Photo Saracino

New Caledonia is a cigar-shaped island in the South Pacific, a colony of France, with a population of about 250,000.

Half the people are descended from white French colonialists; the other half are black Melanesians, called kanaks, descended from Papua New Guinea.

The currency is linked to the Euro, the government is run out of Paris, so what you have here is basically a little chunk of France floating 10 000 miles away from the mainland.

Gourmet mustard, Bordeaux wine, Fois de Gras, patisseries, prominent noses, stable administration. Basically, New Caledonia is unlike any of the other islands nearby (the French colony of Tahiti is a five hour flight away).

Although it is staggeringly beautiful, New Caledonia does not get many tourists.

Given its high cost, its remoteness, its inaccessibility, and its, well, Frenchness, most foreign tourists tend to hit Fiji and have never heard of New Caledonia. (Incidentally, the name was coined by the explorer James Cook, who on discovering the island’s rich greenness and hospitable nature, named it after his native Scottish homeland).

I was convinced that I was also exploring new ground, probably the first South Africanadian to walk these shores, and nobody could tell me otherwise, because they all spoke French.

Channeling Hunter S. Thompson

Clutching a 6-gauge shotgun outside our cottage at
the Paddock de la Boutana.

I am here to visit Phillipe Renauld - Gonzo Jump Photographic Specialist, wing man, multi and cunning linguist, and my cheese-loving backpacking companion of Brazil, Croatia and Albania.

He’s third generation New Caledonian, a guy who has grown up hunting large fish with a spear gun in seawater warmer than pee in a wet suit.

After enduring months of stories about coconut-lined beaches and hunting this, that or the other, I accepted his kind invitation to visit his island and see for myself.

A friendly face at the airport (at last!) and within a half hour out of customs I’m freshening up in a crystal warm stream surrounded my mountains. Philippe has a big 4×4, a swank apartment, and likes to shoot things with his big guns.

The two-and-a-half hour flight from Auckland had cost a bucket, so everything was his treat, starting with a night in the bush, hunting Bambi and blowing away empty beer cans with .22 rifle. Now before you report me to PETA and start packing ziplock bags of blood to attack me outside my apartment, know that deer are plentiful in New Caledonia - in fact, there are more deer than people.

Beside the odd redneck Yankee trophy hunter with a mullet and a nickname like “Colorado Bob” or “Mississippi Pete”, local hunters eat what they kill.

I know this, because just about everyone had a storage freezer packed with chunks of meat.

Revelations At Sunset

Paddock de la Boutana lies in the north of the island, on a massive stretch of land, and attracts not only hunters but anyone looking to chill out around large bonfires under a beauty pageant of galaxies.

Phillipe brought his .22 rifle, and his 6-gauge shotgun, so powerful that it practically obliterates any creature unlucky to get slugged. Violence is best preceded with calm, and during a tranquil sunset 4×4 drive along the property, I ruminated on four things:

• New Caledonia is a very big island with a very small population.
• The interior reminds me of Africa, the coast reminds me of Brazil.
• All girls sound sexy with a French accent
• Deer know how to hide during the day, which is why we’d go hunting at night.

After grilling some steaks over a wood fire, we joined up with some French tourists for the night hunt.

No less than a few meters out the yard, and the spotlight revealed dozens of deer, grazing on the grass. They were as plentiful as alcoholic blue-haired grannies in Vegas, as abundant as giggles in a Catholic girls high school.

Killing Bambi

The sun sets over the biggest plain on the island. It’s
almost African.

After the novelty of nature wore off, the hunter selected tomorrow night’s dinner with the spotlight.

A sharp explosion, and Bambi dropped dead. Her buddies ran for about three meters, stopped, and carried on grazing, as if the mourning period was over.

We drove up to the deer, which Phillipe insisted was dead but the legs were still shaking. The hunter sliced its throat like you might slice a cucumber, picked it up and threw it into the back of the 4×4 with the rest of us. I put my hand on Bambi’s coarse hair, still warm to the touch, and positioned my feet so that the blood wouldn’t stain my sandals.

Bambi didn’t look sad. Bambi just looked dead. She smelt of musk.

We drove back to the Paddock, where Bambi was hung up and her innards removed, the way you might pull your laundry out the washing machine. And that was that.

I was worried that the experience might traumatize me into a vegetarian, but to be honest it all seemed quite natural in a primeval sort of way. I was offered a kill but declined when I learnt that I’d have to gut and clean my victim. Plus I don’t have a storage freezer in my backpack for the meat.

