Lonely planet bitches

Five of us congregate the tree hut of Lonely Planet's best pick for Kumily. The twit and I reel off our latest adventures to our new found friends; one wiry grey gentleman who has followed the old overland hippy trail to find us here - and a plump, young fresh faced couple from Norfolk. "We travelled down the mountain from Kannur on THE most hectic bus journey ever - honestly; we were crammed in this single bus for four hours. There was only one bus that day because the road is so bad. And then everyone closed the windows because the road was so dusty. There was No air - NO AIR! I actually passed out it was that bad.
"Then we went to the most god awful tourist attraction we have ever seen. Lots of local wild animals in cardboard box cages so that the tourists can view at their leisure. Real nice - yeah. So we head straight out of Kannur to Kochi. The place is like a holiday park. A meal costs the same as a room and you can't find any decent local cuisine for shit. If you want to eat western at inflated prices, well you're quids in.
"Oh - and then we got a houseboat for twenty four hours on the back waters. You've not done it yet? Seriously don't bother - biggest tourist trap that we've fallen in yet. They drank our beers, tried to pass us their cheap shit - and charge us! Drove for about one hour down the backwaters - moored up for the night - then took us straight back in the morning. Honestly, you can see far more of the backwaters on the ferry from Kottyam to Alleppey - absolutely beautiful and will cost you only ten rupees."
Our story has been sounding the same for a while. We seemed to have hopped from tourist trap to tourist trap with a couple that can't relinquish their cutlery. Once we had joined forces, an in-group/out-group situation placed exponential hindrances on cultural interactions. Indian differences become further marked to the four English guys. The lonely planet leaves a false trail of not quite reality. After a fortnight I begin to question my purpose. Life has become diluted hedonism. Our day is about eating meals in the tourist restaurants and not getting ripped off by rickshaw drivers. I've lost meaning.
Days are vacuous. We consider our heroes of the beat generation and ponder the difference. When Jack Keroac traversed the road across America; Ginsberg the trail to Varanasi - there were no tourist guides; no microcosm parody cultures. Life was harder when the road was hobo. Nights were cold and rides were hitched.
Today it would be possible to travel the length and breadth of Asia without once having to eat local cuisine.
I wonder if this is the month syndrome. I've been living like I'm on holiday, and the time to hitch up my bags never arrives. It dawns that I'm not going home, that I'm a traveller now. And I can't help but ask, what for? Whats the purpose if your feet never touch down on land that hasn't been bastardised by western tourism? The time arrives to resolve it. Can I find meaning? Is this search for meaning a result of conditioning from my goal orientated culture? Is it superfluous? Or exactly what I need to keep my feet moving forward?
Our company in the tree house share the complaints. "It creates tourist traps"; "Prices get ridiculous"; "it causes untempered development".
We want to throw it away, and yet, we do not seem able too. We promise ourselves that we will find another way around the next country. We promise we will let go of the security blanket.