The Samson Hierarchy

Backpackers have made an art of frugality; filling a used medicine bottle with liquid soap at a restroom and swiping ketchup packets from Burger King are just a few of the tricks. Judging by some of the people I’ve met they haven’t all learned the soap trick yet, but most maintain at least a modicum of personal hygiene. Shaving however, is a bit of a nuisance and requires you to carry a razor and cream in addition to everything else on your back. Most male backpackers just took to growing a beard, and what started as a convenience turned into a rite of passage.

Much like how the size of the Silverback Gorilla’s stripe determines his position in the troop, or the class of the businessman’s BMW relates to how quickly he gets his Mocha Latte, the fullness of ones beard determines your pecking order at the hostels. It lets your fellow dirtbags know you’ve paid your dues – or rather, haven’t paid anyone anymore than you had to. The resident magnate at my hostel is a skinny twig of a Scotsman, but he has sizeable mane, dreaded and untamed with bits of Top Ramen caught in it; his authority is not contested.

Yesterday I almost had it out with Brit as we sized each other up over a small foot stool near the door of the lounge. He looked more traveled than I, but the poor 17-year-old couldn’t muster more than a feeble goatee. The Scotsman watched amused as he sat on his throne next to the fire while Hostel Nymphs fanned him with advertisement flyers and fed him peanuts they stole from the bar’s happy hour downstairs. It’s not all fun and games out here, it’s survival.

I’m currently taking refuge in the bathtub while writing this entry, it’s the least likely place I’d be discovered. If they found out I owned a laptop they’d probably hold me down, shave my beard, and dump me off at the nearest Starbucks. Gotta run, my internet time is almost up and I have to find a good deal on some Rogaine so I can fluff this beard up.

Three weeks in, the beard may not be much, but my Blue Steel is full tilt: