5 Characteristics I Look for in Travel Literature (w/ My List to Date)

Recently, I’ve begun to read at least one piece of literature from each of the countries I visit. While I’ve done this for the last several countries I’ve been to, now I’m going back to fill in the gaps from past travel.

 

I don’t want to be doctrinaire about the books I choose, but I’ve learned a little about what I find the most beneficial. While some people who do this insist on reading a novel from each country, I’ve been much more open to a range of forms, including: poetry, short stories, and — in a case or two — creative non-fiction. One reason I’m flexible this way is that the novel isn’t the basic unit of literature everywhere in the world. I don’t want to read a pop crime novel published by an expat that offers zero insight into culture just because that’s the only novel I can get my hands on in English. Short story collections have proven at least as insightful as novels because one sees more lead characters put into more diverse situations, and poetry can be as well — as long as it gives a sense of place and people.

 

I should also point out that I’ve violated almost all of these suggestions when something caught my eye — often to great effect. #5 and #1 are really the only ones upon which I insist.

 

5.) Offers insight into the culture of the country at hand. I don’t want to sound like a literary fiction snob. I read a lot of genre fiction and the occasional commercial fiction, but this is one area where I find literary fiction is best. In large part this is because literary fiction tends to be character-driven and that depth of character usually transmits some insight into culture. When I went to Nepal I read Samrat Upadhyay’s Mad Country [short stories] and learned a great deal about the people of Nepal from various walks of life.

 

4.) Authored by a national of said country and set there as well.  The second part (set in the country) seems like it would be non-negotiable, but I’ve certainly violated the first part  (local author) and can imagine violating the second (local setting) as well. The key is that it must do #5 (cultural insight, that’s the point after all.) To give an example of a violation of the local author proviso, for the time being at least, I’m going with George Orwell’s Burmese Days as my pick for Myanmar (Burma.) I may change that at some point, but it definitely offered insight about more than one of the items on this list.

 

To give an example of how one might violate the setting clause and still benefit, I’ve had Michael Ondaatje’s The Cat’s Table, recommended to me for a Sri Lankan book. It features a Sri Lankan boy on a ship headed from Colombo to England and thus (as I understand it) is only briefly set in Sri Lanka. Sometimes, when a national is abroad, one gains even more cultural insight — i.e. it becomes easier to see culture through the state of contrast. (It turns out that I’m reading another novel set in Sri Lanka entitled Chinaman by Shehan Karunatilaka, which promises to offer me insight into not only Sri Lanka, but also into the craziness that is the sport of cricket.

 

3.) Teaches me about some historical happenings of the country in question. In some sense this is always true because even a contemporary novel deals in history by the time it’s published. However, I tend to prefer a time-frame during which something interesting was going on in the country, but not so far into the past that there is disconnect with the people I interact with in my travels. For example, for Vietnam, I recently read Novel Without A Name, which features a North Vietnamese soldier as a protagonist, and it’s set during the last days of the war with America.

 

2.) Exposes me to a diverse set of characters. It’s a definite plus if the book shows how more than one element of society lives. A great example of this is Gagamba, a book by F. Sionil Jose, that I read in conjunction with my trip to the Philippines. In it, one peeks into the lives of rich and poor alike, as well as seeing Filipinos who’ve been living abroad and expats living in the Philippines, all this contrast makes the shadowy shapes of culture clearer.

 

1.) It’s a good read. It’s as simple as that. It must be a book I’d want to read regardless of whether I was trying to check off a box on travel literature.

 

Here’s a list of countries I’ve been to with my selections for that country — if I have one. There are some countries (e.g. USA, Hungary, India, China, Japan, and the United Kingdom) from which I’ve read a lot, but I’ll stick to presenting one that is an exemplar vis-a-vis the criteria above.

 

I’d love to receive recommendations, particularly for those countries I don’t have anything for yet.

 

Austria: The Tobacconist (recommended to me, not yet read.)

Belize:

Botswana:

Cambodia: First They Killed My Father  (I’ve read some fiction set here, but this non-fiction is the best.)

Canada: Surfacing (not yet read)

China: Life and Death Are Wearing Me Out

Czech Republic: The Good Soldier Svejk

Estonia: The Man Who Spoke Snakish (In progress. An unconventional choice as it’s genre fiction, but it came highly recommended and has not disappointed.)

