The country that exists in the minds of twenty-something-year-old travellers throughout the entire world. It's citizens are identifiable by their dreadlocks, faux-tribal tattoos and strict, tiresome adherence to a Bob Marley tunes. They eat falafel and juggle fire torches. Their economy is based around mooching, and the sale of Tibetan prayer flags and Che Guevarra marijuana pipes. Backpackistanis are united by a common language: broken English.
Even though I spent a year travelling through Paris, Madrid, Morocco, Bangkok, Bali, Sidney, Sao Paulo, Machu Picchu, Guatemala, and Southern Utah, I feel like the only country I really visited was Backpackistan.