Tourist Trade

This was tourist trade. They wrap themselves in the bright colours of the sky and earth and wield their camera phones in every direction. #Betyouwishyouwerehere #sun!

Herding towards the authentic aboriginal art prints, they will look at the price-tags. Could I get this on eBay for cheaper?
Or, a collective sigh between their partners: how hard is it to dot paint anyways?

But some will buy the paper bark, the stretched out canvas, because for a fleeting moment they want to be in touch with the real Kimberelys.

The backpackers play cards at Cable Beach, eat crackers with sour cream and watch the sun repeatively dive into the sea. The locals hate em. Hate all em freeloading bastards. And who can blame them? They are tanned, beautiful and living free on the cemented car-parks that the council built for the tourist trade.

My favourite part in the Lonely Planet guide on Broome is the section called:

But day after day the tourist trade mount a camel hump and thump along the beach as the sun sets, their cameras gripped between the saddle and their white fingers.


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