Finland: The Year of the Hare (not yet read)

Guatemala: The President  (not yet read)

Hungary: Cold Days

India: The Guide

Japan: Narrow Road to the Interior

Kenya: A Grain of Wheat

Malaysia:

Mexico: Selected Poems of Octavio Paz

Mongolia: The Blue Sky

Myanmar (Burma): Burmese Days

Nepal: Mad Country

Netherlands:
Peru: Death in the Andes

Philippines: Gagamba

Singapore: Inheritance (in progress; another odd choice as the family that this novel presents is Punjabi, though they live in Singapore. and their lives are shaped by that locale. Some places, like Singapore and the UAE, have a lot of immigrants and it’s only fair to consider them through that lens.)

Slovakia:

Slovenia: I Saw Her That Night (not yet read)

Sri Lanka: Chinaman (in progress)

Thailand:

UAE: Temporary People (not yet read)

United Kingdom: A Christmas Carol

United States: Blood Meridian

Vietnam: Novel Without a Name

Zambia:

POEM: Which World?

sitting upon an old, stone ghat
I felt the flow of what was not
coracles once spun down this stream
like dervishes in a wistful dream

now the dream was cold and lonely
sing songs of the one and only
it doesn’t change a single thing
be that one a drone or a king

I’d followed the drums down into a trance
time was vacant from my every glance

and I’d lost track of which world I was riding

POEM: Naked

your perfection peeks through
not devil-dealt but always denied

I glimpse it faintly,
despite the obscuring cloak
that you clutch to yourself,
huddled against false sins

cast off the cloak

embrace the naked state
as before being imbued with gloom

illusion can’t be flogged away
but still you choose the whip
claiming the sting feels a lot like living
or that some days agony beats numbness

but you think you can crack something loose
something that was never there

POEM: Sinking

I heard your shout of, “Sink or float?”

You tossed me in, in my old, worn coat.

Copper coins pulled me under the waves.

Silencing the pounding tom-tom raves.

There is no me in the float.

No rising tide can lift my boat.

Surrendering to the swarm, drifting down.

Thinking I’ll wash up on the other side of town.

But what sinks down doesn’t wash up.

Unless I never left the pub?

POEM: Pine Oil

My hands smell of pine oil.
What a powerful soap.
It may not make me clean,
but it shot me back in time.

— a chrononaut blown out the locks
all through the residue of a cleanser.

Racked back to a mid-morning heart attack
when I was washed back in a trial by flak.
One fudged together with a pile of facts
to make quite the story.

I never read it.
but played my part.

All the pain and none of the wisdom
— just the opposite of what a reader seeks.

POEM: Bus to Nowhere

I listened to two girls tell kiss-kill tales

on a bus to I know not where.

They seemed easy breezy

in the way of those who know

where they are going.

But destination wasn’t in the bus’s program.

It was built to circle eternity,

letting the eager stew in endless moments.

A chill — the big chill — lost in a default mode.

Still, I could have followed their stories forever,

but for the skip every time the bus hit that pothole.

Cluing me in that they weren’t.

POEM: Bat

hanging bat

still as fruit on a branch

drops

swoops

glides

flaps

tilts

swings

dips

accelerates

dodges

whips

circles

twists

seizes

and hangs once more

 

POEM: Guardians

devil dogs on the doorstep
iron eyes on coming guests
something sacred lies behind
the dual beasts do attest

but what could lie behind
a door so wonky and worn
perhaps someone long gone
whom the dogs refused to mourn

like Hachikō, they’ll never go
frozen by their immortal woe

POEM: Tigericity

a tiger on the prowl doesn’t reflect upon its tigerness

that’s what makes it feared and fearless

it doesn’t think it’s a tiger

it doesn’t know it’s a tiger

it certainly never wishes it was more tiger-like

it is tiger

a tiger

the tiger

questions of tigericity never arise

POEM: Quake

a spoon rhythmically tinks against a porcelain cup

the cup rotates in digital jerks in the saucer divot, like the clockwork gears of a spastic universe

only the sugar packets are silent

well, not silent, but you’d have to turn down the volume on the tinking cup

not to mention the crumbling buildings — which sound like wheelbarrow loads of bricks being dumped onto piles of bricks– clapping against, and sliding over, each other

if you could turn off all that, plus the thrum of your own neck pulse

then you’d hear the faint maracas, granules against the paper tube