This Book Is About Travel

by Andrew Hyde

  The haze on the water looks like pollution over Doha, and still lingers out on the open ocean. We are equally about 50 miles from Qatar, Iran, and the United Arab Emirates — on top of the wreck site. “International waters, we can do what we want,” the captain informs us showing a stash of beer in the coolers. We can see the top of the ship through the turquoise water and drop anchor. We spend two dives going along and through the deserted ship now inhabited by thousands and thousands of fish swimming in unison around each corner of the new coral. The propeller is double the size of the other divers. The main hull is cracked open and we swim through it at 18 meters below the surface. A shadow is cast by the slowly crumbling boat as we swim through to a suddenly much warmer current. I float weightlessly on my back looking up at the light, my air bubbles slowly ascending to the surface. Why would I want to be anywhere else in the world?

  The boat makes the 50 mile return to the dock and we walk a while to find a cab back to the city. The tranquility of the dive is quickly lost as we negotiate for a cab for seven people. The cab driver wants to charge us a fare for each person, and I seem to be the only one negotiating. I play the “I’m really mad at the cab driver for ripping tourists off” game: getting in the cab, then stepping out of the cab and throwing my hands dramatically in the air. We get the fare down to a reasonable level and cram seven people in a cab with three seat belts. As we get out I have a few extra words for the cab driver about ripping people off. There is a couple trying to hail that same cab. They find another driver. As much bliss you will find in travel, you will find tension. Not being a regular makes you a target. As much as you can relax, you have to be paying attention to who you are interacting with and their intentions, “Friend.”

  Qatar has an army of workers imported from nearby regions building everything you see. The work conditions are not something very many people seem to want to talk about, as they have been featured in many articles by the Human Rights Watch. The ordained rule of “no construction if it is

  50 degrees Celsius outside,” is mitigated by controlling the media company that reports the weather. It seems to usually lingers at a convenient 49 degrees Celsius. Or so the rumor goes, anyway. The workers we befriend are all incredibly friendly and happy to talk about life and sport. A Nepalese man is on the job a mere three days after he arrived in Doha, and in his down time he is working on befriending any person that looks like they might have another job that might need someone just like him.

  There is a staggering amount of money in the government. Staggering. The city is quickly developing to be larger than Manhattan with even more sky scrapers in a 20 year period. I try to walk to dinner a few buildings away, but fail after the sidewalk ends in fields of dust. A car is covered in a pile of sand after being parked for just one day. The dust covers everything and a storm is on the horizon. We head back inside grateful for the day we had. In the morning I head to the airport.

  I look out the window as the plane flies off, and I am amazed, again, at the dust storms that cover the region. It doesn’t matter how much money this city may have, the dust still comes — a reminder that money still can’t quite buy everything; that an experience can be perfectly designed and simulated…but only within limits. The buildings grow distant (I think they are buildings), peaking out from the thick clouds of grey and red. I’m tired and in awe of the thinness of the line between reality and dreaming. I blink, then again, slowly — pondering if what I just saw was lucid.

  Chapter 6

  TRUTH COPY

  A melody of all my life; to seat out anger, to concentrate on the tasks of life, to feel the pleasure and delight of loneliness and freedom, to be all of a human being.

  — Fritz Scheiber

  HIROSHIMA, JAPAN

  Can you casually observe a problem in someone else’s life? How about a culture? When you walk down the street, can you point out a flaw in a community? Or does such a critical gesture merely help to point out the flaws in you?

  Sometimes I fall into travel slumps and I don’t snap out of them until I find something that I want to do. This isn’t the “I want ice cream” grade of desire, it’s more “I had a dream as a kid and have always wanted to .” Then I jump on it, do it and I’m out of the slump. These desires, for me, usually present themselves as a challenge and not as a guide. A challenge to invent your own course with the limitations you may have at that moment.

  I was in Tokyo doing my usual long, meandering walk. The stoic guards outside the emperor’s palace mirrored the cool mood of the winter day. The fashionistas of the Ginza district added a little color to the scene — parading the streets as if it were a red carpet before dozens of street photographers who eagerly snapped photos of the especially well put together outfits for the fashion magazines. Somehow, my blue shirt and Maggie — my orange backpack — weren’t quite making the cut. No matter how many times I walked past the photographers they still wouldn’t take my picture. I found the whole scene quite tiresome, and I was having a hard time getting enthused or feeling inspired.

  A slump. I had a strong urge to go to Hiroshima. When a history class shows up on the map you’re looking at, you grab at the chance and just go. Lucky for me, a 300 kilometer per hour train was doing just that, every 10 minutes. Two hundred and twenty dollars (and three hours) later and I was in one of the most infamous places on earth: the very site where the atomic bomb was first deployed in war.

