Here are some of my favourite bits from some of my favourite books written by writers whom I like to think of as travel writers, even though some of them would obviously object to that thought. I hope they tempt you to buy the book and read the whole thing.
Edward Abbey, Desert Solitaire (1968) Neil Ansell, Deep Country (2011) Bruce Chatwin, The Songlines (1987) Philip Connors, Fire Season (2011) William Dalrymple, From the Holy Mountain (1997) Robyn Davidson, Tracks (1980) Catrina Davies, Homesick (2019) Roger Deakin, Waterlog (1999) Charles Foster, Being a Beast (2016) Andrew Harvey, A Journey in Ladakh (1983) Tracy Johnston, Shooting the Boh (1992) Jamaica Kincaid, Among Flowers (2005) Tété-Michel Kpomassie, An African in Greenland (1981) Peter Matthiessen, The Snow Leopard (1978) Geoffrey Moorhouse, The Fearful Void (1974) Andrew X. Pham, Catfish and Mandala (1999) George Sibley, Part of a Winter (1978) Paul Theroux, The Old Patagonian Express (1979) Binyavanga Wainaina, One Day I Will Write About This Place (2011) Sara Wheeler, Travels in a Thin Country (1994)
Edward Abbey Desert Solitaire (1968)
The mountains are almost bare of snow except for patches within the couloirs on the northern slopes. Consoling nevertheless, those shrunken snowfields, despite the fact that they’re twenty miles away by line of sight and six to seven thousand feet higher than where I sit. They comfort me with the promise that if the heat down here becomes less endurable I can escape for at least two days each week to the refuge of the mountains – those islands in the sky surrounded by a sea of desert. The knowledge that refuge is available, when and if needed, makes the silent inferno of the desert more easily bearable. Mountains complement desert as desert complements city, as wilderness complements and completes civilization.
A man could be a lover and defender of the wilderness without ever in his lifetime leaving the boundaries of asphalt, powerlines and right-angled surfaces. We need wilderness whether or not we ever set foot in it. We need a refuge even though we may never need to go there. I may never in my life get to Alaska, for example, but I am grateful that it’s there. We need the possibility of escape as surely as we need hope; without it the life of the cities would drive all men into crime or drugs or psychoanalysis.
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Hot and tired I stop in the shade of an overhanging ledge and take a drink from my canteen. Resting, I listen to the deep dead stillness of the canyon. No wind or breeze, no birds, no running water, no sound of any kind but the stir of my own breathing.
Alone in the silence, I understand for a moment the dread which many feel in the presence of primeval desert, the unconscious fear which compels them to tame, alter or destroy what they cannot understand, to reduce the wild and prehuman to human dimensions. Anything rather than confront directly the ante-human, that other world which frightens not through danger or hostility but in something far worse – its implacable indifference.
Neil Ansell Deep Country (2011)
Imagine being given the opportunity to take time out of your life, for five whole years. Free of social obligations, free of work commitments. Think how well you would get to know yourself, all that time to consider your past and the choices you had made, to focus on your personal development, to know yourself through and through, to work out your goals in life, your true ambitions.
None of this happened, not to me. Perhaps for someone else it would have been different. Any insight I have gained has been the result of later reflection. Solitude did not breed introspection, quite the reverse. My days were spent outside, immersed in nature, watching. I saw as much as I did because of two things: the first, quite simply, was time, the long hours spent out in the field; the second was alertness, a state of heightened attentiveness. My attention was constantly focused away from myself and on to the natural world around me. And my nights were spent sitting in front of the log fire, aimlessly turning a log from time to time and staring at the flickering flames. I would not be thinking of the day just gone; the day was done. And I would not be planning tomorrow; tomorrow would take care of itself. The silence outside was reflected by a growing silence within. Any interior monologue quietened to a whisper, then faded away entirely. I have never practised meditation, but there is a goal in Buddhist practice of achieving a condition of no-mind, a state of being free of thought, and I seemed to have found my way there by accident. I certainly learned to be at ease with myself in the years I spent at Penlan, but it was not by knowing myself better – it was by forgetting I was there. I had become a part of the landscape, a stone.
Bruce Chatwin The Songlines (1987)
I had a presentiment that the ‘travelling’ phase of my life might be passing. I felt, before the malaise of settlement crept over me, that I should reopen those notebooks. I should set down on paper a résumé of the ideas, quotations and encounters which had amused and obsessed me; and which I hoped would shed light on what is, for me, the question of questions: the nature of human restlessness.
Pascal, in one of his gloomier pensées, gave it as his opinion that all our miseries stemmed from a single cause: our inability to remain quietly in a room.
Why, he asked, must a man with sufficient to live on feel drawn to divert himself on long sea voyages? To dwell in another town? To go off in search of a peppercorn? Or go off to war and break skulls?
Later, on further reflection, having discovered the cause of our misfortunes, he wished to understand the reason for them. He found one very good reason: namely, the natural unhappiness of our weak mortal condition: so unhappy that when we gave to it all our attention, nothing could console us.
One thing alone could alleviate our despair, and that was ‘distraction’ (divertissement): yet this was the worst of our misfortunes, for in distraction we were prevented from thinking about ourselves and were gradually brought to ruin.
Could it be, I wondered, that our need for distraction, our mania for the new, was, in essence, an instinctive migratory urge akin to that of birds in autumn?
All the Great Teachers have preached that Man, originally, was a ‘wanderer in the scorching and barren wilderness of this world’ – the words are those of Dostoevsky’s Grand Inquisitor – and that to rediscover his humanity, he must slough off attachments and take to the road.
My two most recent notebooks were crammed with jottings taken in South Africa, where I had examined, at first hand, certain evidence on the origin of our species. What I learned there – together with what I now knew about the Songlines – seemed to confirm the conjecture I had toyed with for so long: that Natural Selection has designed us – from the structure of our brain-cells to the structure of our big toe – for a career of seasonal journeys on foot through a blistering land of thorn-scrub or desert.
If this were so; if the desert were ‘home’; if our instincts were forged in the desert; to survive the rigours of the desert – then it is easier to understand why greener pastures pall on us, why possessions exhaust us, and why Pascal’s imaginary man found his comfortable lodgings a prison.
Philip Connors Fire Season (2011)
Being here alone I may not be my best self, in the social sense of the phrase, but I am perhaps my truest self: lazy, goofy, happiest when taking a nap or staring at the shapes of mountains. My friends back in town often want from me a report on the nature of solitude, on what it does to the mind to spend so much time alone. In these early days, I’d have little to tell them. A few quiet words from Gary Snyder’s ‘Lookout Journal’ guide my days –
fewer the artifacts, less the words slowly the life of it a knack for nonattachment
My own insights are fragmentary, fleeting. I write something in my notebook and forget it an hour later. I do not so much seek anything as allow the world to come to me, allow the days to unfold as they will, the dramas of weather and wild creatures. I am most at peace not when I am thinking but when I am observing. There is so much to see, a pleasing diversity of landscapes, all of them always changing in new weather, new light, and all of them still and forever strange to a boy from the northern plains. I produce nothing but words; I consume nothing but food, a little propane, a little firewood. By being virtually useless in the calculations of the culture at large I become useful, at last, to myself.
‘You ever get lonely up here?’ Kameron, the younger of the two, asks as he looks around the cabin.
‘Nope. Not really.’
‘You ever get, you know, sad or anything like that?’
This requires a thoughtful response. Sad is too small and mean a word for the feelings this place evokes in me, yet I’d be lying to say I live here in a state of perpetual ecstasy, like the blissed-out bodhisattva Kerouac dreamed of becoming. On the other hand I’m not about to tell two guys in leather chaps and cowboy hats about my very real and near-mystical hours of longing and nostalgia, alone in my little glass box, brooding over and exulting in my own mortality amid mountains silently magisterial in the late-day sun. Nor the hours of sitting and staring into the inscrutable heart of the desert, not thinking anything, not feeling anything – neither happy nor sad nor any quantifiable mixture thereof. Merely alive with a hungry retina and a taste for dry mountain country and a jones for the sight of that first twist of smoke.
‘The only time my heart sinks is when hikers show up. But it doesn’t happen often and they never stay long.’
They laugh and look at each other, wondering, perhaps, if I’m trying to tell them something. It’s no wonder our Forest Service brethren think of us lookouts as the freaks on the peaks. We have, in the words of our forebear Edward Abbey, ‘an indolent, melancholy nature’. Our walk home is always uphill. We live alone on the roof of the world, clinging to the rock like condors, fiercely territorial. We ply our trade inside a steel-and-glass room immaculately designed to attract lightning. Our purpose and our pleasure is to watch: study the horizon, ride out the storms, an eagle eye peeled for evidence of flame.
Kameron leans back and yawns, rubs his clean-shaven jaw. The clouds have begun to spit sleet, compact little crystals flying horizontally on the wind, even as the sun shines overhead. Though it’s just a little squall, unlikely to last long, it serves as their excuse to get moving down the trail. I stand in the meadow and watch them descend through the trees. Les turns, offers a wave of his hand, and then they are gone. If I’m lucky, they’ll be the last of my government colleagues to set foot on this mountain all year. From here on out the peak will be mine. The thought makes me smile, as does the knowledge that hidden in my boxes of books are three spare bottles of bourbon.
William Dalrymple From the Holy Mountain (1997)
Again I inhabit a bare cell with white walls and a blue dado. Again, through the window, I hear the quiet rumour of hushed monkish talk, the occasional peal of bells, the purposeful rustle of habits. On the balcony next to mine a black-robed figure with a short beard, long hair and a tall cylindrical hat – Fr. Gregori, the monastery cook – is watering his pots of basil and tending his orange trees. Nearby a myna bird chatters in a cage. It could be Athos, and indeed an old oleograph of the Holy Mountain is framed on the wall of a corridor outside; but one glance at the bare rock wall of the cliff-face opposite my cell places this monastery firmly in the wilderness of Judaea, far from the cooling waters of the Aegean.
This is the desert where John Moschos took his vows and where he spent most of his monastic life, and tales of the monks of these bare hills fill most of the pages of The Spiritual Meadow. Having read so much about these Judaean desert fathers it is strange finally to see the austere landscape that forms the background to their exploits. It is stranger still to find many of their superstitions, fears and prejudices alive in the conversation of the monks who still inhabit this, the last of the ancient monasteries of the Holy Land to survive as a functioning community. But the stories of devils and demons, visions and miracles which sometimes seemed ludicrously outlandish when I first read them under a grey London sky sounded quite plausible last night, when told in the starlight looking out onto a cliff-face honeycombed with the cells of long-dead hermits and holy men.
‘Look at it!’ said Fr. Theophanes, the monastery’s tall, gaunt Guest Master, waving a hand at the dark rocky gorge beneath us. ‘There it is: the Valley of Doom. The Valley of Dreadful Judgement.’
Below us the monastic buildings of Mar Saba fell away in a ripple of chapels, cells and oratories, each successive layer hanging like a wasps’ nest from a ledge on the rockface. Opposite, the top of the cliff wall had turned an almost unnatural shade of red in the last of the evening light. The rock was pitted with caves, each formerly the cell of a Byzantine monk. All were now deserted.
‘It’s very beautiful,’ I said.
‘Beautiful?’ said Fr. Theophanes, rustling his robes in horror. ‘Beautiful? See down there at the bottom? The river? Nowadays it’s just the sewage from Jerusalem. But on Judgement Day that’s where the River of Blood is going to flow. It’s going to be full of Freemasons, whores and heretics: Protestants, Schismatics, Jews, Catholics … More ouzo?’