It took about 10 minutes for the deer to
be emptied, with the experienced
precision of a surgeon.

Instead I opted for sitting on the porch blasting empty beer cans, in the time honored trailer-park hick tradition. Even from some distance, I am happy to report that I have a sniper’s eye, although the shotgun’s recoil was so immense it left a large yellow bruise just below my shoulder.

Instead, I am happy to shoot with my camera and kill with my photographs.

Food For The Bold

When a New Caledonian asks you to guess what it is you’re eating, shut up and keep chewing.

The veal was delicious, until I found it was turtle. I’ve tried turtle soup before in New Orleans, but this was steak, and well, all I could think about was that old, wise turtle character in Neverending Story.

Suddenly I was chewing on Yoda. Strong in the taste it was. The chef, Michel, is a former gendarmerie with enough guns to start another French revolution.

His storage freezer was stocked with all manner of creatures, the strangest of which were two frozen fruit bats, fortunately averted from the menu by Phillipe’s knowledge of my love for Batman. Throughout the week, Phillipe was determined to flaunt the island’s culinary offerings, both French and indigenous.

I tried Fois de Gras for the first time, various local deep-fried delicacies, chocolate croissants, fruits, tropical fish, octopus, and the unfortunate cheese-tasting incident that left me gagging, my breath smelling like the underwear of a coal miner with gastroenteritis.

Man vs Fish

Man vs Fish, but hungry man will always win!

On a hot, windy day, we jumped in a boat and motored out a couple kilometers to the reef that protects the island from heavy waves and hungry sharks.

Snorkeling above, I watched Phillipe and his friend Jan spear all manner of fish, and one enormous lobster that put up a vicious fight.

As we know, I’m not the ocean-faring type and pretty soon the strong currents and wind took its toll, plus my shark phobia kicked in when Jan mentioned he’d seen a five-meter tiger shark a few weeks back right where we were hunting.

So I fed the fish with my breakfast and we headed back to shore, divvying up the spoils for a sensational fish BBQ that evening.

I gutted my first fish, cut myself posing with the lobster (weighing heavier than a break-up conversation on the alter), met some friendly locals, and soaked in the sun with the number one local beer, creatively named, Number One beer.

That night, I heard a gunshot in the distance. One less Bambi was walking the plains.

A Glowing Jewel

On the way back to the capital of Noumea, home to half the island’s population, we drove past dozens of hill tribes, men with thick dreadlocks smoking marijuana under coconut trees, cappuccino kids with afros diving from bridges into the sea below.

Old kanak men would walk along the winding highway with a rifle slung behind their back, just in case they see anything for dinner.

New Caledonia did have some political turbulence in the late 1980’s, when the France had to send the army in to restore peace after tribal liberation movements got nasty, along with over-zealous whites storing too many guns.

But peace has reigned for twenty years, and given the volatile state of other islands in the South Pacific, locals are confident peace will continue.

I felt that special buzz of truly discovering one of our planet’s glowing jewels, hidden deep down in its cleavage, as if only for the eyes of its most persistent lover.

Whatever that means.

Anthony Bourdain in New York / Photo Time

Most TV travel hosts have their own unique gimmicks - some are chefs, some are anthropologists and some are ex-TV commercial actors.

They generally resemble a breed of explorers who are defined by virtually nothing other than their gigs.

Travel hosts range from men who don’t know any foreign languages but understand the international language of the palate, to middle-aged housewives who just really like shopping.

Naturally, networks are sending out adventurers that match certain audience demographics, but how much consideration goes into what worldviews these shows are exporting to the rest of the world?

If America had to get together and consider exactly what type of attitude a person should adopt to react to foreign customs tactfully and also emit an aura of “Americanness,” who would be the best choice?

Enter: Anthony Bourdain.

Anatomy Of A Host

Bourdain is the host of Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations and also a well-known chef who frequently terrifies competitors on “Top Chef” with his glib critiques of their dishes.

In addition, he excels as a writer, and has written cookbooks, both non-fiction and fiction books and maintains a blog on the Travel Channel’s website. He writes with detail, verve and wit, as can be seen in this passage from his blog:

I discovered today that she [his one-and-a-half-year-old daughter, Ariane] adores polenta–served with the hot, rendered fat of roasted game birds. And that she goes absolutely bat shit over risotto made with wild nettles. And when her Mom dips a finger in the local red wine, she greatly prefers it to juice. This makes me very proud.

Bourdain is tall to an awkward extent, towering over everyone in Vietnam as his long torso proves to never fatten despite the constant stream of food and alcohol he ingests.

