The Irony of Travel Writing: Easier When Travel is Difficult
OAXACA, Mexico- When the going is rough, the content springs from my fingers like a lake bursting through a crumbling dam; when the travel is wonderful and easy, I find less to grip on to and retell. I feel as if I am presenting an imbalanced view of world travel, as I have found that it is far easier to write about that which sticks in your craw, than report on what compelled you to smile.
The irony is that for every negative experience in travel there are ten positives.
I suppose this is why we keep traveling.
Kids, balloons, in Oaxaca
I walked through the zocolo in Oaxaca yesterday evening to find it full of children batting dozens of long tubes blown up like balloons into the air. The kids ran and hooted, repeatedly hitting the floating tubes of trapped air in to see who could keep them in the sky the longest. They would kick them, throw them, hit each other over the head with them. Sometimes a boy would kick one of these oblong balloons into the sky just to laugh when it fell upon another’s head — or better yet, an anal old passerby. I watched as these kids were running, laughing, playing. The day was coming to a close, and the scene was awash in golden light. A large ornate stone church rose up and presided over all, turning pink, yellow, and red in the ever dancing light. I smiled. My daughter ran into the melee of kids and tried to get herself included, but she was a little too small for basketball and was steam rolled.
I smiled and watched. I thought about all of the little things that make up my days of travel that make me smile. I then realized then that I seldom ever write about these little events. Perhaps I find it difficult to spin a public angle on my happiness — Why should anyone give a shit if Wade smiles about some kids playing with balloons? — but I find myself being made to smile through dozens of little interactions and observations each day.
If my attempt is to show the real side of travel, then I need to show the little moments of happiness along with the big moments of all out glee, annoyance, anger, and despair. For it is these little smiling moments that make up a traveler’s life.
Traveling, for all the hardships, discipline, and discomfort, is an incredibly joyous way to live.. I know of no other lifestyle within which the prime directive is searching out things to smile about. I recommend this way of life for a reason.
The people of Mexico
I’ve found the people in the south of Mexico more than willing to have conversation and smile back at me. When they get the chance they stop me and ask questions, often times they seem educated, intelligent, cosmopolitan when compared against their Central American neighbors. I enjoy speaking with the people in the streets here: the conversations build me up rather than suck me dry.
I smile as my little daughter tries to make friends. She smiles too, and has few reservations about communicating with people. A little boy gave her one of those tube balloons when he was finished with it, and Petra delighted in dragging it around in the streets behind her. She befriended another little girl and shared the balloon, then she pummeled her with it. Sometimes Petra’s enthusiasm for making friends is way beyond that of the recipient. On this occasion, my daughter speared a two year old girl in the gut with the balloon and drove her to the ground. Petra laughed. The little girl got up and tried to retreat behind the legs of her mother. Petra gave chase and they ran in circles around the narrow barricade: the girl ran for dear life, Petra ran for a new friend.
The mother laughed, I laughed too.
Easier to document the bad in travel
I went on two cheap tours while in Zipolite on the Oaxaca coast. One was awful, and I wrote all about it; one was truly enjoyable, and I fell silent in terms of publishing a record of it. Why? Because the tour where some amiable local guys took me out on a boat to look at some wild crocodiles, turtles, and then to a little zoo left no ill residues stuck in my craw. It was an enjoyable day, nothing to record here, everything was as it should have been.
It just seems blase for me not to write about walking around smiling at my world with my little daughter giggling and laughing, playing with monkeys, and yelling for turtles to come closer to her.
“Tuga, ven! Tuga, ven!”
I almost fell down laughing when Petra screamed bloody murder and panicked after a spider monkey at the zoo seized her arm with its tentacle like tail. I beamed with pride as her curiosity usurped her fear as she returned for round two with the monkey.
Though it also seems corny for me to go on an on telling you how happy traveling makes me — a real dick move, perhaps — though I am sure that if I did this well readership would grow exponentially. The positive in life can be stimulating as well — though this could place me perilously close to travel writing cliche:
“Oh, the sunset was so sunsetty.”
“The bustling market was so bustley.”
But to be honest, I need to include more smiles. As I know that for each scowl in travel there are ten smiles; for each negative incident, a week full of positive experiences. I want to tell you about the great meal that I ate, the comfortable bus ride, the cheap room, the cozy bed, but I find it easier to record the grit between my toes, the snot in my belly, the thorn in my side.
Why is this?
I’ve found that I often take the beautiful, the easy, the “this is how it is suppose to be,” in travel for being the landscape. That which jumps out of it is the intriguing, the awesome, the disgusting, the shocking — and this always makes for easier writing. The glorious background of travel is like white rice, and there just isn’t much to say about white rice: it is normal, usual, what you experience each day. For me, I smile all day long, I laugh consistently, I wake up happy, the white rice of my life is very high on the happiness scale.
Perhaps all of these travel tips, “how to” travel information, and encouragement that I try to give readers to step out on the road is just me atoning for a guilty conscious of sorts: for the man who doesn’t share his gold mine is a scrooge. I have been hiding this little secret for far too long: the dreamy vision of the romance of travel is real — if you know where to look for it. For me, it is not found in the resorts, the fancy dining halls, or on tours to see the magnificent in the world, but in the subtle happenings at street level: the romance of travel is measured by the sum of all the little smiles that come to your face throughout the day.