The monk paused to pour another thimbleful of spirit into a small glass. When I had gulped it down, he continued with his Apocalypse. ‘At the head of the damned will be a troop composed of all the Popes of Rome, followed by their deputies, the Vice-Presidents of the Freemasons …’
‘You’re saying the Pope is a Freemason?’
‘A Freemason? He is the President of the Freemasons. Everyone knows this. Each morning he worships the Devil in the form of a naked woman with the head of a goat.’
‘Actually, I’m a Catholic.’
‘Then,’ said Theophanes, ‘unless you convert to Orthodoxy, you too will follow your Pope down that valley, through the scorching fire. We will watch you from this balcony,’ he added, ‘but of course it will then be too late to save you.’
I smiled, but Fr. Theophanes was in full swing and clearly in no mood for joking. ‘No one can truly know what that day will be like.’ He shook his head gravely. ‘But some of our Orthodox fathers have had visions. Fire – fire that will never end, terrible, terrible fire – will come from the throne of Christ, just like it does on the icons. The saints – those who are to be saved, in other words the Orthodox Church – will fly in the air to meet Christ. But sinners and all non-Orthodox will be separated from the Elect. The damned will be pushed and prodded by devils down through the fire, down from the Valley of Josephat, past here – in fact exactly the route those Israeli hikers took today – down, down to the Mouth of Hell.’
‘Is that nearby?’
‘Certainly,’ said Theophanes, stroking his beard. ‘The Mouth of Hell will open up near the Dead Sea.’
‘That is in the Bible?’
‘Of course,’ said Theophanes. ‘Everything I am telling you is true.’
Robyn Davidson Tracks (1980)
The self did not seem to be an entity living somewhere inside the skull, but a reaction between mind and stimulus. And when the stimulus was non-social, the self had a hard time defining its essence and realizing its dimensions. The self in a desert becomes more and more like the desert. It has to, to survive. It becomes limitless, with its roots more in the subconscious than the conscious – it gets stripped of non-meaningful habits and becomes more concerned with realities related to survival. But as is its nature, it desperately wants to assimilate and make sense of the information it receives, which in a desert is almost always going to be translated into the language of mysticism.
What I’m trying to say is, when you walk on, sleep on, stand on, defecate on, wallow in, get covered in, and eat the dirt around you, and when there is no one to remind you what society’s rules are, and nothing to keep you linked to that society, you had better be prepared for some startling changes. And just as Aborigines seem to be in perfect rapport with themselves and their country, so the embryonic beginnings of that rapport were happening to me. I loved it.
And my fear had a different quality now too. It was direct and useful. It did not incapacitate me or interfere with my competence. It was the natural, healthy fear one needs for survival.
Although I talked constantly to myself, or Diggity or the country around me, I was not lonely – on the contrary, had I suddenly stumbled across another human being, I would have either hidden, or treated it as if it were just another bush or rock or lizard.
To this day, I think one of the major breakthroughs I made on that trip was learning the gentle art of farting. I had never farted before. Well, maybe once or twice, but then only pathetic little pfffttts. God knows what happened to all that air. Must have seeped through the pores of my skin at night I suppose. Ah, but now, now I could blart with the best of them – good solid base thrums which spooked the camels and scared flocks of spinifex pigeons into the air. Diggity and I had competitions: she always won for poisonousness, I for sonorousness.
Catrina Davies Homesick (2019)
Later, when I was alone, I stretched out in front of the fire like a cat, enjoying the warmth from the floorboards soaking into my bones. I went outside and watched the smoke curling out of the chimney – my chimney – then I went back inside and put more wood on the fire – my fire. I sat cross-legged in front of it, staring at the flames. I felt the heat burning the tension out of my body. The fire was still burning when I went to bed. I lay in bed, watching the flames from my own hearth flicker in the darkness.
But there is no fire without smoke, and a plume of smoke rising from a chimney says home like nothing else does. I had crossed an invisible line, had forgotten that even though it felt like home, more and more with every passing day, the shed was not a home. Even though I dwelt there, harming nobody, as far as I could tell, the shed was not a dwelling, and dwelling in it was not allowed.
The letter arrived on Tuesday.
Roger Deakin Waterlog (1999)
You see and experience things when you’re swimming in a way that is completely different from any other. You are in nature, part and parcel of it, in a far more complete and intense way than on dry land, and your sense of the present is overwhelming. In wild water you are on equal terms with the animal world around you: in every sense, on the same level. As a swimmer, I can go right up to a frog in the water and it will show more curiosity than fear. The damselflies and dragonflies that crowd the surface of the moat pointedly ignore me, just taking off for a moment to allow me to go by, then landing again in my wake.
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I had climbed out of the river and was strolling back through the lovely water meadows still far away in my daydream, milkmaids plying me with laden bowls of fresh strawberries and cream, when a shout rudely intruded on my pink and brown study: ‘Do you realise this is private property?’ The horses looked up for a moment and resumed their grazing. I decided to ignore the two irate figures on the fenced footpath and pressed on with all dignity in my bathing trunks towards the hidden clothes in the nettle patch. It crossed my mind to make my escape across the water, but then I thought of Cobbett and what he would have done, and that settled it. I was going to stand up for my rights as a free swimmer.
I got changed as languidly as possible, then casually leap-frogged the fence and sauntered off along the path, whistling softly to myself, as an Englishman is entitled to do. ‘Excuse me,’ came a voice, ‘does that fence mean anything to you?’ This was unmistakable school talk, and I turned round to confront two figures straight out of Dickens; a short and portly porter with a beard and Alsatian, and a gangling figure on a bike with binoculars, strawberry-pink with ire, the College River Keeper. I introduced myself and enquired the cause of their disquiet. They said the river was the property of the college, and full of trout for the pleasure of the Old Wykehamists who sometimes fish there. It was definitely not for swimming in by hoi polloi.
‘But the ladies in the public library told me the whole of Winchester used to swim in the river here right up to the 1970s,’ I said.
‘That’s just the problem,’ they replied. ‘A few years ago we had six hundred people coming from the town, swimming in the river, eroding the banks and leaving litter behind.’