  Hiroshima has every marking of a modern, international city. There are bike lanes, parks, crosswalks and skyscrapers. Weekend markets and warm winter coats. Hotels that have doormen and churches whose bells echo through the streets. Walking malls with electronic shops, international coffee brands and cinemas. The city is still intact, or at least as intact as you can be after being directly in the path of an atomic bomb — appearing far better off than I ever would have imagined. There is one building, however, that has managed to remain in the city without touchup, rebuilding or restoration. Sitting untouched and representing just what happened is the Genbaku Dome. It is, to me, the most iconic image of World War II. Once a center for the arts in a developing city is now a skeleton with a shattered heart. I sit on the river adjacent to the building in awe. It is quiet. It is cold. The wind bites into my cheeks as I imagine just what that day looked like years ago…

  What horribly violent people we are. Thought one. What amazingly forgiving people we are. Thought two. How quickly we forget how hard peace is. Thought three.

  I’m moved by what Hiroshima is today. Very proud that this city, a place of mass destruction beyond imagination, has persisted and is now an advocate for peace. If you didn’t visit the city center you would be hard pressed to know that this was, in fact, the very place that holds the memories of one of humanity’s darkest hours.

  If you visit the peace park in the city center you are invited to ring a bell that symbolizes the call for the destruction of all nuclear weapons. I ring it. There is a battering ram that you pull all the way back and then release: the ring is haunting, lingering. The point where the wooden ram meets the steel of the bell — that moment of contact — is considered to be the symbol for nuclear weapons. We have fought; now let us learn the lesson and not ever see what happened here again.

  I go looking for the museum and get a little lost. A map in hand and a pack on your back is enough to clearly mark you as a tourist. I ask for directions and two older women help me out. They seem to be competing to see who can be the most helpful, the most polite. Bow. Bow. This way. This way. Bow. Bow. Their eager and shy smiles seem to reveal a humble pride and excited accomplishment. The hotel doorman is the same way. The barista? Equally hospitable. Everyone I meet is was warm. Every feeling I have is full of acceptance. A reminder, a dozen reminders, to be kind.

  My friend had just emailed me a research paper they did on post-war Japanese photography. It had this gem in it: “[t]he literal translation of shashin, the Japanese word for photography, is truth copy.” I spend the rest of the day looking at
photographs from the war era, “truth copies.” When you are exposed to that type of bomb, even kilometers away, your skin can just fall off. A painful death.

  A painful life if you survive. Some survivors are still active in the museum answering questions, showing compassion to complete strangers. My country did this. I walk into a chilling, brisk wind looking for my next planned destination.

  A train ride away there is a World Heritage Site overlooking Hiroshima from across the bay. I’m learning the language like I usually do: by repeating, albeit quietly, everything that is said to me. This makes the connection between what I’m hearing with sounds I can actually make. You can’t learn any part of a language unless you know how to interpret what is being communicated to you. You listen to the sounds while stumbling over the rolling of your “R’s” in Spanish, your elongated vowels in Japanese. “Arigato gozaimasu (thank you)” is greeted with “Domo arigato gozaimasu (a formal thank you.)” “Have a great day,” is always repeated back: “Haaaave ah grrrrreat daaay.”

  It generally works out well, but when it goes bad, it goes really bad. Today I proudly welcome a boat captain to his boat. The usual stoic character of a Japanese service industry worker completely gives way to a fit of laughter, erupting in front of a group of visitors who are paying their somber respect to lessons from lost generations past. Awkward. I laugh nervously along, promising myself I will stop repeating things.

  There is a tram that carries visitors up a mountain with the sole purpose of offering views of a city that is famous for an almost unthinkable reason. The mountain is sprinkled with streams and waterfalls, even the occasional deer that will gladly eat a tourist’s gift bag if given the opportunity. After the bomb was dropped, the mountainside experienced a flash flood that was followed by a landslide — taking out all the vegetation. You wouldn’t know that now. The trees have returned and a tranquil forest now covers the whole island. A hike up to the top brings you to an overlook. I break out my sushi lunch and look to the horizon in search of answers, the way most people probably do when sitting in this very spot. But I don’t find any answers, I find mostly questions. Years later, their actions point to more compassion and leadership than we have ever provided to them; or to anyone, really, for that matter.

  Getting back to the tram is a seven minute walk, but the sign points out that it’s actually “only 5 if you run a little.” The humor is refreshing, a welcomed lightness to an otherwise heavy mood. The day is closing; the winter moon rising.

  When I get back to Tokyo I keep asking myself how I plan to make this trip unique to me. When you travel continuously, it’s easy to grow weary of simply “seeing the sights” — easy to miss and yearn for a little structure in your life. Always changing locations makes me lust after all the basic rituals of life I don’t have on the road (a commute, a continuous group of friends, a kitchen). It is out of this mood — this set of feelings and sentiments — that I began playing “Mark, Sue.”

  It is partly due to this absence of your own everyday routines, I think, that implants in the traveler the desire to feel like a local. Of course, it’s not just that simple. Feeling like a local has long since presented itself as the highest form of travel: you know the sights, the culture, the language, the feel of a place. You are privy to the best restaurants and most vibrant bars, you know both the town characters and the secret lookout spots with the best views — none of which can be found from a peek in a guidebook. You experience town like no tourist can; you experience town just like, well, a local. Gold star for you.

  To get to this feeling, I can spend a year in a place, or, I can play a game. Enter “Mark, Sue.” It’s easy. Get up and walk out of wherever you are. Find someone that looks interesting for some reason, any reason. The more you play, the more creative you can get. You might like their scarf, their glasses, or the bounce they have when they walk. Follow them. Yes, really. Just follow them.

