bearcat's blog

On Tuesday’s in-class discussion of The Tempest, the notion of New Historicist Stephen Greenblatt’s “Salutary Anxiety”—the benefit and pleasure generated from conflict—was brought into conversation. With “The Deconstruction and Reconstruction of the ‘Self’” as the topic of my Colloquium, I have been paying particular attention to this idea of “reciprocal necessity” for struggle in relation to the books we’ve been reading for this class.
 
The first day of “Travel Classics” we addressed the question, “Why does one travel?” and the concept of seeking “authenticity” through tourism. I find myself now coming back to the same question from a different point of view—through the lens of “deconstruction and reconstruction” as an inherent trait (and cycle), present in all of mankind, and as a necessary tool in the process of self-actualization and the construction of purpose.
 
It is relatively easy to cite examples of characters manifesting their own problems throughout their journeys in fictional texts such as The Tempest and The Odyssey as the structure of narrative, generally speaking, necessitates conflict. Prospero consciously injects his daughter’s romantic relationship with anxiety/conflict to ensure the construction of a future healthy marriage. Odysseus and his men disregard prior warnings and sacrifice the oxen of Helios to their own disadvantage, pro-longing the journey home.
 
The presence of “deconstructive and reconstructive” tendencies in the personal documentation of one’s travels, however, do appear to reflect similar instances of struggle in a narrative-like fashion—Columbus’ hardships and encounters with the Indians as imperative to his own transformation is evidence of such. Even in Herodotus’ Account of Egypt, in which he rarely writes of or reflects upon his own experience traveling, we witness the pattern. Through the deconstruction of another, unfamiliar culture, Herodotus is able to reconstruct and interpret the beliefs of his own culture by comparison.
 
Each travel writer had his own motive for traveling—religion, wealth, conquest, navigation, war, discovery. However, each documented journey was also marked by a thematic consistency of struggle and conflict (internal and external) juxtaposed with the re-configuration of the author and reader’s perception, which is perhaps why these ancient texts have survived and maintained relevancy. It is human nature—the intrinsic yearning for struggle and “salutary anxiety”—that weaves all of these texts together so seamlessly and perhaps, gets at the heart of why we desire to travel today. 

After reading the account of Christopher Columbus’ journey and discussing the severe mistreatment of the native people by the Caucasians throughout his travels generally ignored in the study of American history (or at least in my elementary school education), I was interested to see the opposing side of the equation. I researched the “American Indian Perspective on Columbus” online and discovered an elementary school (4th grade) curriculum in Oregon constructed around the idea of telling history (the colonization of America) from the Indian’s point of view with more sensitivity to their customs. (p.s. check out the section "Stereotypes to Unlearn"--pretty funny)
 
Instead of taking the more antagonistic approach and detailing the cruelty of Columbus/creating a villain out of an alleged hero, the curriculum takes the word “discovery” and deconstructs its meaning to emphasize the idea that Columbus did not, in fact, “discover” America—rather, he “arrived” or “landed” while the Indians had been there for years. In addressing the primary school educators, however, the author is sure to convey the “exploitation, racism, inequality” and outright genocide Columbus exhibited to stress the importance of this change in curriculum.
 
The curriculum in reference to the children’s learning, however, does twist the story a bit with a bias towards Columbus’ motives in traveling. As it reads, “Many people believe that his motive for exploration was to spread Christianity or simply because he was an adventurer. In reality, his motive was wealth.” This is not necessarily true—as we debated during our in-class discussion—arriving at the conclusion that there are always multiple reasons for committing to a journey.
 
I think the idea of swapping out one falsified notion of history for another is particularly interesting. The entire issue really gets at the heart of the recurring theme in “travel classics” and “historical documentation”—the quest for human “truth.”

It’s particularly interesting to read Shakespeare’s The Tempest in conjunction with the other “travel classics” we’ve read, thus, far due to its lack of direct historical commentary as a primary or even secondary source (although it is thought to have drawn some inspiration from other travel literature—the accounts of a storm that was detrimental to England’s colonization as well as Montaigne’s essay “Of the Cannibals”), its definitive sense of plot/character development, use of dialogue, and its dramatic fictional and imaginative qualities. While it is not to say that prior readings were necessarily lacking in “fiction” or conscious audience, this particular text differs in that it does not disguise itself as “true”—neither historically nor personally. The play is poetic, dramatic; its only “truth” is self-reflexive, a commentary on the human condition.
 
When evaluated within the context of this class as a “travel classic” juxtaposed with the other more ‘authoritarian’ writings, the variety of perspectives documented in the dialogue throughout their fictional journey provided for a more enjoyable narrative in the conflict of their personalities/opinions—the contrast between first person and third person. We are let in not just one, but all of the characters’ secrets and motivations (not exclusively reliant on the perceived or speculated opinions of a singular author)—Ariel’s enslavement in the hands of Prospero, Prospero’s manipulative hand in the relationship between his daughter, Miranda, and Ferdinand, Alonso, Gonzalo, Sebastian and Antonio’s plots against one another and their unification against Prospero.
 
It is apparent throughout the text, that each character is experiencing his or her own personal journey—literally (the shipwreck and the journey to find the lost ship members) and metaphorically (through the trials and tribulations of romance, theoretical enslavement and emotional disaster)—and in this psychology, the play may be conceived of in a similar vain to “less fictional” works.  However, the extraordinary difference between one man’s impression of what is occurring and another throughout, emphasizes the recurring theme present in the majority of our class discussions with regard to the validity or accuracy of personal accounts we conceive of as “historical.” Shakespeare seems to play at the heartstrings of humanity’s “insecure” past as he puts the characters’ personal histories into questioning—Miranda’s tragic past unbeknownst to her at the onset, the accusation of Ferdinand’s identity (the Prince of Naples) as false, Alonso’s misguided guilt for the capture of his son.
 
Left to the rhetorical devices of a single individual in this play (with an intended audience), the story would take on a completely different tone. And thus, despite the cloak of “fiction” The Tempest yields, it is arguable that the undercurrent of “truth” is comparable to the other “travel classics.”
 

I found the practices of the medicine man (detailed in Chapter 15) of particular personal interest in relation to my own experiences with the Shaman tradition. About a year ago I found myself at a Gallatin Professor’s barn in Pennsylvania with a group of about 20 other students/burning man participators for a weekend workshop emphasizing, “healing” and “soul part retrieval” through Shaman ritual and an almost 3 hour long Indian sweat-lodge ceremony. 
 
I recognized much of what de Vaca described in his journey—curing illnesses by blowing on the sick person and casting out the illness with their breath and their hands, removing pain by placing hot rocks on the stomach of the afflicted patient—however, it seemed a little strange to me (and as mentioned in class) that the Indian’s so quickly assigned him the title of physician, especially after researching what it mean’s to be a “shaman” according to tradition.
 
A shaman’s role, generally speaking, is to either act as a healer (removing negative energies and retrieving lost soul parts) or a mediator (a bridge between the gap of the community and spiritual world). However, shamans, typically, are thought to have a “calling,” generally in conjunction with the archetype of the “wounded healer”—a person who has experienced sickness and, thus, understands it and can cure it in others.
 
Why would the Indians have considered Cabeza de Vaca as worthy of such a distinguished title? Was it because they had witnessed him and his men suffer and, thus, thought him admirable? Did his personality denote the same sort of empathetic quality evident in his writing? What’s even more note-worthy is de Vaca’s initial lack of belief in his ability to heal—his acceptance of others seems to parallel self-acceptance through the progression of his journey.

Álvar Núñez Cabeza de Vaca’s account of his expedition to North America reflected, for me, a sentiment of tolerance and humanity that was less obvious or, quite frankly, lacking in some of the other works we read. Cabeza de Vaca’s sense of loyalty to his country and the Christian faith certainly pervades the text with his abundant use of the word “Your Majesty” and his frequent expression of gratitude towards God after overcoming every obstacle as well as each positive occurrence throughout. However, unlike Christopher Columbus, Cabeza de Vaca’s account conveys an overarching theme of primordial unity (reminiscent of Ibn Battuta) and the value of understanding the human condition and relating to other people. 
 
It is apparent through his writing that Cabeza de Vaca makes a conscious effort to level with, understand, and communicate with the Indians he comes into contact with as he speaks to them through sign language and writes of symbolic exchanges of friendship through the trading of arrows and beads. In one particular instance, Cabeza de Vaca and the rest of the men are washed up on the shore of a strange land—weak and starving from the misfortune of shipwreck and casualties. The Indians find them like so, sit down and weep with them. In the words of Cabeza de Vaca, “They felt such great pain and pity at seeing us in such a state that they all began to cry so loudly and sincerely that they could be heard from afar.” This feeling of empathy and humanization pervades de Vaca’s writing in reference to the Indians. He details how members of one tribe cry upon seeing one another after much time has passed, describes another tribe as caring more for their children than any other group of human beings he has ever seen, and details their overall generosity in giving what they can to him and his men when they are in need.
 
Through the progression in Cabeza de Vaca’s account, we witness a transformation in his concept of “the other” as he develops a sense of compassion for and understanding of the Indians he encounters—describing them in less derogatory terms and more like equals, acknowledging when Christians are to blame instead of Indians. Cabeza de Vaca’s personal development gives a unique narrative quality to the text, which (in my opinion) makes for a more interesting historical script, while provoking the discussion of human nature. 

What makes “The Four Voyages of Christopher Columbus” stand apart from the other ‘travel classics’ we’ve engaged with thus far are the variety of primary and secondary sources used to composite this text. The telling of Columbus’ first voyage was comprised of not only his own descriptive letter, but of accounts documented by Captain Oviedo, Bartolome de las Casas and, his son, Hernando Colon. The disparity of authors, while serving to provide a more ‘well-rounded’ view of the journey as a whole, leave room for speculation with regard to Columbus’ character and motives in traveling as each writer tells a different type of story.
 
According to Gonzalo Fernandez de Oveido in his “history” of the first voyage, Christopher Columbus was a “learned man well read in the science of cosmography” who set out on this journey under the public assumption of spreading Christianity. While Oveido acknowledges the religious nature of his public motives, his frequent mention of Columbus’ geographical knowledge and navigational expertise provide evidence for a different personal motive—the desire for discovery and heroism.
 
Bartolome de las Casas’ rendering of the first voyage is considered “the prime authority” for the voyage itself, considering most of it was directly translated from Columbus’ original logbook. While the rest of the accounts provide evidence for less than pious motives regarding Columbus’ true intentions in traveling, this particular account appears to be written in favor of his Christian motives when Columbus’ voice does come through (it is thought that Columbus’ logbook was, in fact, written for the financial supporters of Columbus’ journey). Las Casas notes, when his sailors become wary and disheartened by the length of their journey, Columbus alternates between responding with words of divine encouragement and intention and fabricated geographic information (his keeping of two logbooks). However, even Las Casas (in contrast to the parts directly translated from Columbus) appears slightly skeptical of Columbus’ “good” Christian intentions as revealed through his comments. “It would be well to point out” he writes, “how far the Admiral was from the punctual observation of divine and natural law, and how little he understood the sovereign’s obligations and his own to the natives, according to this law.”
 
Columbus’ son’s description of his father’s travels, on the contrary, acts as a defense against such notions and portrays him in a positive light. Colon speculates the “divine” idea behind each action—inserting the word “Christian” or “Lord” throughout the course of his writing when it often times seems irrelevant. (i.e. when Columbus sends out two previously captured and thus allegedly converted “Christian” Indians to scout out the island upon landing in “Cuba”).

In Ibn Battuta’s account of his travels he details the banana, betel and coconut trees in the Dhofar region and marvels at their many uses, as well as cultural significance to the people of that region.
 
As Battuta recalls, “The Indians have a high opinion of betel, and if a man visits a friend and the latter gives him five leaves of it, you would think he had given him the world, especially if he is a prince or notable. A gift of betel is a far greater honour than a gift of gold and silver.”
 
Having never heard of the “betel leaf” prior to reading this passage, I felt so inclined as to research the origin and uses of this plant in the context of Indian culture.
 