It sounded like paradise to me.
‘But surely,’ I said sweetly, ‘we should all have access to swim in our rivers just as we should be free to walk in our own countryside. Don’t they belong to all of us?’
The River Keeper practically fell off his bike. The porter flushed a deeper strawberry and allowed the Alsatian a little closer to my person. They both looked pityingly at me.
‘There’s plenty of coast and sea not far away if you want to swim,’ ventured the porter.
Charles Foster Being a Beast (2016)
The more respectably dressed you are, the harder it is to be a fox. No one has ever accused me of being respectably dressed, but even so I soon realised that I should be even more shabbily shambolic than usual. Someone in unstained trousers and an unripped jumper looks criminal if he’s raking through a herniated bin bag, but if you’re dirty, tired and slumped, no one minds. You’re translucent. People look through you. The grubbier you are, the more translucent you are. If you’re on all fours, sniffing at a sack, you’re invisible. Except to the authorities. And even there, sleeping is more offensive than doing.
I was shaken awake under the rhododendrons.
‘Can I help, at all, sir?’
‘No thanks. All’s fine.’
‘Can I ask what you’re doing, sir?’
‘Just having a little sleep, officer.’
‘I’m afraid you can’t sleep here, sir. You sure you’re OK, sir?’
‘Fine, thank you. And what’s the problem with sleeping here?’
‘It’s forbidden, as I’m sure you know. Trespassing. The owners can’t have people just sleeping.’
‘I can’t see that I’m interfering materially with the enjoyment of its title of a property management company registered in Panama.’
‘Are you trying to be clever, sir?’
I could think of no palatable answer to this. The policeman didn’t press me for one. He moved to another topic.
‘Why do you have to sleep here, may I ask?’
‘You may indeed ask, but I don’t suppose you’ll like the answer. I’m trying to be a fox, and’ – I rushed on, trying to avert my eyes from the torrential haemorrhage of the officer’s residual goodwill – ‘I want to know what it’s like to listen all day to traffic and to look at ankles and calves rather than at whole people.’
This last observation was a bad, bad mistake. I knew it as soon as it was out. For him, calves, ankles and concealment in an evergreen shrub meant perversion so deep that it should be measured in years inside. But I could see him struggling to identify the right pigeonhole for my depravity, and imagining the paperwork. Uncertainty and workload trumped his instincts, and he told me to ‘bugger off home, sir’ – the italics were powerful on his lips – ‘and get a life.’
‘That,’ I said, ‘is exactly what I’m trying to do.’
He looked paternalistically at me as I brushed the leaves off my jersey and walked home.
After that I cravenly slept under a groundsheet in my backyard.
Andrew Harvey A Journey in Ladakh (1983)
We woke before dawn, washed in icy water, went down to the prayer room for early morning prayers. The Rinpoche was amused that I had stayed the night. After prayers he waved me to him and said, ‘So you have decided to stay with us?’
‘I wish I could.’
‘You can stay as long as you like. Come when you like and go when you want.’
I bowed my head to thank him and my glasses fell off into his hands. He laughed and laughed and waved my glasses in the air, and then put them with a great air of conspiracy into his yellow silk shirt.
‘I am going to keep them for myself,’ he said.
‘You can keep them, of course. But I wish,’ I said, ‘you would give me back your eyes instead. You can keep mine as long as you like.’
He put my glasses back on with his own hands.
‘No. You must see with your eyes, not mine. Perhaps I can help you to see with your eyes.’
‘If you could help me to see with my eyes, I would be grateful to you.’
‘I do not want gratitude. I want you to stay a little time with us, to come when you want and learn what you need. That is all.’
And then he said, as he was walking out of the room back to his own quarters, ‘Come and see me again this evening.’
He looked so young that morning it was almost uncanny, especially since I remembered clearly how, the evening before, he had seemed weary and fragile. His skin shone. He saw me looking at him and laughed.
‘Whose eyes are you looking at me with? Mine or yours?’
‘I was in Pokhara once,’ Charles said, ‘sitting in a coffee house by the lake. It was cold. There was a beggar woman, very old and thin, sitting on the wooden benches outside, who asked me for some money. I gave her five rupees. She bought herself a meal, a soup of vegetables and potatoes. Then she did something extraordinary. There was a particularly mangy, filthy mongrel skulking about the door of the coffee house. The woman sat down on the ground with the dog and gave it exactly half her food. They ate together. She had nothing, no money, hardly any clothes; the dog was not hers. I did not feel she had said to herself, “I am going to share half my food with the dog.” No, she gave her food simply, spontaneously, without any sense, I saw, that she and the dog were different, or yet that there was any obligation on her part to give or on its part to be grateful. That is compassion.’
Tracy Johnston Shooting the Boh (1992)
Dayak parties were one of the reasons almost all of the modern adventurers had fallen in love with Borneo: they were drunken and hilarious. Most had a spiritual purpose that became clearer after a lot of tuak, or rice wine, but there was always plenty of dancing and silliness. Anthropologist Peter Metcalf writes that a Dayak party without noise, confusion, and laughter is considered a failure because the whole idea of it is to demonstrate spontaneous vitality. Sexual license, he explains, restores a village’s vigor. Exuberance breaks a village free from the grip of death.
American adventurer Eric Hansen first came to Borneo in 1976, and was invited to a party at an Iban village that started off with him having to participate in what must surely be one of the world’s strangest party games. He was given a live rooster and told to hit every man, woman, and child in the longhouse over the head with it. He started out giving people little taps, but one woman took the rooster from him and demonstrated how to do it right: grab the bird by the legs and swing it like a tennis racket. She demonstrated sizzling backhands and overhead smashes. By the time Hansen was finished, everyone was roaring with laughter and the rooster was dead.