He is racially ambiguous, with gray hair and dark, sun-burnt-looking red skin, but his last name is French. He often seems insecure, and his constant smoking and drinking would suggest that he’s done a lot to overcome an intelligent, nervous introversion.

Comparing Attitudes

Samantha Brown from Passport To Great Weekends

The advantage of Bourdain’s particular demeanor is best explained by his contrast to fellow network star Samantha Brown.

Brown is petite and blonde, bubbly and overeager to the point of being patronizing. She could easily be in your Bible study or leading your niece’s Girl Scout troop.

Bourdain and Brown both export particular American attitudes.

Bourdain traffics in the self-deprecating cynicism of Hemingway-reading Americans who know what “post-modern” means, and Brown works in what should be called “trinketism,” a lens that views foreign things as first and foremost “neat” in order to get over a sheltered xenophobia.

The difference between the two is easy to see when both shows demand of them a similar experience: doing drugs.

Bourdain was sent to a forest in Peru where he drank a tree bark tea said to be sacred for the hallucinations it causes. Brown was given the task of visiting a marijuana-vending café in Amsterdam.

Bourdain eagerly drank the tea and then passed out on the ground of a wooden hut after a few moments of poking fun at the network’s restrictions on showing much about his “trip.”

Brown talked chipperly to the barista about how “cozy” the café was, ordered a mango tea, and then later went out to dinner with friends, trying very hard to prove that she had overcome her old notion that Amsterdam was a city full of sex and drugs.

Friendly For The Masses

Anthony in the street / Photo Austin Chronicle

Bourdain’s show is an acquired taste because it displays somewhat of a battle between his New Jersey-grown less-than-sentimental ego and the demands of starring in a commercialized show.

“No Reservations” is edited in an inconsistent way that lets the bulk of the show be Anthony being Anthony, while packaging his persona in a more mass-audience friendly box.

The intro song features a strange rock lick that seems like it was made entirely on a computer and features a fruit-punch bowl of editing that tries to make Anthony look both 19 and far cooler than he probably feels comfortable looking.

The meat of the show is Anthony embarking on odd adventures that his producer seems to mandate, and the editing becomes much more intricate.

Anthony details on his blog the way in which his editors attempt to research the artistic history of every nation that he visits in order to mimic particular styles of aesthetics.

Then, the end is forced to tie things up cutely to get watchers back in a buying mood, and Anthony attempts to come up with an all-encompassing conclusion about the heart of the featured country. He always looks less-than-enthusiastic during that part, probably because he’s only been in the country for a few days, and spent a lot of it eating.

The Evolving Critique

An interesting note about Bourdain is that, over his years on “No Reservations,” his cynicism has morphed.

Now, when he talks to people in other countries, he tries to say things about “long histories of appreciating cultural heritage” and he seems like he genuinely means that, no scoffing about the vagueness/cuteness of such statements whatsoever.

The final realization of the host seems to be that not every other nation is breeding a ground of mass-cynicism and that a lot of people actually are proud of the countries they were born in.

What makes Bourdain’s cynicism superb is that it is wise and un-stubborn. He has finally gained the ability to know when to sit back, let a bit of sincerity out and just eat the hog’s anus that the nice tribal leader is offering.

Puzzled Americans who think he’s putting on a polite face can turn to his blog to see what he’s really thinking, because making other countries seem weird and anachronistic is the territory of far too many other travel programs.

What do you think of Anthony Bourdain? Share your thoughts in the comments!

Waiting the arrival of the guru / Photo Suzanne Shanklin

“Do you have any white clothes?” asked a voice, rudely awakening me from a few hours of disturbed and uncomfortable sleep. “Come on, hurry up, we need to buy fruit and flowers before we meet the guru.”

I was in Michoacan, Mexico, staying with a few local friends we had met on our travels. Friends who, it became apparent, were masters of non-information.

For the past couple of days we had been living in a small cloud of confusion, and it intensified as clothes were selected for us from a large stack of brilliant white garments.

“Why do we have to wear white?” I asked. “It’s so all our energy vibrations are in harmony,” I was informed. “If you wear colors you will create a force that is stronger than everyone else.”

Bleary eyed in the early morning light we piled into the car. The two guys ran to buy various meditative objects, while the women huddled inside and grumbled at one another.

“I want a cigarette” said the chainsmoker (me). “This is all very well and good” snapped my disgruntled friend, “this quest for spiritual enlightenment, but I know what I’d prefer right now. A big plate of huevos a la Mexicana and a strong coffee.”