Apparently, Indian medicine men utilized the betel leaf as a sort of ancient toothpaste to clean the mouth and prevent odor and disease. However (unlike Crest or Aquafresh) betel also had the added advantage of providing users with Vitamin A, Vitamin C, Calcium, in addition to speeding up digestion. (I’m surprised this isn’t all over women’s magazines by now.)
 
As far as “spiritual” uses go, the betel leaf was (and is) considered one of the most important puja items in Hindu rituals (performed as an offering to gods & on special occasions) as a “purifier” and symbol of richness & health. It is believed that disparate deities reside in the betel leaf: Indra & Shukra in the top portion, Saraswati in the middle, Mahalakshmi in the lower region, etc. and, according to the legend of the Kumbha Mela, the plant was obtained by the gods during the churning of the ocean for the nectar and serves as a representation of immortality.
 
Thus, it is no mystery to me now as to why Battuta felt compelled to detail this plant in his description of Dhofar, as the betel leaf is such a large part of Indian culture.  

Perhaps what is most interesting and original about Ibn Battuta’s account of his travels, in conjunction with the other travel classics we’ve embraced thus far, is the religious motivation behind his journey and the intensity with which he contextualizes the pilgrimage to Mecca and the Tomb of the Prophet through his writing. Unlike Marco Polo, who failed to address the mercantile motive behind his voyage, Battuta’s purpose for traveling is always present in the shadows of his language. “I set out alone, finding no companion to cheer the way with friendly intercourse, and no party of travelers with whom to associate myself” Battuta states. “Swayed by an overmastering impulse within me, and a long-cherished desire to visit those glorious sanctuaries, I resolved to quit all my friends and tear myself away from my home.”
 
Not only did religion clearly serve as the basis for his motivation to travel in the world of the fourteenth century (after all, it should be noted that he did continue his journey even after arriving in Mecca—for 27 years), but it also appeared to have a relatively large impact on the lens through which he perceived his environment. Battuta often speaks of the non-Muslim people he encounters in contrast to those of the Islamic faith exemplifying the strong religious conflict of the period (with special attention to the Christian-Muslim clash) as well as his own spiritual bias (he frequently regards non-Muslim peoples as “heathens” or “infidels”). His reverence for particular peoples, however, appears (for the most part) to be not so much a matter of which religion they practice and more so in regard to the principles which they uphold. He does not speak ill of the communities that treated him with respect and even demonstrates a mutual feeling of respect for disparate customs and cultures through the recount of his actions and experiences. He details: the beauty of the Christian monasteries at Constantinople (with their magnificent marble and mosaic work); the consideration with which he, personally, addresses the Byzantine Emperor (asking the interpreter how to salute Takfur in his native tongue); and describes the “negroes” of Mali as the most generous and hospitable people, asking God to “reward them for their kindness.”
 
I found Battuta’s lack of animosity and tolerance for disparate customs and religious practices, on the whole, to be rather progressive, especially considering the period. While Islam, as the Introduction notes, “gave to every believer the sense of common fellowship in its Universal Brotherhood,” Battuta seemed to extend that notion of “brotherhood” to encompass the people he met through his travels—not just those belonging to the Islamic faith.

Prior to contemplating the historical value of Marco Polo and the documentation of his travels, “free association” brought me to consider the childhood swimming pool game named after the Italian explorer. The game “Marco Polo” is a form of tag played in a swimming pool, in which one person is “It’ and forced to close his eyes, shouting “Marco,” while the rest of the players respond with “Polo” and the “it” individual attempts to blindly touch or claim a body part.
 
Naturally, I questioned how this game came into being and what it had to do (if anything) with the Travels of Marco Polo. After a relatively intensive “Google” search I was able to generate multiple interesting responses, although their credibility is rather subjective. Although I wrote this post before attending class on Thursday, since a number of other people have already written on the topic and I am just now posting it, I thought I would share the most original answer to the origin of the game I had not already seen/read about on the blog site:
 
“My theory is that Marco Polo is a game that reinacts the return voyage of Marco Polo. The voyage involved a fleet of ships and a large number of voyagers. When Marco Polo finally did return, over 600 of his travel companions were missing. My theory is that the fleet was caught in a great storm that destroyed many of the ships and left the crew and passengers in the ocean. Hoping to be found, they yell for the expedition leader. Visibility is very low (hence the closed eyes) and Marco Polo tries desparately to find the swimmers (hence the pool). The yells come from all around which adds to the confusion. The game ends when he finally connects with one player which portrays the small percentage of people that survived the voyage.” link

In class we discussed the idea of what it means to be a “barbarian” and how the term, in ancient times, was used to denote “a foreigner” or “non-Greek speaking” individual—in contrast to its modern (negative) connotation. Actor Gary Cooper’s slightly offended reaction to King Kublai Kaan identifying him as a “barbarian” in the clip we watched in class from “The Adventures of Marco Polo” epitomizes, for me, the perversion of the term.
 
