I Introduction
1.
The past week, I've
spent most of my time on the subway, lunch sessions and other stolen leisure
moments indulging in Botton's book, the Art of Travel. I caught wind of the
book years ago when it was freshly published but any enthusiasm was dampened
when I heard that the book was about the philosophy of travelling.
The word
"philosophy" lent such serious undertones to the book that I assumed
that it would be a little too dry for my liking. However, through the cunning
and evil "one-click-away" amazon, I purchased the e-book on a whim.
Once again, my whim did not fail me.
Botton's style of
writing is one that I rarely encounter (or this perhaps could just mean that
I'm not well-read). It's not a novel. It's not a biography. I suppose it's a
book reflecting his observations and musings while he embarks on his travels
through paintings in art galleries, people, and books and of course, through the
literal sense of the word, to different places.
Many parts of the
book struck my heart and made me nod my head vigorously in agreement while
grabbing the adjacent person by the shirt and shouting in tearful relief,
"I finally found a person who could describe exactly how I felt throughout
my travel experiences but could not articulate without either being branded a
fool, sounding ungrateful or have my tongue tied in knots.”
II Anticipation of Travelling
1. Alain de Botton, The Art of Travel, 2002
It was not that the painting had lied, there had been some simplicity
and joviality, some nice brick courtyards and a few serving women pouring milk,
but these gems were blended in a stew of ordinary images (restaurants, offices,
uniform houses and featureless fields) which these Dutch artists had never
painted and which made the experience of travelling in the country strangely
diluted compared with an afternoon in the Dutch galleries of the Lourve, where
the essence of Dutch beauty found itself collected in just a few rooms.
2.
In the late 2010, I
travelled to Inner Mongolia for 4 days. The itinerary looked promising – green
grasslands, horse riding sessions, camel riding through the dunes of the
desserts along with a one-night experience in a traditional hut. I googled up
pictures of Inner Mongolia and saw exactly what I have pictured in my mind –
the dessert, the horses and the vast grasslands. Our bags were packed, we
hopped into the overnight train, full of anticipation and curiosity of the
journey ahead.
Naturally, on my
return, friends asked me questions of my trip and how Inner Mongolia was like. I
replied that, “it was beautiful but it was not a place I would go twice.” Why
not, they asked. Well, I did see the vast grasslands against the sky painted in
a beautiful primary blue colour, bringing with it a sense of freedom and
expansiveness. The grass was luscious, surrounded by mud and water, an optimal
condition for vitality of life. We rode on horses that galloped across the
lands – into puddles and soft soil that smelled earthy, unlike most of
China that smelled of smog and human development. I felt connected to the land,
knowing that the freshest and best quality meat in China came from Inner
Mongolia. The animals must have thrived on the land here. Being on the infinite
desert made me feel small and humbled. The desert was barren from any protection
and shelter to hide our vulnerabilities. The sand between our toes was
blistering hot when the sun was at its highest in the day. Without warning, a massive dip in temperatures
occurs as soon as the sun removes his badge of duty for the day. It was beautiful but
harsh. The expansiveness and the mysteries of the desert only made me feel
humbled and in awe of our Creator.
Pictures from the trip:
Fields of corn
Grasslands
Silhouette of camels
in the infinite desert
Horse riding through
the grasslands
Ending the
description of my trip here might render me responsible for future unfulfilled
expectations of travellers to Inner Mongolia having heard a bias account of my
trip. By no accounts have I falsified
any pictures or details of my trip. However, the pictures I showed are only a
selection of the trip of what I would have liked to immortalize in my mind. I
picked only the good pictures, when place side-by-side and condensed together,
made it seemed like an extremely worthwhile journey.
Like photographers
exhibiting their pictures in their portfolios, I would not want to bore you all
with pictures of the mundaneness of the other parts of the trip, which would
have diluted the description of my beautiful travel experience. The pictures
and account of my trip above have left out details of the long 4-hour bumpy van
ride across Inner Mongolia from the grasslands to the desert. Nor did I mention
the sad little town that seemed to be rashly developed without much thought to
the local culture. The town was sprawled with a rowdy crowd at night. Many of
the locals there are less educated than the people from the more affluent
cities in the East side of China. While the traditional hut stay was a unique
experience, the massive drop in temperature and the lack of basic heating
amenities left me shivering throughout the night, despite my heavy winter
jacket and two layers of blanket.
We are familiar with the notion that reality of travel is not what we
anticipated. The pessimistic school, of which Des Esseintes might be an
honorary patron, therefore argues that reality must always be disappointing. It
may be truer and more rewarding to suggest that is is primarily different
[Alain de Botton, the Art of Travel, 2002]
III. Closed
1. Alain de Botton, The Art of Travel, 2002
THE OUTSIDER
Tell me, whom do you
love most, you enigmatic man: your father, your mother, your sister or your
brother
I have neither father,
nor mother, nor sister, nor brother.
Your friends?
You are using a word I
never understood.
Your country?
I don’t know where
that might lie.
Your beauty?
I would love her with
all my heart if only she was a goddess and immortal.
Money?
I hate it as you hate
God.
Well then, what do you
love, you strange outsider?
I love the clouds…the
clouds that pass by…over there…over there…those lovely clouds!
2.
My
brother and I used to play this game with my parents on long car rides on the
highway. We used to point at fluffy cloud-formed animals, dancing in the
sky. Sometimes I saw a rabbit, sometimes a dragon, sometimes a horse and other times an entire farm of animals. We would point to the sky and draw out the
rabbit’s eye and ears with our fingers. We would ask our parents whether they
saw the rabbit too. They nodded their heads in enthusiasm, probably just to
humor us. The other day, I squinted at the sky and tried in vain to locate the
animal farm. I felt a tinge of disappointment when all I saw was clouds that
looked like…clouds. At best, they were fluffy cotton candy with streaks of
pink, gold and red. Like the inconspicuous change in season, I crossed over to
the adult realm. I think the animal farm was made visible
only to children with open hearts. Sometime back I must have without realizing, passed through a rite of passage and my heart closed up.
Australian skyline with clouds beneath us
Australian skyline with clouds beneath us
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