It soon became apparent that our requests had been denied, as the guys informed us we were not allowed to eat or drink anything (apart from water) until we had finished the meditation session.

Meeting The Guru

The author with the guru behind / Photo Suzanne Shanklin

Like little white sheep we were driven to a small altar and terrace by the side of a busy road. As we waited the other white clad spiritualists arrived, most of them hungover from the night before.

Soon we were a very noticeable circle of twenty five spiritual seekers holding hands, under the gaze of our guru. He was a man with long, grizzled grey hair, dressed in flowing white robes and wielding a staff.

He beamed at us with an expression of serenity.

Our first task: we were all made to discuss the properties of the staff. Our guru attributed our different answers to the fact that we are all individual, and all needed different meditations, (though my nicotine deprived brain neglected to point out we were all dressed like clones).

We proceeded to shout and chant various mantras from around the world, whilst the palms of our hands grew sweaty and our stomachs growled.

An Upward Struggle

After a while, the guru broke from the group and stood in front of each of us in turn, chanting “moonie moonie, joomie joomie” and waving his hands in circles like a tranquilized trance raver. We were meant to copy him.

By the time the guru stood before me I was reveling in the absurdity of the situation. I believe he mistook my repressed laughter for a bubbling over of youthful spirituality.

My friend refused to copy the guru’s actions. He tried multiple times: “Moonie moonie? Joomy joomy?” Her face blazed thunder- a moment that captured perfectly the clash between new-age spirituality and rationality.

The meditation finished. “Now” said the guru, “you are going to climb the mountain,” as he indicated one of the summits that encircled us. “But first, I will give you all your own individual mantras, ones that suit you perfectly. You must repeat them inside your minds as you climb the mountain.”

Due to my inability to pronounce the Spanish ‘doble-ere‘ sound (roll my rrrrr’s), I wasn’t able to accurately mouth my mantra ‘Om-Rrrim’, but my choking sound seemed to suffice.

“Leave behind food and water” the guru said. “Take only your sheets, and women, take the things you need for your children.” (I forgot mention, we’d all bought bed-sheets with us at the guru’s request. White, of course).

Dancing Butterflies

View to the top / Photo Suzanne Shanklin

The climb began, everyone helping one another and tripping over their sheets. It was rather beautiful, I imagine somewhat akin to the biblical exodus to The Promised Land.

For a moment, I savoured the silence of the view and the feeling of the fresh, nicotine-free air. I enjoyed the feeling of finally reaching the top of the mountain, that sense of accomplishment, and the vista at the top.

We were Northern Mexico, during the season when the monarch butterflies migrate south for winter, and they spiraled round us in meandering flights of fluttering wings.

I looked at the sides of the mountain, spotted with graffiti rocks and pink wild-flowers, the city of Aguascalientes laid out before us like a circuit board. I settled on a rock next to my friend and attempted sleep, with the sun burning red lines into my face.

After a while, the seekers shuffled awkwardly, then, finally, someone asked “Where is the guru?”

It was relayed to us that the guru had, for some reason (a confusion exaggerated by my shaky grasp of Spanish), gone to a city over an hours drive away, and we had to descend the mountain and wait for him in someone’s house for the meditation classes.

No food, of course, which my friend and I grumbled about on our descent. “We need something” we pleaded to our friend Carlos, “even some juice”.

“It’s better if you don’t” he replied. “You don’t need food. It isn’t good to meditate when you are full.”

Caught In The Act

When we arrived at the house, I spied a plume of smoke- the woman of the house, standing on her terrace, gazing quizzically at the white reclining figures on the lawn.

Finding food. / Photo Suzanne Shanklin

I went to ask her for a cigarette, and joined some of the others who were hiding inside like naughty schoolchildren. We all breathed a sigh of relief, and I confided to one of Carlos’s friends that they wouldn’t let us eat.

“Do you want some food?” he asked. “We have some bananas in the car,” I sighed sadly. “No, real food. GORDITAS. Our treat.”

The guru returned at a rather unfortunate moment. We were sitting on the grass stuffing our faces with dripping tortillas, the oil running down our chins and staining our clothes.

He stood above us, casting a benevolent shadow over our display of greed. “When you eat, eat only to sustain yourself. Eat slowly, calmly, and with every mouthful, thank the Gods. You have five minutes to begin, then we will start the meditations.”

We rammed the remaining food down our throats, and clumsily formed a circle, ready to begin.

