Staying at Barkly Backpackers in St Kilda was one of the most disturbing, disrespectful, and outright disgusting travel experiences I’ve had anywhere on Earth. What’s marketed as a fun, budget-friendly backpacker hub is actually a seedy, lawless squat run by self-entitled drifters and burnout staff who seem to have confused hospitality with hostility.
Let’s start with the staff and long-term stayers — or as they clearly see themselves, the self-appointed gatekeepers of this crumbling little kingdom. They form a smug, impenetrable clique, whispering in corners, sharing drugs “off cam,” and treating anyone new like an unwanted guest at their private party. Their idea of professionalism? Stumbling in at 3am, high and drunk, collapsing in common areas, and turning the place into a 24/7 substance-fueled free-for-all.
One morning, I walked past the front reception to find one of the staff fully passed out cold, an empty bag of cheap wine on the counter like a welcome mat from hell. If that doesn’t scream "we’ve given up," I don’t know what does.
But the cherry on this rancid cake? The front desk girl. Brunette. Permanently sour expression. You’ll know her when you see her — or rather, feel the blast of her icy disdain before she even makes eye contact. She has the charm of a malfunctioning ATM and the warmth of a tax audit. A condescending, passive-aggressive buzzkill in boots, dripping with that uniquely unpleasant blend of performative authority and Mean Girl superiority. Try asking her a question — anything — and watch her roll her eyes so hard she almost levitates. A customer service horror show in human form.
The worst moment for me? I had an epileptic seizure on the couch in the common room. I came to, dazed and vulnerable, in full view of multiple people. Not one person helped. Not one staff member even checked on me. I was just another disruption to their precious little drug den. The incident is likely on CCTV — though I suspect it’ll quietly disappear, like any other inconvenient truth around here.
On top of that, I made the innocent mistake of bringing a small stash of nitrous on my first night. Within minutes, it was inhaled by the resident freeloaders with the speed and finesse of wild animals. No thanks, no shame, no boundaries.
Barkly Backpackers isn’t a hostel. It’s a tragic social experiment in what happens when responsibility is completely abandoned, and narcissism is left to fester. The place runs on stale weed smoke, warm goon, and cold stares. If you're into being treated like an outsider, surrounded by selfish junkies and bitter teenagers trapped in adult bodies — congratulations, you’ve found your Eden.
Everyone else: run far, far away.
