Thoughts on Traveling

“I was born upon thy banks river
My blood flows in thy stream
And thou meanderest forever
At the bottom of my dream”
- Henry David Thoreau

I’ve always thought of rivers as an apt metaphor for my desire to travel—the river’s flow akin to the part of my soul that longs to constantly be on the move. So it comes as no surprise that in the places I’ve been fortunate to travel to, I’ve always been drawn to rivers—be it the Mekong or the Thames; the Kwai or the Seine—and I’ve spent hours sitting by their banks enjoying a book or a beer or both.

I enjoy rivers for the sense of contentment that comes with sitting by them—few things in this world are more calming than a river’s flow—and also for the sense of restlessness it stirs in me. After all, one of the most fascinating things about a river is that a river never ever really stays put; it is always headed somewhere. And it is this—the promise of seeing what is beyond the bend—that touches that part of my soul that longs to travel, inciting it to seek adventure and excitement.

And yet, as I’ve come to appreciate rivers more, I’ve noticed a change in my general attitude towards travel. The excitement has not wavered nor has the longing for adventure (these, I pray, will remain as constant as a river’s eventual journey to sea) but just as I’ve taken a river’s flow as a metaphor for my wanderlust, a river’s ability to bend and shift—I’ve seen stretches of the Mekong dry enough to traverse by foot and sections where I would not dare jump in—has come to represent my evolving understanding of what to travel truly means.

For a while, I loved travel for the sheer adventure of it. I enjoyed the adrenaline rush of hopping on a train or plane, seeing a new place, and then moving on. I loved the idea of waking up in a new city (or country) and not knowing for certain what time it was…or what day it was. This sort of travel was exciting, fueled by stories of rushing for trains and sleeping in stations, and meeting new people everyday; of seeing pictures where I stood by one famous monument in one city wearing the very same thing I wore in a monument of another since I was seeing them both in the same day. Such travel was fun and exciting.

But it was also shallow. I recall that after a backpacking trip to Europe, I came back and told people I loved Barcelona. Looking back, I ask myself: What about Barcelona did I love? Did I even get to know Barcelona? I was there for five days and I doubt I met a single person from Barcelona. I had a wonderful time certainly…but a time that could have been had in any of the other cities I visited in Europe—the only difference being the monuments that I saw…monuments that while exclusive to Barcelona, were not exclusively Barcelona. I realize, looking back, that I did not get to know Barcelona at all.

Lately however, I’ve learned to appreciate staying in a place a little longer or at least staying in a place long enough to truly be there. I admit that such sort of traveling can at times be mundane and highlights are few and far between. But the highlights do come and more often than not, they have as much to do with the simple aspects of life as they do with the grand…and they are just as memorable. I know I’ve been excited about things here in Thailand that I would otherwise have taken for granted—or wouldn’t have stopped to appreciate—when I was backpacking in Europe. Things like nuances in culture, in styles of dress, in social norms, etc—things that I’ve only been able to appreciate after being in Thailand for a while. So I daresay that there is indeed a charm about staying in a place long enough to know it—if not completely at least intimately. Like a farmer might say he knows a field for instance; or a ranger, a forest; or a citizen, a city; or a hiker, a mountain.

Or like a person might know a river. “I’ve known rivers” Langston Hughes once wrote. The intimacy he goes on to describe—being lulled to sleep by the Congo; sitting by the Nile and building pyramids by it; watching the change of hue by the Mississippi —suggest an element of waiting…and staying…and watching. At the end of the poem, he exclaims “My soul has grown deep like the river.”

My experience in Thailand, where I’ve slowly immersed myself in a way of life that I could have easily bypassed has added depth to my being and has broadened my perspective. Whenever I find myself longing for the excitement of experiencing new places at a faster pace, I pause and take into account what I am able to experience: the unfolding of the rice season, spending hours sitting by a hammock alongside cow herders and rice farmers and learning about their lives, being able to have meals with villagers, learning about their conceptions (and misconceptions) of America, and so much more. And most nights I find that my cup is filled. On the other nights where my cup might not necessarily be filled—where homesickness, or boredom, or a lack of a sense of purpose sink in, I just try to remain thankful for being given the opportunity to see the world in such a different way and pray that the river bends tomorrow.

My desire to see the world is strong—perhaps stronger than it has ever been. But now, the river that meanderest at the bottom of my dreams—the very fountainhead of my wanderlust—happens to be a wiser, deeper one.