And that was just the beginning. He was encouraged to drink glass after glass of tuak, and as the evening progressed young men grabbed old women and pantomimed humping them for laughs, young girls were made to sing and then grabbed and smeared with pot black, and one old man went so berserk he had to be tied to a post with jungle vines. Guns were fired into the jungle; men, women, and children got sick over the longhouse railings; unmarried men and women went off into the jungle in new couplings; and finally the entire longhouse caught fire.
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‘So … no one really knows what we’re going to run into.’
‘And the only people who ever – maybe – scouted the river – the Dayaks – told us it’s dangerous.’
At least I knew the truth now, and, strangely enough, it made me feel better. I understood the impulse to discount bad news. Part of the fun of adventuring is going places and doing things people tell you not to. I even liked the idea that we didn’t really know what we were getting into on the Boh. Partly out of confusion and partly out of laziness, I’ve always thrived in an atmosphere of uncertainty. Whenever I take the random chances that come my way, life suddenly gets interesting. Besides, it’s hard to lead a deliberate life, I’ve discovered, harder to create a challenge than to accept one. And I hadn’t completely given up the sense of security that seems to come as a birthright to Westerners: we had paid our money; we had our return tickets; surely no reputable company would send us anywhere truly dangerous.
Jamaica Kincaid Among Flowers (2005)
That day we walked eight miles going gradually uphill. We stopped for lunch in the middle of a village and I asked for a cola soft drink, and received it. That was the last time such a thing happened. It was then that I began to notice this phenomenon. I saw a girl, about the same age my daughter was then, seventeen, combing the hair of someone else with much carefulness; she was combing through her familiar’s thick head of straight hair because it was riddled with lice. This was all done with a loving fierceness, as if something important depended on it. The person combing the hair used a comb that was fine-toothed and carefully went through the hair again and again, making sections and then dividing again the sections into little sections. This engagement between the delouser and head of hair made me think of love and intimacy, for it seemed to me that the way the person removed the lice from the head of hair was an act of love in all its forms. I saw this scene over and over.
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We left Topke Gola on a Saturday but I had no idea what that meant. When I am at home in Vermont, on a Saturday I do things that I do not do any other day of the week. When leaving Topke Gola on that day I had nothing to remind me that it was Saturday. We set off the way we had done all the other days when setting off. How strange it was to exist with a purpose, with something to do, something to be engaged in, but to have no sense of a time in which to place it. We had a routine all right, we were awakened by someone bringing us a cup of a hot beverage. We then were each given a bowl of hot water to clean ourselves and we did so. We got dressed, we ate our breakfast, which often was a delicious bowl of oatmeal and honey and hot milk. We filled our water bottles, we packed up our day bag, and we set off. We stopped for lunch somewhere, rested a little bit, and then we set off. At around half past three, usually we were starting to settle down for the night. It got dark, we ate dinner, and at around eight o’clock we were in our sleeping bags, in our tents reading, or chatting and then going to sleep. That was pretty much our day and our night. That was our routine. And yet there was nothing about it that was taken for granted. The day was always new, the night was always new. Except for the stops in Chyamtang and Topke Gola, we spent each day and each night in a different place. Our routine was constant movement and constant change; our routine was the new. But the new is not a routine. It was unsettling, feelings were sometimes hurt, tempers sometimes got lost. For the days we walked before coming to Chyamtang, Bleddyn complained about the route, especially after he had to pass up a trip up to the Barun Valley. Dan and I complained that our bags were never in camp when we got there and we had to stand around in our wet clothes and wait for the porters. Once the porters had gotten drunk and gotten into camp way after the day had turned into night. Sue never complained. I whined constantly, particularly about the bathroom situation. There was none. Each place we camped, a small tent was put up over a hole that had been freshly dug in the ground. That was our toilet. After we left camp, the hole was filled with dirt and it was made to look as if nothing had taken place there. I almost never visited the small tent with the hole in the middle of it, and I whined about it but mainly to myself.
Tété-Michel Kpomassie An African in Greenland (1981)
From now on, there would be five of us in this hut: Robert, his wife, his daughter, his son Niels, and I. Apart from the sleeping platform, there was no sleeping bag and no blanket that I could spread on the floor to sleep on. How were we going to spend the nights? A crucial question, but it didn’t seem to worry my hosts, since none of them raised it.
That night at bedtime, Robert was the first to lie down on the platform; he lay on the side nearest the door. A little later Niels joined him and lay on the opposite side, by the wall. I waited, for the women weren’t ready yet: they were putting away the dishes, then hanging up clothes on the drying-rack above the stove. They signaled that it was time to sleep: I offered to sleep on the floor, but this led to protests all around.
‘No! Dammassê (all of us) on the platform — it’s warmer that way!’ said Robert.
This everlasting need for animal warmth at night is the clinching argument put forward by Greenland hosts when a foreigner declines the invitation to share the bed where they sleep with their wife and children.
So I lay down next to Niels. A few minutes later, old Rebekka lay down beside her husband. Finally, to my great astonishment, Bolette took the space between her mother and me. Such was our order of sleeping for the rest of my stay.
On the first two nights, Bolette slept with her legs drawn up, facing her mother, keeping the same uncomfortable position until morning with a kind of savage obstinacy. Naturally, not being able to sleep forever on the same side, she eventually began to turn over fairly often. Never in my life shall I forget the disturbing contact and effect of her swollen belly, naked and burning hot, pressing against me.
On more than one occasion I happened to go to bed after my hosts. As I read or made notes at the little table by candlelight, I glanced up from time to time at the family all snoring there, half naked, legs intertwined, and wondered if the peculiar sleeping arrangements in Greenland didn’t encourage incest. Thinking back over the numerous houses I had stayed in, however, I realized that I had never come across a single case of it. This prohibition, rigorously observed, is remarkable. But for the Eskimo, the restriction goes even further than the family circle: the family taboo forbids any union between collaterals in general; a demographic study of the Thule tribe, carried out in 1952, claims that all marriages between cousins, even cousins six times removed, are forbidden. This doesn’t mean that the Eskimo has no innate desire to infringe the taboo. Sometimes transgressions of this type are recorded in the villages. Bolette, for example, didn’t know — or claimed not to know — who had fathered the child she carried, yet village gossip alleged that it was her own father. My personal observations gave no justification for paying the slightest heed to this assertion.
