Category Archives: Travel

On Seeing a Tiger in the Wild

Despite being condemned to mediocrity, there is at least one percentile ranking out there in which I do really well. Among the many billion human beings that have lived on this planet, only a vanishingly small fraction has seen a tiger in the wild. I’m one of those lucky ones. It’s only happened once, and I’ m not sure if it will ever happen again. But that event’s occurrence has ensured I occupy the 99.999th percentile of what seems to be a particularly interesting scale.

In 1981, I set off to observe spring vacation at a friend’s tea-estate in the Dooars region of North-Eastern India. I was not alone; I was accompanied by several classmates from my boarding school. Our host, a fellow student, had enticed us with tales of the dense forests that surrounded his estate, which promised to provide many opportunities for as-yet-undreamed-of adventures. It didn’t hurt that these verdant forests were home to rivers that featured limpid pools by the dozen for swimming hijinks in the spring heat.

The tea-estate was everything it was made out to be. Its manager was a mustachioed, larger-than-life adventurer with a booming voice and an insatiable appetite for big meals, large Scotches and driving his jeep rather recklessly through the narrow, rutted, and often spectacularly pot-holed roads that ran through the surrounding region. His sole concern during our visit seemed to be the arranging of one foray after another into the wilderness–each more delightful than the last–for his city-slicker wards. (These included a night-time high-speed drive through an abandoned WWII airfield; I hope to blog on that someday).

One fine warm evening, our plans called for a dip in a particularly salubrious riverine bathing establishment that lay some ten miles away. We drove there in two jeeps, one pulling an open-bed trailer behind it, on which some of us parked ourselves, frolicked in the river for an hour or so, and then headed back at sundown. As we drove on a narrow metalled road winding its way through forested landscapes rapidly being enveloped in the gathering darkness, the jeep in front stopped. Back in the rear vehicle, sitting on its open-bed trailer, we looked ahead, wondering what had caused the sudden halt.

The driver of the jeep raised his hand to call for silence, and then pointed to the right side of the road. Standing there, eyes wide open, with what can only be described as a calm, collected, and perhaps curious expression, was a Royal Bengal Tiger. (It looked pretty damn regal, and we were in Bengal.) We stared back; none of us carried cameras–or smartphones with cameras. There was no photo-opportunity here; there was no question of anyone alighting to take a closer look; someone would have to blink to bring this encounter to an end.

The tiger did; its inquiry into our affairs over, it turned and was gone. We stared into the undergrowth but all was dark.

I’ve often wondered, how that brief encounter could best be described. Nothing much happened in it: a little staring back and forth; no spectacular displays of tigerish speed or power; no dramatic visions of a lithe, brown blur; even its eyes were not “burning bright” enough. But all of that didn’t seem to matter; for those seconds as I stared at the tiger, it seemed to me that I wasn’t even staring at some concrete, flesh-and-blood entity, as much as I was staring at the product of a set of imaginations, the collective one of all those that had described the mythical tiger to me in print, image and story, and the resultant imaginative response that their efforts had triggered in me. Something tells me that it was just as well that I saw that tiger when I did, possessed as I was of that mix of naiveté and receptiveness to mythology that is distinctive of adolescence.

Susan Matt on Homesickness, the ‘New Globalist’, and Technology

Susan Matt suggests that homesickness still afflicts the ‘new globalists,’ the cosmopolitans who would live ‘abroad,’ whether permanently or temporarily, away from home (“The New Globalist is Homesick”, New York Times, March 21, 2012). And technology, precisely by bringing them back into closer contact with loved ones and old haunts, and assuaging loneliness and longing, might actually be making things worse; it might remind them ever more acutely of just what it is that they are missing. This ‘new’ homesickness  seems at odds with the foot-loose sensibility that is supposed to be the hallmark of the connected, wired, constantly traveling world. The homesickness which afflicted the immigrant in the past is ‘back,’ and it is ever more persistent.

I’m not sure that Matt’s statement below represents the discovery of a genuine novelty:

In nearly a decade’s research into the emotions and experiences of immigrants and migrants, I’ve discovered that many people who leave home in search of better prospects end up feeling displaced and depressed. Few speak openly of the substantial pain of leaving home.