  Get as close as you are comfortable with, and keep following them toward wherever they are going. It’s kind of like a “choose your own” travel guide, a “jack in the box” tour — you never quite know what or when something is going to pop up. So you are following “Mark” or “Sue.” Now, pay attention to everything. What is their pace like? This is how a local walks. Note their route. This is how a local commutes. They stop at a coffee shop? You know a locals spot. Grab an espresso. When you finish, find another “Mark.” If they go into a store or direction you don’t want to, turn around.

  I’ve been playing the game for years, and at this point, I have probably tracked hundreds of people. Although it may seem kind of creepy, it’s really not. And anyway, not a single person has ever confronted me. I named the game “Mark, Sue” because I was so afraid of this confrontation. If they turn around I can say, “are you Mark? No? Oh, you look like my old friend from here that I lost contact with — we met in NYC a few years back. What is your name?” Never happened, but it’s good for the nerves to be prepared.

  Following all the “Marks” and “Sues” has spiraled me into many random, local routines that I otherwise never would have experienced. I’ve gone to the tops of office buildings in Athens; caught subway transfers to crosstown busses in NYC; joined in beach volleyball games in Sydney; changed nightclubs in Barcelona at 4 am; and found some of the most amazing food I’ve ever had in Thailand. All for free. All at the grace of the people that make the city you are in really what it is.

  “Mark, Sue” is by far my favorite thing to do while traveling. It’s so simple. And what you can get out of it is far from a walk. I find it is the shortest way for me to get off the tourist track and find the local energy of an area.

  Chapter 7

  GETTING LOST

  Something hidden. Go and find it. Go and look behind the Ranges— Something lost behind the Ranges.

  Lost and waiting for you. Go

  —Rudyard Kipling

  SANTA MARTA, COLOMBIA

  There is a lane. A simple lane with two sidewalks and a rush of compact cars and motorbikes. There is the place you are, the place you want to be, and the world of Colombia spinning, swerving and honking in between. It is a literal and figurative starting point for many Colombians’ workday. It cuts through the University with an ancient age to its angles. Cobblestones with a patchwork of concrete and dust. A pothole has a young man standing idly by, pretending to fix it in exchange for coins thrown from passing vehicles. If he fixes it quickly, the tips wouldn’t come in. It is a slow game of looking like you are working, getting helped by strangers, actually working and figuring out just how long you can play the game. So is, in a nutshell, travel.

  A cab driver asks me for payment in Spanish, which I don’t quite understand. A somewhat tense situation — especially because the only bills I have to pay have “50 Mil” on it. I have no idea if I am paying a fair price for the ride or if I just gave the driver a down payment on a house. I study what each bill looks like once outside the cab, vowing to not make that mistake again.

  I have dreamed about visiting Colombia for years, despite having been cautioned about it hundreds of times. The advice I receive from online communities swings between the dramatic poles of “it’s a dream” or “be extremely careful.” It’s never in the middle.

  A week in Colombia already tells me that it’s a dream, and the statistic of 308,776 Americans visiting Colombia for one reason or another this month tell me that this is no secret.

  Rather appropriately after a week of museums, tram rides, churches, dancing and the street meats of Bogotá, I happen to be staying at the Dreamer Hostel in Santa Marta. At roughly nine dollars a night, the air-conditioned room and open-air pool and bar is proving to be the steal of the trip. There are 40 or so backpackers here — most staying a few more days than originally planned — relaxing, making new friends and planning trips, treks and random adventures.

  I had only planned on spending one night here — but as is typical of most travelers when they find a gem of a hostel with a good vibe — t
hat “plan” quickly went out the window. I am already on my eighth day. The Dreamer Hostel is filled with open and nice people from around the world — gathering together every night to share travel stories over cold, Colombian beers. We typically swap out the television (this place has satellite!) with our iPods and share our various tastes in music; which, more often than not, tends to be some Israeli hit mixed with mid 90s movie soundtracks.

  There is a pool table just a few steps from the swimming pool (pronounced “Paul” if you are talking to a Brit) and with all these comforts and good personalities, the Dreamer feels just as much like a destination onto itself as it is a place where plans are made.

  Although Colombia was very dangerous to travel in 2004, it is to me one of the safest feeling places to visit in 2010. A political shift in power matched with smart infrastructure planning has mitigated much of the violence and relegated the drug trade and rebels to obscure corners.

  At 6’5,” I am virtually a giant here. Add with my light blond hair and strong accent and I am like a circus figure on a bit of a trip. Such an appearance seems to make me particularly vulnerable to large groups of curious children. I was mobbed by a pack of kids at a salt mine just North of Bogotá, for example, where many of the girls wanted to pet my hair. Such gestures prove to be some of our only means of effective communication with each other, though there is an occasional utterance of “beautiful”— pet, pet, pet — one of the only English words they appear to have down pat. Shakira would be so proud. The focus on beauty is staggering, I hear rumors that 70% of women in Colombia have had plastic surgery.