Naturally enough, on the common sleeping platform children regularly witness their parents’ sexual activities. The reactions of these little ones are varied. Some deliberately start crying to interrupt the act, while others, prevented from sleeping, ask their parents to make less noise. On the other hand, some pay keen attention in the semi-darkness to what is going on and the next day, in the presence of the laughing elders, imitate the pumping hips and moans of parental orgasm, without being labeled as future sexual delinquents. Faced with these expressive mimes, parents have three explanations for their excessive tolerance. In the first place, they would rather have their children imitate what they have seen, like this, without malice. The opposite reaction would be more to be feared, because it would foster dissimulation. After all, it’s not their fault — nor for that matter that of their parents — if they witness these acts; the real culprit is the cold, which for generations has compelled the family to sleep huddled together on the same platform. Secondly, these presumably innocent parodies reveal an inclination to make fun of a serious matter. As I had already noticed, the tendency to ridicule people and things is one of the qualities Greenlanders most appreciate. Parents are happy to find this characteristic in their children, even at their own expense. Thirdly — the excuse most often put forward — children grow up, so there’s nothing abnormal in their learning the facts of life at an early age.
Peter Matthiessen The Snow Leopard (1978)
The Lama of the Crystal Monastery appears to be a very happy man, and yet I wonder how he feels about his isolation in the silences of Tsakang, which he has not left in eight years now and, because of his legs, may never leave again. Since Jang-bu seems uncomfortable with the Lama or with himself or perhaps with us, I tell him not to inquire on this point if it seems to him impertinent, but after a moment Jang-bu does so. And this holy man of great directness and simplicity, big white teeth shining, laughs out loud in an infectious way at Jang-bu’s question. Indicating his twisted legs without a trace of self-pity or bitterness, as if they belonged to all of us, he casts his arms wide to the sky and the snow mountains, the high sun and dancing sheep, and cries, ‘Of course I am happy here! It’s wonderful! Especially when I have no choice!’
In its wholehearted acceptance of what is, this is just what Soen Roshi might have said: I feel as if he had struck me in the chest. I thank him, bow, go softly down the mountain: under my parka, the folded prayer flag glows. Butter tea and wind pictures, the Crystal Mountain, and blue sheep dancing on the snow – it’s quite enough!
Have you seen the snow leopard?
No! Isn’t that wonderful?
Geoffrey Moorhouse The Fearful Void (1974)
I sat for hours against the wall of the store, somewhere between a dazed lethargy and the old tension of wanting to be on my way before I lost the momentum of progress. A truck was being loaded ready to start the journey across the Tanezrouft into Algeria. Three young French students were waiting to go with it. They expected to be in Marseilles in four days, home in Paris within six. I much wanted to travel with them, but I knew that I wouldn’t. I had to go back into the desert on a camel, or my journey would have been a waste of everything I had so far done.
I now knew precisely what the most fearful thing consisted of; I had measured it, I had touched it, I had almost been destroyed by it. I had to go out to meet it anew, at once, or I would never dare look upon it again. If I turned my back upon it now, I would be pursued by it to the end of my life, always running away from the subject of my fear. And this would not be fear of death by thirst and dehydration, or fear of being lost in a wilderness of sand. It would be fear of encounter. Nothing more. Fear of encounter with a person, with a task, with anything at all intimidating that might cross my path. If I could go into the desert again to face another encounter with what I knew to be there, as exactly and clearly as if I had fashioned it myself, I could walk forwards for the rest of my life into all the deserts of my mind. And this, with love, would be the most precious gift in the world.
We walked through the trees and suddenly, as if some magician had waved his wand, I found myself leading two camels and a companion in torn and dusty desert clothes down a surfaced street. It was lined with trees, whitewashed halfway up their trunks. Inside the lines of trees were pavements. There were tables set out at intervals along these pavements and people were sitting at them, drinking coffee. They stared at me open-mouthed, as though I were a strange animal they had never seen before. I walked on, not daring to speak to any of them, not at all sure where I was going or what I was seeking. Towards the end of the street, I noticed a long low building with a courtyard and a crude sign which called it an hotel. In a reflex from a world apart from the one I had just crossed, I stopped and couched the camels. It was not the ending I had wished.
Andrew X. Pham Catfish and Mandala (1999)
In eight months of biking, I drink two or three cans of Coke a day, enough to carbonate my blood for the rest of my life. The caffeine picks me up and keeps me from succumbing to the midday low. The sugar gives me just enough energy to boost the heavy bike over the big hills. The carbonation burns the road grit off the back of my throat. The familiar flavor keeps me anchored in strange locales. The wavy red-and-white logo tells me America has been here.
Coke banners have displaced the Vietnamese flag. You can buy a Coke every five miles from Hanoi to Ho Chi Minh City. It’s everywhere, sold by the case in markets as well as by the can in shacks with a six-pack inventory. At sixty cents a can, it is as dear as a third of a laborer’s daily wage. Coke – or Koh-ka as Vietnamese pronounce it – is a special refreshment, reserved for special events such as first dates and wedding banquets.
Somewhere along an arid, scrubby stretch of land, I spot a thatched hut with a faded Pepsi flag out front, and a case of Cokes displayed on the windowsill. The noon sun has licked me dry. My mouth is a dusty crack. I pull over, lean my bike against a post, and waddle into the hut.