And yet, while Marco Polo might have appeared to be the “barbarian” or “foreigner” in the context of his surroundings, it is apparent through the documentation of his travels that he absorbed the variety of people he met on his journey with an equally critical eye—put simply, to him, they were the “barbarians”.
 
Polo speaks of the citizens of the “Lesser” Hermenia as “poor creatures, and good at nought, unless it be at boozing,” the Turcomans as “a rude people with an uncouth language of their own,” and the natives of Tauris (worshippers of Mahommet) as “a very evil generation”. His Christian bias is rather obvious, as well, in his criticism of the shortcomings in the practice of the “Christians” with whom he comes into contact.
 
What I found most interesting, however, on the topic of what it means to be a “foreigner” and what/who we classify as “foreign,” was Marco Polo’s interpretation of “Orientalism” (assuming he did, in fact, reach China, which is apparently a debated issue in and of itself). In contrast to the more negative depictions of foreigners in foreign lands previously mentioned, Marco Polo appeared to withhold the utmost respect for The Great Kaan and his prosperous kingdom. In the words of Marco Polo, he was “The wisest and most accomplished man, the greatest Captain, the best to govern men and rule an Empire.” Polo details the organization of his city “like a chessboard” with its gates, palaces, straight and wide streets and the particular order in which they treat their foreigners—assigning them barons and servants to ensure they are well-cared for, but do not step upon the threshold went entering. Polo is fascinated with the cultural wealth of the kingdom (in addition to the gold and silk). He details passages concerning their festivities—the Kaan’s birthday, New Years, hunting/gaming ceremonies, etc.
 
While reading Marco Polo’s account of the East, I could not help but consider the modern conception of Orientalism and how our way of thinking differs so drastically (even today) from the East (China in particular). Thus, I decided to include in this blog post, although it supposed to be the more acadamic analysis of the text, a link to this Ted Talk I watched last week by Martin Jacques.  It discusses the issue of China’s emerging power and how we (in the West) will be unsuccessful in coping with the economic changes due to our inability to relate to this “foreign” ideology and the history behind it.
 

In Herodotus’ An Account of Egypt the sacredness of animals is a significant topic in the discussion of Egyptian history. While animals are most certainly a part of our current “sphere of influence,” I could not help but ponder the semantic change and contrast in modern perception of the animals mentioned in the text.
 
In Ancient Egypt, pigs were considered “an abominable animal.” If an Egyptian so much as brushed up against one, he had to dip himself, clothed in the river and, as far as consumption goes, pigs were only to be eaten on the Moon of Dionysos. When I think of pigs now, my mind instantaneously references Babe, Charlotte’s Web, and the number of “piggy poop” key chains popularized in middle school. The associative word here is “cute” (when we’re not devouring them in crispy strips alongside eggs and pancakes).
 
Cats and dogs were elevated to a level of “divinity” in the minds of the Egyptians. If a house cat died its owners were compelled to shave their eyebrows. If a domestic dog died they shaved their entire body (head included). While dogs and cats still remain domestic house pets, there is no way any modern citizen would attribute their full-body waxing trend to the death of Snoopy. 
 
While Herodotus is skeptical of the legend of the phoenix, this “sacred bird” has actually made a significant impact on modern culture with its emergence in JK Rowling’s Harry Potter as well as Kanye West’s recent music video, “Runaway”—although I highly doubt the Egyptians would have approved of their sacred phoenix taking on the form of Kanye’s outcast, object of love.
 
It is interesting to note the cultural value humans have ascribed to animals in the past and how these values have evolved over time within our (American) culture. 

