At first I read Dark Star Safari by Paul Theroux in
which he recounts his journey from Cairo, Egypt to Cape Town, South
Africa. Having written several books
about his train trips through Africa and Asia, Theroux is well known in travel
literature. He taught in Uganda and
Kenya during the 1960s and speaks a few local languages, so he knows the
African continent quite intimately.
I went to Africa for
a month when I volunteered to teach English in a small Ghanaian town generally
unfrequented by foreigners. Compared to
Theroux, I am a novice at navigating dusty back-roads in remote areas. Initially to my annoyance, Theroux flaunts
his ability to confidently traverse the continent by using desolate and often
dangerous routes. Undoubtedly, this type
of travel is unnerving if you are accustomed to constant mile markers, gas
stations, and general signs of civilization.
I once traveled nine
hours on three separate makeshift buses that sped down pothole-ridden roads. These “bus drivers” are seemingly intent on
killing everyone inside. A collision with another uninspected
hunk of metal seems inevitable. My friend, who
had been to Africa before, advised me not to look out the windshield, or I’d only
grow frantic. The drivers always go
insanely fast, and they often drive in the wrong lane to avoid giant craters in the road.
When this happens, your life is out of
your hands. You gave up control when you
decided to board the rickety van stuffed with sweaty Africans. These things crash all the time, but you try
to forget that. Seatbelts are a luxury,
and therefore not included in this ride.
The van can comfortably seat eight passengers, but there are twenty of
you crammed inside this AC-less machine.
If you wreck, chances are, one of you is flying out the windshield.
Theroux argues that
tourists avoid these dangerous routes and instead fly into the international
airports and then proceed on paved roads to luxurious lodges situated near
safari parks. In the process, Theroux
believes, tourists completely bypass the real Africa: the bustling streets, the questionable hotel
rooms, and the armed bandits lurking on the outskirts of town. Real travelers, the author seems to suggest,
cross borders on foot, even that means being shot at by shifta gangs in the
bush.
With the ceaseless
rain the background, I reflected on this in the relative warmth of a Welsh
hostel. With nowhere to roam without getting soaked, I pondered
the difference between a tourist and a traveler.
In certain crowds, the
word tourist harbors a negative connotation.
They are often viewed as unwanted, ignorant pests who only visit the
monuments and restaurants highlighted in their Lonely Planet travel guides. The places constantly filled with an endless
tide of tourists are deemed traps. Once a popular spot becomes overrun with
foreign visitors, a location may lose its authenticity and become tacky. Locals
and seasoned travelers avoid these places as though they literally are
infested.
Before I entered a
new city, I was usually nervous because I didn’t know my way around. Most of all, I wanted to hide the fact that I
was a tourist, as though it were a rash I was ashamed to display. I realize now that this sensation was caused
by my fear of failure combined with an American inclination to conquer and
control my environment. I was one of
those stubborn roamers too proud to admit that I was lost and needed help. In order to reach this epiphany, I needed to
struggle with my self-image. I needed to
accept that I was a tourist and convince myself that it isn’t a pejorative label.
In the beginning of
my trip, I took awful pictures of grand architecture. I would stop at a famous building, lean back,
and compose a tilted picture that fit roughly 10% of the building within the
frame.
Some of my pictures
of landmarks included other people taking even worse and more titled pictures
of the same landmark.
I took these
photos because I felt like I had to. I
envisioned upon my return that my friends would ask me, for instance, if I saw
Big Ben in London. How could I go to
London and not see Big Ben? Everyone else apparently felt this same urge,
but why did we believe a visit to Big Ben was compulsory?
Did I snap a photo
of Big Ben to prove that I was there and that I held that clock tower under my
gaze for the briefest of moments? Or did
I take that picture so my friends and family back home could travel vicariously
through my eyes and my amateur photography? Or am I merely preserving these moments for
future bouts of nostalgia?
I suppose I took a
picture of Big Ben for all of those reasons, but the puzzling thing is that I already
knew what it looked like before I visited London for the first time. I was making no discovery to show off to my
friends. Even they, some of whom never
left America, can picture Big Ben in their minds thanks to Peter Pan and Google Images.
Modern technology
has certainly made the world smaller and debunked several myths about far-away
lands. Although I am sitting at my
dining room table in St. Petersburg, Florida, I can see Big Ben on my laptop
screen. So what was I doing in front of
that clock tower in London? What difference
does it make that I see these monuments in person?
Honestly, sometimes
there is no difference. I saw Big Ben in
London, and months after my trip I’ve never thought about it again until
now. A common argument is that you
should visit these places before you die just to say you’ve been there. I have found that crossing off monuments like
items on a grocery list is a very unfulfilling process. My life is no more enriched because I laid
eyes on the bricks that when combined create the clock tower that is Big Ben. I don’t recommend traveling to see things,
but rather to change the way you see things.
However, there is no sure-fire way of accomplishing this, so you have to
wander around. You can’t expect to be
moved by every attraction and every city.
But by having the courage to leave home, you increase your odds of
stumbling upon something wonderful, even if it means you’re following a horde
of those “pesky tourists.”
If I never went on the
walking tour in Edinburgh, I never would’ve found the evidence to hail it as my
favorite city. And I made that discovery
while on a touristy jaunt with strangers.
While in Philadelphia, I visited Independence Hall in and felt nothing,
but I had a transcendent experience with a cheesesteak at Jim's Steaks, the number one
recommended restaurant on South Street.
In a similar fashion, I was unmoved by the spectacle of the Mona Lisa
but in awe of the sheer size and bloody history of the Coliseum.
Although I hesitate
to join large crowds, I often found myself in one, lining up to see a prized
possession of the world. I realize I was
being hypocritical when I labeled tourists as unoriginal
and pretentious with their Selfies in front of the Eiffel Tower. I thought I was somehow different from the
masses. I didn’t want to be engulfed by
a featureless blob and lose my individuality to the herd. I did my best to
navigate the back-streets, but inevitably I found myself at a mainstream destination. I simply could not escape the current. I couldn’t visit Paris and bypass the Eiffel
Tower. Anybody who does that is just
begging to be different for the sake of being different.
My shyness and
initial discomfort in the claustrophobic presence of strangers motivated me to
find a quiet spot for dinner or to appreciate a solitary view——just a sliver
all to myself. But I realized that I was
in the wrong place for this. What I was
looking for can be found in the wilderness or in dodgy alleys, where I have
reason to fear the company of bears and bandits. But at Europe’s popular destinations, I
joined my fellow tourists, and we paraded down well-worn streets.
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