On a packed-earth floor, three soldiers in olive uniforms with red stripes are crouching on footstools around a coffee table. Their conversation breaks and they look up at me with liquor-shot eyes, their chopsticks hovering above plates of boiled gizzards curly like cashews, pig hearts sliced like truffles, intestines chopped up like rigatoni. The centerpiece is a basket of herbs sided by a pile of ivory garlic cloves. One man who is eating from a bowl of raw, coagulated blood pudding glares at me, the blood dribbling from his scruffy mustache. The still tobacco air pulsates with the sweet bite of raw spices, boiled innards, and home-brewed rice wine the men have burped up over hours of drinking. Hands braced on the table, they sit with their knees up near their ribs, three hyenas tearing into the ruptured belly of a deer.
Instinctively I nod, showing respect for their uniforms. A man growls something unintelligible into his cup.
In the far corner, a woman squats on her haunches, slicing boiled cow tongue on a wooden plank. She stops, alert at the abrupt silence, and, seeing me, tenses. ‘What do you want?’ she asks by way of greeting.
‘Hello, Older Sister. How are you?’
‘Well. What do you want?’
‘May I have a cold Coca-Cola?’
‘We don’t have cold ones. I can give you ice.’
I couldn’t drink their ice. ‘Could you put a can in the ice cooler for me? I’ll rest a bit first, then I’ll drink it.’
She looks me over, pauses, then nods without a word. Relieved that she didn’t take my request as an insult, I beat a hasty retreat to a seat outside. One of the men mumbles that the fucker at the door is a Viet-kieu. Can’t drink our ice, says another, too dirty for him. I groan inwardly, wondering if this pit stop is such a good idea after all. They begin to grouse about Viet-kieu in general. Dread settles in my stomach as I remember the mob that nearly lynched me in Ham Tan.
While I debate with my thirst whether to leave, a dust devil kicks up across the street and scares a skinny dog. It whimpers and scoots inside the hut. A drinker flings it a piece of organ meat. The mutt noses the morsel then curls up at the other end of the room, leaving the scrap uneaten. A revelatory silence washes the hut. A humiliating moment. They see me witnessing their shame. The woman hurriedly resumes her chopping, contriving a screen for us all.
‘Goddamn dog!’ the man with the bloody mustache hisses at the dog, but looks at me.
Another man puts down his chopsticks and leans back away from the food, trying to hide his embarrassment. Glances shoot back and forth. Colors deepen on their faces. Having invaded their world and witnessed their disgrace, I avert my eyes as casually as I can. But, too late, I almost hear their minds shifting gear.
‘Three cans of Coca-Cola,’ Bloody-Mustache shouts to the woman. I feel sick. It has come down to this.
George Sibley Part of a Winter (1978)
So here we are, Henry: sojourners in civilized life again.
Unlike Henry, though, I didn’t bring back from the woods an exhortation to ‘Simplify, simplify!’ From me, it would be hypocritical. Henry went to the woods alone, and returned alone; it’s easy enough for Henry to talk about simplicity. I went to the woods with my wife and one child, and returned with another child; it was, and is, evident to me that simplicity is not to be my lot.
I only envy Henry the advertised simplicity of his life maybe fifty percent of the time. Maybe even less. I’m reasonably sure I would envy him a lot less if I actually enjoyed his options – I was, after all, a bachelor once myself. I had friends and lovers with whom I broke off relations because they interfered too much with the comparative simplicity of life alone: they brought out what I regarded as the ‘worst’ in me and occasionally they drove me into what I can only term a shamefully bestial rage, a wildness unworthy of a civilized person.
Wildness! What the hell did you know of wildness, Henry! Henry saw a woodchuck crossing his path one night, and ‘was strongly tempted to seize and devour him raw … for that wildness which he represented.’ Suppose, instead, that had been a drunk and pissed-off Irishman crossing his path? You can bet that Henry would have had something to say; he always had something to say on the subject of Irishmen (whose shadows, he noted, had no ‘halo’ like his own did); but I doubt that he would have praised the man’s wildness. Not even if the man had seized and devoured a woodchuck raw.
Paul Theroux The Old Patagonian Express (1979)
Travel is at its best a solitary enterprise: to see, to examine, to assess, you have to be alone and unencumbered. Other people can mislead you; they crowd your meandering impressions with their own; if they are companionable they obstruct your view, and if they are boring they corrupt the silence with non-sequiturs, shattering your concentration with Oh, look, it’s raining and You see a lot of trees here.
♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠
I saw a three-storey house, with a verandah on each storey. It was grey and wooden and toppling, and it reminded me of the Railway Hotel I had seen in Zacapa. But this one looked haunted. Every window was broken and an old steam locomotive was rusting in the weedy front yard. It might have been the house of a plantation owner – there were masses of banana trees near by. The house was rotting and uninhabited, but from the remainder of the broken fence and the yard, the verandahs and the barn, which could have been a coach-house, it was possible to see that long ago it had been a great place, the sort of dwelling lived in by tyrannical banana tycoons in the novels of Asturias. In the darkening jungle and the heat, the decayed house looked fantastic, like an old ragged spider’s web, with some of its symmetry still apparent.
Mr Thornberry said, ‘That house. Costa Rican gothic.’
I thought: I saw it first.
The fellow across the aisle was sleeping. I looked at him and the others, and I was struck by their resemblance to me. I had decided quite early in my trip that I was an implausible traveller – no credit cards, no rucksack, I was not well-dressed enough to be a tourist on a ten-day jaunt through ruins and cathedrals; nor was I dirty or frazzled enough to be a wanderer. People asked me what I did, and when I said I was a geography teacher (‘Easter vacation!’) they doubted me. I mentioned my wife and children: but why was I here and they there? I had no ready answer to that one. Tourists regarded me as a back-slider, wanderers seemed to think I was an intruder, and natives did not understand me. It was hard to convince anyone that I did not have an ulterior motive, that I wasn’t on the run, a con-artist, a man with a scheme. I had a scheme – that was the worst of it – but I did not wish to disclose it. If I had told Thornberry, or Wolfgang, or the lady in Veracruz, or Bert and Elvera Howie, that I was a writer they would have either bolted or, as Bert Howie phrased it, ‘put a couple of layers of shit in my ear’.