It might be that academics are now paying more attention to homesickness, but conversations about it and the infection of migrant enclaves, conversations and sensibilities with relentless nostalgia has been an enduring feature of migrants’ lives and it has remained impervious to the passage of time. This new homesickness is not new at all; it is just being paid attention to. Those living the lives of voluntary exile have always felt homesick, have never feared talking about it, and have always let it be writ large in their emotional and physical responses to their new worlds.

Consider for instance, that alcoholism is a common problem among international students in American universities; that expat cinema, for as long as can be remembered, has been concerned with the longing for a mythical, displaced land; consider how much the dilemma of the  torn, almost-schizophrenic, personality of the immigrant has been a feature of diasporic literatures. What are these if not manifestations of homesickness, permeating through the minds and bodies of immigrants?

It might be that the immigrant does not bring up homesickness in conversations with ‘locals,’ fearing these confessions might be viewed as evidence of dislike for his chosen home, a failure to assimilate properly, and reason to regard him as outsider in those conversational spaces. But elsewhere, in more welcoming climes, conversation all too easily returns to talk of home, of what remains behind, of the next trip, of the difficulties in reconciliation with two lands that leave them torn asunder psychically.

Matt is right to note that technology–whether it is because of the Skype call back home, the cable television channel in their own language or anything else like that–does not seem to help this homesickness. It cannot. It only serves to remind them that nothing can ever replace the felt sensation of place, the encounter with sounds, light, and smells, born of  the imprint of childhood experiences long-ago sensed and internalized, that  are a feature of physical contacts with ‘home,’ that tap into sensations long ago integrated into their minds and bodies. The phone call and the web cam will not tap into these; nothing quite replaces the walk out of the customs hall, past the immigration desk, out into the arrival hall, and the drive back ‘home’.

Failing To Scuba Dive

For many years, a prominent member of a short list I maintained of things-I-must-do-before-I-die was: scuba diving on the Great Barrier Reef. In December 2007, I went scuba diving on the Great Barrier Reef, and a few short minutes later, it was all over. I was back up at the ocean surface, gasping for breath, relieved to be alive, my heart pounding. Back on the boat, my diving instructor suggested I discontinue diving. I nodded my head, disappointed, yet secretly overcome by a wave of heartfelt relief. I had realized the truth of a statement I had always subconsciously subscribed to: I was more comfortable hiking 15,000 feet above sea level than I was swimming 15 meters below.

Three days prior to this disaster I had enrolled in diving classes run by a dive operator based in Cairns, Queensland. The classes were part theory, part practice in a swimming pool. On the very first day, the claustrophobia induced by the scuba apparatus became apparent to me as I struggled to overcome the instincts evoked by the wearing of a device that made it seem like a Darth Vader heavy-breathing soundtrack was on continuous loop. Still, I somehow worked through the various drills with the rest of the class, lagging at times, and often requiring an instructor to check in on my progress.

At the end of the second day though, it wasn’t clear I had mastered an essential emergency drill, that of being able to replace a mask and breathing regulator underwater. I went back under to practice again, and emerged triumphant. Sort of. Even at this early stage, I had mixed feelings; I wasn’t feeling comfortable underwater, and while I had been able to carry out all the emergency drills needed, I wasn’t sure if I could actually carry them out in a good-to-honest crisis without panicking.

I soon found out. The next day, we headed out in a boat to the Reef, and got into the water. I headed down to the bottom, ably escorted by my diving buddy, one of the very patient instructors that had worked with me to make sure I had mastered the emergency procedures. A few minutes later, my mouthpiece came loose. Even as an electric bolt of fear ran through me, I reinserted the mouthpiece and blew through it to clear it (as trained). But the taste of salt water in the mouthpiece persisted, and nothing at that moment could convince me that I wasn’t about to drown. My entire body convulsed with panic again as I grabbed my ‘buddy’s’ arm (and as he desperately tried to calm me); I wanted up and out, and waved frantically upwards. We headed up for the surface.

Diving was a surreal experience; I was stunned and entranced by the beauty of coral reefs and their flora and fauna, but that beauty could not override the tremendous claustrophobia and lack of freedom I felt in the scuba apparatus. I spent some time snorkeling later so that I could continue to check out the Reef’s attractions, but I knew diving was not for me.

