TYSKAB #2: your feet will disintegrate
The backpacker's nemesis
I’ve only just come to terms with this one, actually. For some reason, facing death by a large Irish man was acceptable; it’s something that can happen any day of the week and has done since we first tried to cow the Celts under British rule. However, the notion that my feet were left looking like a bombsite (literally) left open wounds, and it’s only now that all the scars are healed that I feel alright to warn others about it.
Backpacking is almost by definition an exercise in cutting financial corners. You slum it around Europe or the world for a few months in an attempt to see the world without becoming so debt-ridden that you can’t experience life when you get back home. Clothes get washed in bathroom sinks and ‘clean’ gets redefined as ‘not smelling quite as much’. You sleep in dorm rooms in hostels because it’s cheaper than double beds in hotel rooms, and ignore the fact that there is a drunk Irishman wanting to take out his disagreement with an Australian on you. You try to take in culinary delights of each region but end up getting poor-quality versions of what you want because you’re loathe to spend more on the real thing. Supermarkets become your restaurants: you learn the astute differences in bread between countries.
So by backpacking you’re less willing to pay money on taxis, buses and metro fares. And, because space is at a premium when you’re packing for your jaunt away, you get rid of shoes and replace them with that perennial standby, flip-flops.
I wore my flip-flops from day one. As soon as I was in my room in Paris, I put them on and set about walking the city. The first night was amazing: we walked from Il Marais across the river and back again, a sort of lazy promenade which gives you the best impression of the city and its lifestyle.
The second day I put my flip-flops on again, bright and early. The problem was that I hadn’t counted on being out on the streets of Paris from 9am until 11pm without really sitting down. Things felt bad about 3pm: my ankles ached and every time I put pressure on the bottom of my feet my brain shouted at my body to stop moving. You ignore that, it’s part of the backpacking credo.
So when I (honestly did) limp back into the hotel room I knew things weren’t going to be pretty, and I had a plan. I’d wrap a towel soaked in cold water around my ballooning ankle to stop the swelling and fill the bin with water to bathe my feet in. That all went great, apart from the fact that the bin was too small and had holes in it, and to get your feet anywhere near the water involved arching them, which I couldn’t do for the amount of scar tissue that was forming on my feet.
The medical student travelling with me actually flinched a little bit when he saw my feet. I didn’t willingly show him my soles: I knew it would be a bit awkward when he saw that I’d ruined my feet on day two of our travels and would give me actual informed medical advice – and that’s not what backpacking is about. But he demanded it, and went “Ah, yeah, well. That’s not good.” In fact he was worried that I’d not make it onto the plane (our one bit of luxury on the trip) down to Seville the day after.
I did, even though he refused to sit next to me on the flight for fear that my feet might actually explode over him with the change in pressure. And, after a night slept on the floor of the room, with my feet above the rest of my body on a chair which became sodden with water dripping from my soaked-towel cold compress, I managed to carry on for the rest of the trip without collapsing in pain with every step. It still hurt like hell, and I thought about scaling back on the walking, but that’s not the backpacking way.
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Why the hell would you try walking around a city all day in flip flops??? Did you not consider this eventuality???