But on this train, the Old Patagonian Express, I looked like everyone else; slightly unshaven, fairly presentable, with a battered suitcase, vaguely European, moustache drooping, scuffed leakproof shoes. It was a relief. I was, at last, anonymous. But what a strange place to be anonymous in! I blended with the foreground. But what a background! Amazing: I belonged on this train.
Binyavanga Wainaina One Day I Will Write About This Place (2011)
Ole Kamaro is slaughtering a sheep today.
We all settle on the patch of grass between the two compounds. Ole Kamaro makes quick work of the sheep and I am offered the fresh kidney to eat. It tastes surprisingly good: slippery warmth, an organic cleanliness.
Ole Kamaro introduces me to his sister-in-law Suzannah, and tells me proudly that she is in form four. Milka’s sister. I spotted her this morning staring at me from the tiny window in their manyatta. It was disconcerting at first, a typically Maasai stare, unembarrassed, not afraid to be vulnerable. Then she noticed that I had seen her, and her eyes narrowed and became sassy — street-sassy, like a girl from Eastlands in Nairobi.
Her breasts are sharp and bounce around under a T-shirt, quite indifferent to their effect.
So I am now confused how to approach her. Should my approach be one of exaggerated politeness, as is traditional, or casual cool, as her second demeanor requested? I would have opted for the latter, but her uncle is standing eagerly next to us.
She responds by lowering her head and looking away. I am painfully embarrassed. I ask her to show me where they tan their hides.
We escape with some relief.
‘So where do you go to school?’
‘Oh! At St Teresa’s Girls in Nairobi.’
‘Milka is your sister?’
We are quiet for a while. English was a mistake. Where I am fluent, she is stilted. I switch to Swahili, and she pours herself into another person, talkative, aggressive. A person who must have a Tupac T-shirt stashed away somewhere.
‘Arhh! It’s so boring here! Nobody to talk to! I hope Milka comes home early.’
I am still stunned. How bold and animated she is, speaking Sheng, a very hip street language that mixes Swahili and English and other languages. Here, so far from road and railway Kenya.
‘Why didn’t you go with the women today?’
She laughs. ‘I am not married. Ho! I’m sure they had fun! They are drinking muratina somewhere, I am sure. I can’t wait to get married.’
‘Kwani? You don’t want to go to university and all that?’
‘Maybe, but if I’m married to the right guy, life is good. Look at Milka. She is free, she does anything she wants. Old men are good. If you feed them, and give them a son, they leave you alone.’
‘Won’t it be difficult to do this if you are not circumcised?’
‘Kwani, who told you I’m not circumcised? I went last year.’
I am shocked, and it shows. She laughs.
‘He! I nearly shat myself! But I didn’t cry!’
‘Why? Si, you could have refused.’
‘Ai! If I had refused, it would mean that my life here was finished. There is no place here for someone like that.’
‘But . . .’
I cut myself short. I am sensing that this is her compromise — to live two lives fluently. As it generally is with people’s reasons for their faiths and choices, trying to disprove her is silly. As a Maasai, she would see my statement as ridiculous.
In Sheng, there is no way for me to bring it up that would be diplomatic; in Sheng she can only present this with a hard-edged bravado, because it is humiliating. I do not know of any way we can discuss this successfully in English. If there is a courtesy every Kenyan practices, it is that we don’t question each other’s contradictions; we all have them, and destroying someone’s face is sacrilege. If South Africans seek to fill the holes in their reality through building a strong political foundation, we spend a lot of time pretending our contradictions do not exist. To be a new thing in South Africa is normal. We know we sit on top of a rotting edifice; we are terrified of questioning anything deeply. There is nothing wrong with being what you are not in Kenya; just be it successfully. Almost all Kenyan jokes are about people who thought they had mastered a new persona and ended up ridiculous. Suzannah knows her faces well. We chat the whole lazy afternoon.
Sara Wheeler Travels in a Thin Country (1994)
A book read on a journey usually sticks to the ribcage of memory. Such associations are closely formed. I got on a bus back to Santiago having just finished three novels by the Chilean writer Isabel Allende, each more overblown than the last, and I turned in gratitude to a copy of Heart of Darkness which was becoming dog-eared in the carpetbag.
In Santiago I was again looked after by Simon and Rowena, who behaved as if it were perfectly normal for strange British women to pitch up from the bush. Beatriz, their amiable maid, took Rowena aside.
Beatriz (conspiratorially): ‘I’ve put Miss Sara’s clothes in the machine on a pre-wash. They smelt.’
Rowena (breezily): ‘Well, I’m not surprised. She’s been living in the mountains and camping on the beach for almost two months.’
Beatriz (shocked): ‘She didn’t camp alone, did she?’
Rowena: ‘No, she met a Chilean man and camped with him.’
Beatriz (appalled): ‘I see.’
I had found, in Santiago, a picture postcard by a photographer called Paz Errázuriz. It showed two hugely fat people hunched over what was apparently their bar in Chonchi. It was an old-fashioned zinc bar, and a row of bottles stood behind their heads. They were obviously man and wife, and they were staring straight at the camera, expressionless except for what might have been a glimmer of amusement, even contempt. It was such a beguiling image that I dragged Chris off on a pilgrimage to find this couple. The card stated that the name of the bar was La Sirena, and although it had changed its name to Bongo, everyone in Chonchi knew it.
Plastic seats had replaced the wooden benches and melamine the shiny zinc, but I was sure it was the right place as the woman serving was an identical but younger version of the one on my postcard. When I showed this card, the old couple were produced.
‘I suppose you’ve seen a lot of changes in the village,’ I said to the old man. He thought for a while. ‘No tanto’ – not so many.
Chris took a photo of me posing with the man; I wanted to recreate the card, with me in the wife’s place. When I got home, months later, I stuck the photo in one of my albums of Chile, underneath the postcard. When I was writing about Chilóe I got the album out to look at it again. Someone – I never discovered who – had captioned my photo, ‘He subsequently remarried.’