There are times when I am struck by the silliness of it all: I must be member of an exceedingly tiny minority that is not able to scuba dive. Kids do it; old farts do it; but I can’t. The fear I experienced that day was real, and all my training was unable to overcome it. Still, I suppose, there is some virtue in having tried it out under the shadow of a known fear, in an effort to master it.

Essays And Expiry Dates

My post yesterday on reportage and war porn, in which I quoted from a 1999 essay by Sebastian Junger, prompted a thought related to my December post on fiction and non-fiction and writing for posterity: How well do reportage-style essays hold up to the demands of time? (I ask this question as someone who, having made the claim that non-fiction will endure just as well as fiction in ensuring fame, is now a) dealing with the broadness of the category “non-fiction” and all the confusion it created in discussions surrounding that post and b) trying to get clearer on what kind of non-fiction will endure best over time and be granted posterity’s acknowledgement)

In the post linked to above, I had, in responding to Katha Pollitt, said,

“columnists” and “book reviewers” are more inclined to be creatures of their age who risk rapid obscurity unless they write more substantive and possibly popular work.

Junger’s essays, of course, are not columns or book reviews. But neither are they extended meditations on philosophical, literary or cultural subjects; rather, they are long-form journalistic pieces written for venues like Vanity Fair, Harpers, Men’s Journal, Outside, and National Geographic Adventure; other than the essays on wildfires and fire-fighting, they were written to cover topical hot-spots of human and political conflict: Kosovo, Kashmir, Sierra Leone, Cyprus. The wildfires and whale-hunting essays belong to the kind made popular by forums like Outside magazine; the standard theme in this kind of writing is “man-against-nature revealing the human spirit in all its wonderfully varied cussedness.” (Man-Against-Nature as a theme is, I think, more likely to endure and age better than Man-Against-Man-In-A-Particular-Time-And-Place.)

In reportage essays, the expectation is that the traveling reporter will send back news but also background; the reporter will inform, update, ruminate, and crucially, prognosticate. The last part carries the most potential to date the essay; if fate deals the writer a cruel hand, readers in the future are likely to be struck–and turned off–by the silliness of the prognostication. In any case, such essays by virtue of being extended reports or news, are very much captive to that particular time. They are meant to be read soon; they are meant to make contemporary understandings of a ‘trending’ subject more extensive and thoughtful; but they are extremely unlikely to make for useful or illuminating reading down the line. The backgrounders in the essays, by virtue of space limitations, tend to be superficial; indeed, they have to be, if the essays are to maintain their readability in the intended forum. If you want a detailed history that underwrites Kosovo, Kashmir or Cyprus, you’d be an idiot to look for it in the pages of a Vanity Fair or Harpers essay. (In Junger’s essays, I enjoyed the material on Cyprus the most, and I suspect part of that was because of the collaboration that that required Junger and Scott Anderson to be placed in, and reporting from, the Greek and Turkish portions of Cyprus so that a contrast between their respective narratives could be brought out).

When it comes to reportage style history, the longer form will work better; the extended, improved, and more likely-to-endure version of this style of writing is perhaps the book-length reportage project like David Halberstam’s The Best and the Brightest (which, interestingly enough, started as an essay for Harpers).

Much more to be said on this. But later.

Hiking The El Toro Trail in El Yunque

The problem with a rainforest is that, well, it rains. And when you are hiking the El Toro trail in the El Yunque National Forest in Puerto Rico, you are reminded of that quasi-tautological fact quite often. You are also reminded of the remarkable effect that moisture has on damp earth as it renders its consistency a texture most appropriately described as “muddy.”

But I’m getting ahead of myself. And I’m being reductive.

The El Toro trail constitutes an alternative to El Yunque’s more accessible, busier trails; it gets you to the top of the highest point in El Yunque, and delivers its payoff in the form of stunning views (when they are not being obscured by thick clouds and rain). But even the partial mix of sun and cloud make for some stunning interplays of light and the lush, freshly-washed foliage of the upper reaches. The trail is especially worth doing in the company of someone that knows the local flora and fauna; alternatively, one should sufficiently educate oneself so as to be able to have an engaged response to the tremendous biodiversity–four different forest systems–that can be experienced on the trail. (The linked post above describes the hike from the “other side;” we hiked up from the southern section of Route 191 to the Trade Winds Trail; other guides can be found here and here; in general, the El Toro trail, because not as frequently used, is not as well-maintained as the other, more mainstream ones.) Our guide was Robin Phillips, who also provided us with lodging (a simple cabin, with no electricity, but wonderful contact with the forest at night). Robin has led an interesting life; he knows the forest well; and he is kind and generous to a fault. An ideal companion for an El Yunque hike.

