 'Charge!'

Gripping my terrified child, I leaped aboard and half collapsed in the gangway. Huge hiking boots trampled around me, hairy legs flying here and there like forests uprooted by a hurricane.

Backpacks rapidly filled every seat not occupied by the wearers.

'Does anyone sit here?' I politely asked a Danish girl.

'No, the seat is for my knapsack,' she explained.

'Can't you move it, then, so my little girl can sit down?'

'Big girl,' interrupted Omalara.

'No, it's not convenient.'

Well! I have travelled to every Scandina- vian country except Finland (which I am told is not a Scandinavian country anyway) and I can promise that when in their native lands these Continental youths revert to their right minds and become as civilised as their parents. Why do they go mad in Ire- land?

Come to think of it, the English tend to throw their weight about when travelling abroad. I remember shuddering in the West Indies when chancing upon English tourists who roared insults at waiters. One middle-aged man, a paunchy fellow with a shock of silvery hair, reduced a Dominican waitress to tears after he had insisted that she had 'not taken sufficient chill off the claret'. I could well imagine that this same man, who had sat through his meal with a permanent oh-my-God expression on his face, would, on his home ground, be intimi- dated by the lift of a waitress's eyebrow. I wonder what Irish tourists are like.