Looking for a pair of pants that say, “hey, I’m a superior Bali tourist because I spent 3 days in Ubud and took a photo with some street kids?” Well, look no further.
Typically, the soul traveller will acquire a pair in a local, Balinese market. Upon purchase, the wearer’s head will make a bee-line directly up their arse and as if possessed, they will write a lengthy Instagram post about the importance of supporting developing world, grass roots industry.
No doubt the country, or more realistically China, thank you for your $2. Under her logic, the barbaric bogan who spent an entire paycheck on “I’m not gay but $20 is $20” merchandise on Kuta Beach must be a fucking philanthropist.
Now, studies of the metamorphosis from pleb to enlightened pant wearer suggest that once the pants are on, they aren’t coming off – except, of course, for a night of eat, love, slay with a dreadlocked cunt who owns an acoustic guitar and will share more infectious viruses than a promiscuous mosquito in Ebola country. These people love to “pay it forward” after all.
Curiously, the wearer also comes to believe they have a symbiotic connection with the local wildlife. No not the ones in the swim up bars, the ones that have had more ketamine than Winx at a Melbourne Cup afterparty.
Is that tiger refraining from ripping the wearer’s face off like Nick Cage with an arrest warrant because of the drugs? Or is it because the wearer bought the same pair of pants as every other basic white girl in Bali? We may never know.
It is furthermore essential that the wearer continues to flaunt the pants upon their return to Australia. Once they are on, they are there to na-ma-stay. How else will people know that she “found herself” on 2 week pilgrimage to parts well known?
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?