Full Charge

There are no power points in a tent. With five devices to charge and little free time, I scavenge power from usb ports in the internet cafe, shaver points in the bathroom, and even a fusebox in the gym.

But it's not just the gear that's running out of juice. I'm forced to hose my brain down with two espressos - the biological equivalent of jumper leads - just to function in the morning. I'm not buzzed; I'm barely awake.

I don't understand how anyone is. The campground is well equipped, central and inexpensive, but useless as a base for exploring. This isn't Alba D'Oro, Venezia; this is Partytown, Anywhere, and the eighteen-year-old inhabitants are looking to get drunk all night, every night.

The Americans kick it off, a girl shouting "This is why people hate us!" at about one in the morning. So, they do know. They just don't care.

At about two, an Aussie stumbles past with a girl whom he's not having much luck with. The high point of the conversation is "Who cares if you're a fucking whore?" Smooth, man, really smooth.

Much later, another Australian voice starts a shouting match with a couple of girls. If it's the same man, then his pickup lines have degenerated into "You fucking bitch why don't you fucking just fuck off, you fucking mong?"

Not only is he stupid, he's not even creative. International competition rules require that a swearword not be repeated within a single sentence, although he does get obscurity points for "mong".

But it only gets worse. At 4am, a group of drunken English walking past our tent have a great idea. "Let's wake the Americans up! They woke us up". Moments later they're singing "Rule Brittania, Brittania rule the waves.."

This is how wars are started.

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