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.

The two states of being are as a human being, or a hungry ghost. Semi-regularly you need to ask yourself which you are. Sometimes it is human. Others, alas, it is hungry ghost.

The hungry ghost seeks validity outside of themselves. Someone pining for an indifferent ex is a hungry ghost. Someone who arrives alone at 6:30 on Saturday night to a pub is probably a hungry ghost. Obsessive checking of mobile phones, chat sites or networks are clear signs that one is a hungry ghost.

The best thing to do is just stay home and ride it out. Read a book. Find some good clean fun.