Falling In Love

The first meditation, a singing meditation. We wrapped ourselves in our sheets, leaving only our heads poking out (rather like E.T. riding the flying bicycle), and began to sing along with the tape, singing and waving our hands.

“Sal y salsa, sal y salsa, sal y sal-sal-sa-al” we sang, over and over again. Despite my very English, very close minded notion of not wanting to look ridiculous, spiritually speaking it warmed us up. Ready for more classes, more breathing exercises.

One of these was two form two circles, one of men, one of women, and, moving in different directions, stare each other in the eyes and hold the gaze. When you fall in love with someone, you gaze into their eyes in a way you would never do with a stranger.

I fell in love with several people.

People have beautiful eyes. They are the window to the soul, after all, and there was no blankness or rejection, only the occasional shyness and insecurity, brief glimpses of a bright iris through lowered lashes.

Gifting The Flowers

The beauty of flowers / Photo Suzanne Shanklin

Another meditation involved lying on the grass, face-down, eyes closed, with the guru moving with roaming fingers, tickling us until we screamed and writhed like little white grubs.

Then he placed his hands firmly on each person’s back and pressed down with a force that elicited manifold cracking sounds, and afterwards, a sigh of relief.

Not many massages can compare with that sudden release of tension, which undoubtedly prepared us for the rest of the meditations.

After climbing a mountain and gazing at each other like lovers, the group felt very close. My friends and I agreed to meditate more, without the clothes, sheets and hunger. To my surprise, even my most cynical friend hugged the guru goodbye.

He thanked us, holding out a plastic cup to collect our money, if we wanted.

He instructed us to give our flowers to the lady of the house, and she looked on as twenty five large bouquets were laid on her lawn, undoubtedly wondering where, exactly she was going to find twenty five vases.

We said our goodbyes and left, driving off in a cloud of red dust, already dreaming of our next episode of unorthodox behavior.

Have you tried a similar group meditation experience? Share your stories in the comments!

Feature photo by Face it. Photo above by Franco Folini.

When I told my mom I’d been dumped she laughed at me. I wasn’t surprised by her callousness as I am more often the dumper than the dumpee and it seemed about time that karma bit back.

Friends proved to be more sensitive to my plight. I found that most of them assured me they wouldn’t dump me if I were their girlfriend- the only exception being the dude who actually did dump me when I was his girlfriend.

I was left with the crucial phase of post-break-up recovery: packing up my emotional baggage and getting out of town.

Moving on after a break-up is difficult but necessary. The healing powers of travel often prove to be effective and helpful.

Here are some tried and true combinations I suggest to turn an owner of a broken heart into a roamer with a broken heart, which is much better.

Photo by ChristineRenee.net.

Island+Sister

Whether deserter or desertee, an island is a perfect place to try out a little self-imposed exile and get away in order to pull yourself together with the help of a loving sibling.

Though John Donne assured us that no man is an island, you sure feel like one after being cast away. Why not just embrace your island solitude with one of the people who knows you the best (and is obligated to love you, no matter how much of a bummer you are to be around).

Cabin+BFF

A cabin is a land-locked island perfect for retreating and nursing wounds. The peace and quiet of nature, as well as its vastness, is a perfect environment to reflect and put things into perspective.

Bring the best friend along so she can remind you of all the hard times you’ve been through and survived. This time is no different. Go climb a mountain or something.

After that roast marshmallows or engage in some other campy thing and you’ll be feeling better before you know it.

Photo by cameronparkins.

Amsterdam+ESP Buddy

If you want to forget your troubles, as well as what happened a few minutes ago, get yourself to Amsterdam as soon as possible.

Bring along your “ESP” amie, the one who knows what you’re thinking just by looking at you and laughs at all the same things. You’ll quickly find life is not that bad after all and you might as well enjoy it.

Laughter as therapy usually works wonders, and Amsterdam is the perfect place to rediscover your sense of humour.

Picnic+Posse

Unfortunately, break-ups rarely coincide with a boost in budget. If you’re broke and bummed, you still have options.

Think minimum price for maximum fun and huddle up as many pals as possible- pack some food and adult beverages, and have a picnic. Doesn’t matter if it’s cold outside…be creative.

Getting out of the house and having your friends around you for support is what it’s all about. Plus, picnics make everyone happy.

Photo by -nathan.

Open Road+You

They say misery loves company, but I would argue that misery also loves being alone in their car sobbing the lyrics to Bjork’s Hyperballad as it drives down an open road.

