*Travel Writing*

Too often, “travel writers” are so enamored with their own social philosophy that they forget why travel-writing exists in the first place. Too many "travel writers", it seems, are far more concerned with glorifying their own "progressive" asceticism than in fostering a greater understanding of the soul.

A good piece of travel writing, at it’s outset, neither exalts nor preaches a particular disposition (unless, of course, its the New Testament—and that’s the only example). Man's desire for exploration and travel is n unavoidable facet of nature, an instinct to explore being chemically wired in our brains. What we see in good travel writing is not an exercise in an established philosophy but rather the formation of a vastly different one. In travel writing, the traveler becomes the sage, not vice versa.
A story, therefore, must be allowed to develop its own understanding, allowing its philosophy to morph and shape and adjust as if it were a literary game of Tetris.
Here it is of absolute importance that we illustrate the dichotomy between the traveler and the tourist. They are not the same thing, of course. And the practitioner of either tourism or travel seldom knows to what sect he or she belongs. The traveler, you see, sets out on his course in the pursuit of something—to sate some deep and yearning quench of the subconscious. The tourist’s aim, however, is to take pictures, to relax and spend time someplace warm, or merely to tell people that they’ve been to a particular locale. Tourism has little, if any, spiritual or emotional benefit.

The virtue of participation is a pivotal component to exploration, but more importantly, to travel writing. By actively involving oneself in the places they visit—rather than just “seeing” them—one develops a more acute awareness of their place in society, a better sense of self, a greater spiritual understanding, and wisdom as opposed to just knowledge.

In Hesse' Siddhartha, for example, Govinda acts as a tourist along the open road of the human dilemma. Siddhartha, on the other hand, is an indubitable pioneer. Govinda is just a passenger on the philosophical tour-bus, always dependent on another vessel to carry him from one place to the next. If the river is to represent self-discovery, itself—that it flows outward and through everything rather than limiting itself to a confined space—then consider the value of the following passage:

“It seemed to him as if the river had something special to tell him, something which he did not know, something which still awaited him” (Hesse 100).

The human spirit demands perpetual movement if it is to be nurtured. However, this does not require that one traverse the Galapagos to attain spiritual or emotional validation. There are those who prefer a more dormant lifestyle, much preferring the comfort of their own ecosystem. Many people come to even fear traveling itself; they would rather catch up on The Facts of Life marathon than eat octopus in Costa Rica. However, these are not helpless or lost souls. Far from it.
It is only when one tangles oneself in the web of heavy routine that their philosophy—if not their zest for life—becomes emaciated and withered, unable to ripen or develop.
It’s almost like dropping the philosophical teabag in the cold water of the mind. Think of the teabag as your human spirit, your awareness of the human condition. If the water is cold, the teabag is limp and useless. The tea—your philosophical mind—can only be brewed when you move out of your immediate perception, when you set out for the hidden corners of culture and continually demolish the bordering fences of routine. To do this, one must escape their day-to-day surroundings; which can be achieved by actual, physical travel but is so often substituted by the use of certain illicit substances.

For Sal Paradise, routine is the murderous bandit of the human spirit, the puppeteer of his well-being, the host body to misery’s parasite.
Therefore, traveling, in On The Road, is a necessary means of meditation. It is a way for Sal to break the confines of his “splintered self.” His very humanity seems to be defined by the act of travel—of constant movement. The journey, thus, is the destination. By traveling, he obtains what he is seeking: a means to escape himself.

But Hesse provides a far different view (frickin' Krauts...). Hesse’ protagonist comes to actually embrace routine. Routine, for Siddhartha, is inalienable from spiritualized ritual. But only by traveling—by testing the waters of routine—is Siddhartha able to accept his true nature. Traveling, for Siddhartha, is a means of obtaining a discipline, which then comes to serve as his meditation. By traveling, even in search of routine, our hero is able to cure the “hollowness of self” that befalls him at the story’s outset.
A piece of good travel writing, at its conclusion, has a developed philosophy that speaks to its audience not through the direct medium of words, but rather through faint and powerful whispers. It's all in what is not said. Only then can its true philosophy be understood.