It’s always easy to make fun of the tourists. You know who they are — those people in shorts and fanny packs, shifting near-sighted, slightly confused looks between guide books and famous landmarks, loudly reading descriptions verbatim from the book to bored-looking children and distracted spouses. Those people grinning and making strange shapes with their fingers (Jersey Shore? Isn’t that the documentary about the effects of alcohol on the cognitively disabled?), while a third person takes shaky, out-of-focus photos that show, for instance, the lower three feet of the coliseum as obscured by the lower eight inches of two tourists’ heads.
But rest peaceful, fellow xenophiles, in the knowledge that we, at least, are not like them. In fact, the difference between tourists and travelers is generally fairly distinctive, and yes, I’m talking about more than just the unmistakable olfactory perception that a person’s clothes have been washed in a sink for the last two months. Though we “serious” travelers presumably try to engage with local cultures more fully, to learn at least a few words in assorted languages, and to experience things tourists will never dream of, we have our own share of problems.
These are all problems I’ve noticed in myself, and which I want to change as I continue to travel and experience the world.
The Elitism of the Intentionally Deprived
I’ve always prided myself on being able to thrive in rough conditions, and quite a lot of other travelers do too. It’s even one of the many ways by which travelers meeting for the first time can establish a social hierarchy (along with “the most rustic form of transportation you’ve used” and “the strangest place you’ve had sex”): the guy who slept in a barn in Romania beats the chick who had the creepy hotel room in Prague, and both are trumped by the couple who got invited to stay with a young family in a traditional houseboat in Thailand.
And honestly, pride at at minimal needs is quite justifiable. Need less, use less, be happier; it really can be that simple. The problem, though, is when we stop trying to trim down our own needs and start projecting our first-world guilt on our first-world fellow citizens. It’s easy, while sleeping in a tent in the jungle, to feel critical, even resentful, hateful, of the theoretical rich-person-in-the-huge-carbon-factory-mansion-with-the-private-jet-and-SUV-limo. It’s easy to then walk into an internet cafe and fire off a blog post or a Facebook status update containing a self-righteous (but pithy) comment along those lines.
But really, who are we to feel such superiority? We aren’t poor, in the sense of “find work or starve” poverty. We aren’t particularly light on resources, given the thousands of miles we tend to traverse in pursuit of our next travel fix. And most of us don’t really contribute much to our societies beyond some pretty pictures and diverting stories.
What we can do, though, is raise awareness. We can photograph environmental damage, publicize interesting ecological and sociological innovations. We can talk with people, real people, affected both by environmental change and poverty. We can try to describe things as they are, and not as we think they should be. Above all, we can be humble. Without humility, the best we can hope for is to be correct douchebags.
Condescension to the Locals
What!? every self-respecting traveler in my audience immediately replies. We don’t do that! Tourists do that!
Well, yes. But we do it too. We just do it a little more subtly. As I said above, travelers compete in all sorts of categories, like languages and transportation and sex and food. Another one of these categories is “Staying with Local People.”
As you change from tourist to traveler, other travelers will increasingly be the target for your boasting. To the guy who’s lived in your home town for his entire life, there’s really not much difference between you staying in a five-star hotel or a ditch in the road — you’re on the other side of the world. To another traveler, though, the details are vital.
So: how often have you found yourself thinking, while enjoying local hospitality, “this is going to make for an awesome story”? I have, fairly often. But that shouldn’t be the focus, should it? When you’re a guest in someone’s home, you’re with people, to whom you represent other travelers, and with whom your differences can be extremely educational. Instead of daydreaming about how you’ll frame this story in order to impress the pretty backpacker at your next hostel, get involved. Learn. Contribute. Make your hosts glad they took you in, and give them a few stories of their own.
Condescension toward the Folks at Home
Put a group of travelers at a table somewhere “exotic,” say, at a rooftop taverna in view of the Acropolis or a smoky little Parisian bar, and you’ll get an exchange of stories and experiences, advice and recommendations, contacts and tidbits of information. This is one of my favorite parts of traveling: there’s a certain camaraderie between travelers that, as a chronic nomad, you’re unlikely to find anywhere else. Travelers are often interesting, intelligent, well-informed, and experienced, and mutual respect and admiration develops easily.
Contrast this with the return home. All of a sudden, you’re back with the “locals,” the people with whom you grew up and from whom you may even now be trying to distance yourself. Because you know them so well, you respect them less, even as you gush about the “simplicity” and “hospitality” of, say, the Bedouin.
The key here is, as usual, to shift your focus from yourself to others. So you’ve been off seeing the world; your hometown hasn’t exactly been in a stasis state. While you were gone, unconnected, drifting, your friends at home were falling in love, having kids, starting businesses, and finding new ways of looking at familiar country. Don’t look down on them, and whatever you do, don’t “pity” them, as if you were somehow perched in some elevated way of being. Learn from them. Enjoy being with them. Hometown folks aren’t often travelers, but don’t “lower” your expectations; broaden them. Be yourself, be curious, and forget about trying to prove something. And when you are in that exotic little bar on the other side of the world, represent them, and brag about their good sides to your traveler companions.
Checklisting
Of all the ways travelers have of comparing levels of experience, “the number of countries you’ve been to” has to be one of the most common. The proper response when asked about this by another traveler is to look thoughtful, as if you haven’t repeatedly tallied your score at every border crossing, and pretend to work it out in your head before finally giving in and telling them. “Only sixty-three,” you’ll say, modestly, “seventy-one if you count airports.”
This one was inspired by a travel blog, which shall remain unnamed, which I read recently. The goal of said blogger was to visit every country in the world — which isn’t a bad goal in itself. The problem with it is that it allows for technical victories. Spend six hours between flights wandering around a big city and, with a stroke of your pen, you can cross that nation off your list. You work out squiggle-like itineraries on every trip you go on — cross this corner here, you think, and you’re done with Croatia.
As good as this is for bragging rights, it’s really not that interesting, and just a little deceptive. For instance, I spent a day in Germany on my way back from my 2009 trip, so I can technically claim that I’ve “been to” Germany (and I usually do, when reciting my own checklist). But have I really seen Germany? No. I spent a week in Paris, but does that entitle me to say I’ve “seen” France? Maybe in conversation, but I can’t say that to myself. I’ve lived in the United States for the most of my life, and I still haven’t seen a Louisiana bayou or a Texas cattle ranch or an Alaskan grizzly or a Florida beach party. Have I seen Germany? I’ve barely even seen my homeland.
The desire to checklist, to “do” a country, to hit all of the top ten sights of a city, to eat the five main foods or take the top eight train journeys, distracts from the real process of travel itself. Constantly thinking about the future, about your bragging rights, your place in the traveler hierarchy, keeps you from thinking about where you are, what you’re seeing now, what you’re smelling, hearing, feeling.
So: I’ll pledge this to you now, in preparation for my next adventure. I’m not going to checklist, if I can help it. I’m not going to track the number of countries I visit or cities I explore or foods I try. I’m just going to go with the flow, take what comes, and write about it as best I can.
That, after all, is the only real way to travel.