The newly single must embrace their liberty and freedom as well as the occasional loneliness that comes with it. What better way to do that than going on a solo trip to wherever your tires or the train tracks take you?

Make sure to pack plenty of music. I find classic rock songs of heartbreak highly therapeutic, especially when I think of all the people, from the Fleetwood Mac era to modern day, who have nursed themselves back to health by listening to the same ballads.

Although a weekend getaway is unlikely to completely cure your heartbreak, it will distract you from it long enough to see that things will eventually get better.

Travel has now become an integral part of my break-up recovery ritual. This time around I’m thinking of exploring North Africa…

Any trips we missed? Share your thoughts in the comments!

We can all get over Acoustic Guitar Guy playing Jack Johnson in the corner.

We intrinsically know that the older dude from Montreal is going to fart in his sleep. And we accept that the front desk lady is going to lie about not having quarters, even though she has seven left in the drawer.

However, there are things that can be done to make a hostel more tolerable.

Photo by 733.

Your Peppercorn Is Not Wanted Here

I’ve nearly fainted while standing in an overheated kitchen, waiting for a place to cook Ramen Surprise. One man’s opinion: There’s just no need to make Coq Au Vin on a Bunsen Burner.

If you’re a backpacking gourmet, plan ahead and do whatever you can to make it speedier than Rachel Ray on trucker speed.

And please, stop scoffing at my meal while you’re braising your venison. Those bedbug’s track marks are inches from your spatula, just like the rest of ours.

Don’t Be A Ziplock Mary

Let’s get this straight: No matter how hard you try, a year’s supply of socks cannot be repackaged into a cubic centimeter.

Especially at the crack of dawn, when everyone is trying to catch some shuteye. Accept it: Your peas are going to touch your mashed potatoes. It’s 4am and we’re trying to sleep. Just cut the crap.

Photo by stuhaigh.

Gateway’s Drug

Sure the lobby computer is a gigantic piece of shit but it’s OUR gigantic piece of shit, filled with viruses, spyware and a cookie history that’s often criminal. This is not the time to install Worlds Of Warcraft or write an essay about Bungy Jump At Nevis.

Get on the computer, do your thing and get off. And please people, remember - Facebook is not the internet. It’s Facebook.

TV Room Hogs

Straight Up. You could just as easily take your lazy ass to a hammock and listen to Ben Harper there. This room is sacred - be cognizant of the fact that not everyone wants to marathon the Lethal Weapon films while you drink tallboys and intermittently fall asleep.

Surely there’s a Friends marathon going on at a nearby cafe, where you can wrap yourself in your sarong and order Pad Thai without shrimp.

Photo by nest hostels valencia.

That Isn’t Shampoo On The Floor

There’s a finite amount of soaping that one man can do in fifty minutes. We know what’s going on in there.

While we appreciate you not having seizures on the bunk above us, we also have to step into the shower after you and would appreciate some tidying up first. Use your brains, man.

Recognize Your Stank

It happens to everyone - laundry piles up. Employing The Pepsi Challenge on your socks is a good sign that you’re skunking the room.

Just because you Fabreeze your bra doesn’t meant that it will not smell like the jungle trek you’ve just left. A simple “hey does anyone else need to do laundry?” will usually find at least one other partner to help with funds and suds. Look at that - you’ve made another smelly friend.

Photo by denmar.

A Letter To The Guy Who Never Leaves The Room

Dear Sir. Why did you leave home? Don’t you get bored looking at the walls and repeatedly telling the story of your night dive on the Great Barrier Reef? How many times can you unpack and pack?

May I just have one moment alone here to collect my thoughts? You’ve been sitting indianstyle on your bunk for two days, reading The Davinci Code. There’s a whole other world out there, sir. Please?

Best Regards, Tom

Cushion Pushin

Oh, you two. We saw your snog session at the bar next door go from PG13 to NC17 in about four beers and two shots. We all know that you’re going to sneak into each other’s bunks in fifteen minutes.

As suggested in a recent article here, why to take it to a dark corner instead? There is no Invisibility Cloak for sex. You’re going to make The Noise and we’re all going to mock that noise for the rest of the week.

Photo by paper or plastic?.

Flip Employees A Brewski

They’re hostel workers, one click up the food chain from the guy who slits a cow’s throat before it is butchered.

We all know that they are going to spend their salary on weed and never make that trip to Nepal.

But still, they pick up our Twix wrappers and, well, worse. Even a pity bagel can make this person’s week. Pay it forward.

Any tips we missed? Share your thoughts in the comments!