We began at 8 in the morning, parking our car a kilometer or so away from the trailhead. The initial parts of the trail–to the first river crossing–are relatively straightforward. The second section of the trail is easily the muddiest; the third is the steepest. Razor grass is a constant accompaniment; I made the mistake of not wearing a long-sleeved shirt; my wife made the mistake on wearing pants that did not cover her legs adequately. We both came back with many scratches and scrapes; I’d have to say I got off lightly compared to her. Toward the end of the ascent, the rain got worse, making our non-poncho covered sections progressively wetter. When we did get to the top of the trail, I was pleasantly surprised to find that the point of intersection with the Trade Winds Trail was the conclusion at the summit as opposed to being the starting point of another segment. This was a a bit of relief; the muddy, wet slogging was wearing thin by then. We were treated to a few minutes of mixed cloud and sun at the top before the rain closed in again, and forced us back down the hill after our quickly-devoured lunch. Descent was obviously quicker even if muddier thanks to the rain in the intervening time, and we found ourselves heading back for showers and a Christmas Day dinner with Robin’s wonderful family by 530PM.

Hiking in a rainforest means fewer soaring vistas of the kind experienced on high-altitude hikes; the foliage is in your face; the light is dappled and often weak; the muddy, slippery trails require a different sort of attention. Its most gratifying reward is the chance to experience a diverse set of ecosystems in close proximity to each other, intertwined in dazzlingly complex ways. The muddiness and lack of maintenance of the El Toro trail is well worth dealing with when these bargains are kept in mind.

The Tyranny of the Tourism Poster

On December 26th, as I waited for a ferry to take me from Fajardo to Culebra, I noticed a poster for the Luis Pena Nature Reserve (more accurately, for the Cayo Luis Pena, part of the Culebra National Wildlife Refuge). As I gazed at the dazzling blue waters, the painfully-white glistening sands, bewitched by the promise of the colorful aquatic creatures that surely played and frolicked below the waters of that oceanic snorkeling and scuba-diving paradise, I felt myself succumb, yet again, to that tyranny of the poster and the guidebook. And yet again, I felt the terror of that most fearful of things: the inadequate, not properly-realized, not fully-to-be-treasured, the missed-opportunity vacation. For if there is one mode of oppression that the tourist poster and the guidebook have the market cornered on, it is in making us feel like failures even when we manage to put down the laptop, take our fingers off the keyboard, dock the smartphone and head, bravely putting away our calndars, for the wilderness.

The artfully put-together tourist poster–like the illustrations of those improbably delicious-looking concoctions in cookbooks–promises us a glimpse of the impossible, the seemingly inaccessible. The photograph of the attraction in question will undeniably be of “postcard” or “coffee-table book” quality; fit to be mailed to friends, but somehow always felt to not be possible to actually visit (surely the photographer was granted special access to that Shangri-La, which beams at us from the poster?).

The poster, or the guidebook, assure us with a devastating two-fer, that this place has been visited, and even more damagingly, that if we do not visit it, we have somehow failed. The guidebook does this especially acutely with its listing of the “essential,” the “must-see,” the “ten things any visitor to X must do” and so on. These can be resisted perhaps by rhetorical devices like “Well, that’s what the editors of that guidebook think, but what do they know?” But such rhetorical bluster is just that; under the weight of the prescription, even our resolve crumbles; we become acutely conscious of the need to play by the guidebook’s (and the poster’s) playbook: Visit this place! Have these experiences! Or else!

The tyranny of the poster is perhaps more benign: one can console ourselves that even if we were not treated to precisely the same image as that currently visible, we might have seen a variant of it. But there is the rub. For the gloss and the finish of the poster assures us we didn’t see the advertised excellence, we merely saw the weaker, insipid version made available for our plebeian viewing. So we seek in our vacations to make sure we visit those places recommended by the guidebook, perhaps even in the order suggested, and we might even squirm ourselves into precisely those locations that will facilitate the takings of those photographs that will approximate the tourist poster with the greatest fidelity possible. How else would we assure ourselves of the authenticity of our experiences if not by total adherence to a template provided for us?