I found Herodotus’ An Account of Egypt extremely compelling when placed under the looking glass of “historical record.” Herodotus, thought to be one of the world’s first documented historians, strives to uncover the truth of Egyptian history through his writing—claiming to objectively relay what has passed through his ears and eyes throughout the course of his travels. To Herodotus’ credit, he does acknowledge the existence of multiple versions of “historical truths” and never fails to assert his opinion independent from these versions so as to maintain some shred of credibility (alongside his authorship). “If however after I have found fault with the opinions proposed, I am bound to declare an opinion of my own about the matters which are in doubt” he writes, “I will tell what to my mind is the reason why.” And he does.
 
It is apparent throughout the text that Herodotus has come to a cross roads with regard to the origin of multiple oral histories (i.e. why the Nile River flows in the direction opposite to other parallel rivers and whether or not Heracles was a god or a man according to disparate sources). He, thus, feels compelled to direct the reader’s gaze one way or another augmenting the validity of his personal reasoning and self-image in the process. Herodotus asserts himself, interjecting his first person presence in a variety of ways. “I for my part am of opinion that,” “this was so I conjectured myself,” “These, I am of opinion,” and “this I know, having myself also measured it” are just a few examples from the text.
 
Perhaps the most intriguing element regarding the formal aspects of Herodotus’ account of Egypt is the way in which he structures what he has heard in conjunction with what he believes to be true. In introducing the sacred bird called the phoenix he writes, “This bird they say (but I cannot believe the story) contrives as follows.” Thus, Herodotus appears very cautious in distinguishing what it is that “they say” as opposed to what he says utilizing connotative words such as “contrives” to his advantage.
 
Furthermore, while Herodotus claims to be preoccupied with the origin of Egyptian culture—informing the reader solely based on his own observations and the accounts given to him by Egyptian people—he distances himself and his knowledge of the subject from his audience quite frequently throughout. In ascertaining topics he “most desires not to speak” about and things “it is not permitted to [him] by religion to say” he maintains an air of superiority and control over the discourse of Egyptian origin.
 
Herodotus’ historical editing of his account of Egypt compels me to question the egotistical, self-propagating motives behind his work in addition to what we conceive of as “origin” or historical “truth.” 

In Books 9-12 of The Odyssey there seems to exist a distinct pattern of man (or men rather) falling victim to instinct and desire (Dionysius), thus, complicating what could’ve been the ancient equivalent of a luxury cruise across the Mediterranean into a prototype for Murphy’s Law (anything that can go wrong, will go wrong).
 
Although it is arguable to suggest Odysseus and his men were mere victims of circumstance (falling by ill chance on the island of Kirke, unaware of impending treachery due to Odysseus’ recurring strategy of withholding information, fated to the will of the gods by divine prophecy, etc.), it seems to me as though the characters in this epic poem were consciously seeking fulfillment of indulgences inflicting self-harm as much as, if not more than, their ‘alleged goal’ of a safe return.
 
The discussion of fulfilling indulgences undoubtedly brings me to the topic of psychoanalysis and, thus, Sigmund Freud (although without the Oedipus, incestual crap). While Freud emphasizes the legitimacy of the “Pleasure Principle” as a pre-condition of human psychology (the idea that humans fundamentally act to seek pleasure & avoid the opposite), he also endorses the subsequent “Reality Principle,” which suggests that humans will relinquish instant gratification of an instinct in the hopes of more rewarding future gratification (in this case, the return home to Ithaca).
 
Not only does the ‘pleasurable’ satisfaction of return for the characters in Books 9-12 not appear to coincide with this theory (in consideration of the “Reality Principle”), but Odysseus and his men seem relatively aware of the dangers to come prior to each incident (i.e. the sacrifice of the oxen of Helios) and fail to act in a ‘self-preserving’ manner.
 
For me, this begs many questions regarding the nature of mankind—Is there an inherent self-destructive quality that exists in man? To what extent, or under what conditions will man forgo the Pleasure Principle for the Reality Principle (and the opposite)? Is there a time limit on indulgent ‘pleasure’? Seven years is a long time to maintain ‘instant gratification’ from some one who isn’t your loving wife.