Homer

Within its cryptic mysteries and abstruse ponderings lies that same rapacious spirit for travel as exists in any seasoned explorer.

Whether you’re looking inward or hiking outward, the goal is always psychological: to open your mind and to challenge old ways of thinking.

What follows is a list of 5 great thinkers who have fostered in me a ferocious curiosity about the world, an exhilaration for new experiences and the wherewithal to continually stretch personal boundaries; the traveler’s spirit!

1. Homer

Any list such as this needs to begin with Homer’s The Odyssey (as does any study of Western philosophy).

No literary work embodies better how an epic voyage can be a powerful metaphor for inner travel. If its eloquent verses don’t inspire the wanderlust in you, nothing will.

Every time I’ve read The Odyssey, I’ve been overcome with the desire for all of my travels to be epic and life-altering. If you bring it along and read it often, its positive influence may also leave your own travel journal mysteriously written in dactylic hexameter.

Michel de Montaigne

2. Michel de Montaigne

Montaigne has occasionally been hailed as “the first tourist”. Of course, his Travel Journal is a shining example as to why he’s famous for popularizing the essay as a literary genre.

Thus, Montaigne is more than just a great thinker who understood inner travel; he’s a thinker who inspired inner travel writing, too.

If you’re railing around Europe you might be interested in his various musings about regional differences throughout the continent.

David Hume

3. David Hume

David Hume was a Scottish philosopher who had a large influence on me as a young man. He was an empiricist, which means he believed that if knowledge is going to come from anywhere, it has to come from what your senses tell you about the world.

But what made Hume unique among the empiricists of his time was his skepticism. He argued that our understanding of the world is not generated through reasoning, but instead by a certain habit of mind, or more by the practicality of a situation.

Basically, this made Hume an anti-dogmatist, and he taught that we must constantly challenge our own assumptions.

His advice to the traveler would have been to always be open to new experiences, and to not get too comfortable within a limited perspective.

Edmund Husserl

4. Edmund Husserl

Known as the father of phenomenology, nobody exemplifies the notion that experience is the source of all knowledge better than Husserl.

Thus, for Husserl, understanding inner travel would have been more than important, but fundamental.

Phenomenology is all about identifying how the features of objects are perceived, which as anyone who has experienced culture shock might tell you: it’s a life-shaking and profound process.

Husserl’s writing may seem like heavy reading on the road, but if you can parse it, there are few worldviews which declare more vividly that all of our outer journeys begin and end from within.

Jean-Paul Sartre

5. Jean-Paul Sartre

When many people think of existentialism, they imagine black-clothed Parisians sipping coffee and puffing on cigarettes, questioning whether their lives have any meaning.

But reading Sartre will quickly cure you of that misconception.

Rather, the tenets of Sartre’s thought empower the individual to forge in the smithy of their soul their own life’s meaning. The existentialist, like the traveler, is fundamentally obsessed with living an authentic life. And that means constantly challenging yourself to do things differently.

For Sartre, the individual is fundamentally, metaphysically open to new experiences.

For me, nothing extols and empowers the traveler’s attitude better than the existential attitude.

What other Western thinkers embody inner travel? Share your thoughts in the comments!

All photos by ssrashid84

“Are you carrying a weapon on you?” the young Israeli soldier asked as we approached the middle of the Jewish settlement in Hebron.

“No,” my friends and I quickly replied, assuming that he was asking a routine security question.

“Well you don’t want to go any further up that road unarmed.”

I exchanged a nervous what-the-hell-does-that-mean glance with my girlfriend. He must just be kidding - messing with the stupid tourists, right?

Suddenly there was a series of rapid “pop pop pop” sounds from up the hill. “Fireworks?” I asked.

“No, that’s us returning fire. They were shooting up at us before. So you still want to keep going?” the soldier responded, half smiling because he already knew the answer.

The Political Tourism

Israel attracts over two million tourists every year, making it one of the world’s great tourism destinations.

Backpackers, Christian pilgrims, heritage-seeking Jews, history buffs, and nature lovers all flock to a wide range of unique sites in the Jewish state.

For the vast majority of these tourists, the volatile political situation is at best a nuisance which fills their trip with security checks and at worst a reason to postpone or cancel the trip altogether.

But for a small minority of visitors, the conflict itself is the reason for visiting, spawning a nascent political tourism industry which gives visitors the chance to see behind the headlines and into the heart of the seemingly intractable conflict.

Traveling into the Palestinian Territories of the West Bank takes a bit of extra grit and patience, but those willing to take the plunge are rewarded with a first-hand look at one of the defining international issues of our time.

