Hostelworld

I walk into the room and throw my bag onto the bed. Emily flops onto the other, and we are silent for a moment.

This place has a strange energy. Spanish, spoken too rapidly for me to follow, surrounds us on all sides. I'm hungry, but there is no kitchen and no electricity. The beds smell damp.

The Pacific of southern Panama rumbles through the barred windows. I hate to say it, but I wish there was a hostel.

I am not sure how worldwide the hostel network spreads, but in Central America at least, the crusty dormitory has become a subculture of its own. Travelers brag about their off-the-path destinations, but even the most seasoned will always break up their journey with a stopover at one of these havens, to drain the free wifi and cook noodles alongside other English-speakers.

The best ones are covered in murals; the worst, clinical white with squeaking metal bunks. The most basic leave you perching on kitchen counters to eke out a social life; the most extravagant providing cushion holes and leather sofas, pool tables and bars. The strangest of locations hide pockets of sizzling atmosphere, largely dictated by the Lonely Planet's analysis, which perpetuates whichever scene the writer found during his stay, through however many editions the hostel survives.

Most are run by travelers who got stuck, wanderers who came and just never left.

Regardless of the social bubble offered, the hostel represents safety. Not simply the safety of four walls, but the representative security found amongst others of your own kind. In a hostel, I am not just a lost Brit. Even if I do not speak to a single person, I will feel as if I am part of something; as if there are things happening, that I am somehow involved in by just being there.

In short, as if there were a point to it all.


Here, the absence of others exposes our truth - that the only point in being here is to lie on a beach, perhaps write a few half-hearted observations and unwind today's passing dramas. Travelling to a random destination can be fun, but when the travelers are two sisters with little direction in their lives and no strong desires to fulfill, an undiscovered beach is not always as captivating as it sounds.

With no distraction and no one to teach, I cannot deal with such starkness.

I can find other truths; the pursuit of happiness and the stripping of societal layers is of course the real focus of my travel, but on a day-to-day basis, when I'm not in the mood to contemplate, it can be hard to see the value of this space. And in combination with another wanderer, who does not share my passion for world-dissection, my search can seem jaded and naïve.

I feel ripples hitting me from big changes up ahead, but I cannot yet see the disturbance that makes them. We both know we need to start something, but we're not quite sure how.

This may not be a hostel, but one truth shines like a light in this bulb-less room. Along the wall scratches graffiti:

"The prayers of a righteous man are powerful and effective."