View from an Arab market below a Jewish settlement

Palestine Welcomes You

Anyone with even a casual interest in the news is constantly barraged with information about the Israel-Palestine conflict. This has led to the instant association of the Palestinian Territories with suicide bombing, and thus a knee-jerk reaction that any visit inside the area is a highly risky endeavor.

In fact, although Hamas-controlled Gaza remains off-limits to tourists, the Palestinian Authority-controlled West Bank is quite accessible and generally quite safe.

Although violence does flare up, it rarely does so in a way which would affect visitors, and even though my trip coincided with a small skirmish no one was injured in the end.

Palestinians are exceptionally welcoming, and I experienced nothing but a constant refrain of “ahlan” (”welcome”) while walking through various West Bank cities.

A visit to cities such as Ramallah, Hebron, Bethlehem, and Nablus allows visitors to go beyond the terrorism clichés of the nightly news and into the reality of the situation on the ground.

A trip to Hebron, 30 kilometers south of Jerusalem, presents a particularly stark and memorable picture of the tense state of affairs.

Life In The Right Wing

Ramallah at sunset

The Jewish settlement in the city sits literally on top of the Palestinian market, separated by a jagged horizontal cage to prevent rocks from being hurled down below and making for a surreal stroll through an otherwise typical Arab market.

A walk into the settlement itself gives a glimpse of life on the extreme right wing of Israeli society.

You can even walk right into the ruins of a home demolished by the Israeli government after settlers holed up and refused to move out. After experiencing the situation for yourself, you’ll never watch the international portion of the nightly news the same way again.

Like any form of “backstreets” travel, the nature of political tourism does raise the question of where the fine line between tourism and voyeurism lies.

Similar charges have been levied against so-called “slum tourism” which brings Westerners to the world’s poorest places so that they can snap a few pictures of photogenic misery before heading back to the comforts of home.

However, whereas slum tourists are simply “experiencing” first-hand the images of poverty that they’ve seen so many times on T.V., political tourism (when done correctly) involves understanding the situation behind the images in order to gain an entirely new perspective on a situation.

A day trip certainly cannot cover all the complexities of the situation in the West Bank, but it still goes a long way towards getting past the 30-second clips and soundbites on the conflict spoon-fed to us by the media.

See It For Yourself

Although I visited the West Bank with friends living in Ramallah, there are a few tour agencies which take groups to various destinations in the region.

Fred Schlomka runs Alternative Tours in English, a social enterprise which organizes a number of trips into the West Bank as well as in Israel west of the Green Line.

His company gives tours to about 150 visitors a month, which he says is a way to “help people see the reality of Palestinian life under occupation, and also give them a taste of Palestinian culture.”

Rather than voyeuristic and unproductive, Fred, who has worked extensively with non-profits to help the Palestinian people, finds political tourism to be “a vital service to visitors so they have an opportunity to see the country in a safe and professional manner.”

Some of his tourists, who mainly come from the US and Western Europe, have later gone on to become involved with political and development projects in the region.

The Israel-Palestine conflict is an essential part of the political and social dynamic of the entire Middle East.

For those who pride themselves on partaking in the eye-opening and self-educating aspects of travel, political tourism in the West Bank is an experience not to be missed.

What are your thoughts on political tourism in the West Bank? Share your thoughts in the comments!

Statues of Easter Island / Photo AndrewGill73

Are we already experiencing the slow death of blogging? Not likely, says formber BNT contributor Brenda Yun.

“The surface of Mars is in better condition than most Albanian highways, but that didn’t stop the driver from playing chicken with the approaching trucks.” In this harrowing piece, Robin Esrock reveals his 10 Tales of Transit Hell.

Celine Rogue, writing for Web Worker Daily, experiments with just how far she can leave civilization and continue to work. She also offers some great mobile tips in her article on web working for the road.

“We live in two Americas. One America, now the minority, functions in a print-based, literate world. The other America, which constitutes the majority, exists in a non-reality-based belief system.” Read this provocative article that was originally titled America The Illiterate.

With the election of Obama to the White House, the US has now become a beacon of virtue and tolerance right? Just don’t tell that to Catherine Vogt, 14, an Illinois 8th grader who experimented by wearing two different shirts to school. The results will surprise you.

Chalk it up under hilarty. Amber Mac lists her Top 5 Internet Culture videos, with some new picks and old gems.

Finally, get inspired with an interview with travelblogger Gary Arndt of Everything Everywhere. He sold everything to hit the road now for over a year.