“I hate ’em,” I snarled, “they are lower order creatures, on par with ambulatory trilobites.”
Words to that effect.
But on one occasion, I was reminded that during the summer of 2016 my wife and I spent an entire month overseas, visiting three countries and soaking up the atmosphere like parched sponges. Didn’t that make me, ahem, a tourist?
Immediately after the accusation was leveled at me I became angry, defensive, denying the charge vehemently.
See, my notion of tourism is that it’s a necessary evil, like gut bacteria or liberal politicians. Yes, it can greatly benefit the economy of a nation but, in so doing, it also exacts a certain psychic toll. I mean, there were some parts of Prague that reminded me of Disneyland (and that is not a good thing).
For myself, rather than tourist, I prefer the term “visitor” or perhaps even “guest”.
Let me illustrate what I think is the difference between a visitor to a foreign country and a tourist with this analogy:
After a perfunctory knock, a stranger enters your home, basically brushing past you as he marches over to the table, seats himself and waits to be served. He doesn’t look right or left, doesn’t check out the pictures on the walls, the arrangement of the furniture; there’s no small talk, this person just wants to be fed.
And so you bring forth the courses you’ve spent all day preparing, but the food is unpleasant and exotic to the stranger, who loudly bemoans the lack of familiar favorites. The water tastes funny too and they can’t understand your weird accent.
Then, finally, the stranger glances at his watch, bolting abruptly because they have another dinner appointment further down the road (hopefully boasting better fare than this sorry joint). No real human contact, no effort made to immerse themselves in their surroundings and engage with their host. Only interested in stuffing their fat faces as quickly as possible and then moving on to the next trough.
See what I mean?
I personally think it’s quite easy to make distinctions between feelthy touristas and those who are genuinely interested in their chosen destination, doing their research, learning a few words of the language ahead of time, apprising themselves of some of the historical and cultural features specific to the region in question.
Visitors have bucket lists, tourists have checklists.
A visitor will seek out a nondescript street corner once glimpsed in an obscure “B” movie; a tourist goes on inclusive, all-you-can-eat-and-drink junkets, spending hours trying to tan their pasty bodies on a private beach, the only locals in evidence the ones employed as service personnel.
Tourists patronize expat bars and seek out others of their kind; visitors deftly avoid anyone reeking of their home country and venture far afield to escape their idiotic compatriots.
Visitors seek experience, interaction; tourists are after visuals, placing themselves front and center in every picture they take, “selfies” amid the ruins, egos the size of the Parthenon.
A tourist never gets deliberately lost or risks chance encounters.
A tourist is rarely pleasantly surprised or jolted by insight.
A tourist secretly despises the countries they visit and can’t wait to get back home and pretend otherwise.
A visitor gamely struggles with the native dialect; tourists insist on talking their own lingo in A VERY LOUD VOICE.
To a tourist, any place worth seeing has to look like it belongs on a postcard.
A tourist says “cool”, meaning worthy of yet another picture, and “quaint” when they mean old and useless.
A tourist can enter a thousand-year-old church and completely ignore the gorgeous, stained glass windows, hand-carved pulpit and ancient aura, instead fixating on a middle-aged nun praying near the back who’s a dead ringer for their aunt Gladys.
A visitor never completely shakes off the places they explore and inhabit; a tourist takes nothing from the sites and monuments they see and leaves nothing of themselves behind.
A visitor is respectful, tolerant, gracious; a tourist vain, easily bored, rude, suspicious and disdainful.
A visitor departs with regret, a tourist with relief.
Visitors smile, tourists grimace.
Visitors say “thank you”, tourists begrudge even a modest tip.
Visitors try and fit in, tourists don’t bother.
Visitors are pilgrims, tourists consumers.
He’s one of my literary heroes—he and George Saunders are the two best short story writers in the English language.
For a number of years he wrote a column for The Believer and in 2017 Tin House Books (great little press) released a collection of those pieces titled The Tunnel at the End of the Light.
It is, needless to say, a smart, articulate book and I wanted to quote a passage from Shepard’s Introduction to give you an idea of why I revere the man so much:
“The Republican Party has for decades claimed that the American government is the implacable enemy of the American people. This administration (Trump) is working to make that statement true for the first time for a very large majority of citizens.
That leaves the streets, and we can already see what’s in store for us there. The militarization of the police over the past forty years, begun with the war on drugs and amped up a thousandfold by the war on terror, was never really about threats from without and has always been about anticipating threats from within: as in, What happens when economic inequality and political irrelevance become so grotesque that they lead to civic unrest? The solution to the problem, for the Republicans and the corporate Democrats who have held power, has never been, So I guess we should do something to alleviate economic inequality. It’s always been, When the have-nots have nothing left but the streets, we need to be ready to take the streets away as well. And of course the exponential growth of the surveillance state will help with that. Hence our leaders’ seeming lack of concern over the last decade or so about all the metadata about US citizens—citizens who haven’t been suspected of a crime—that’s being hovered up.”
Watching Donald Trump lurch from erratic to downright despicable behavior, I find myself shaking my head in dismay, but am I surprised? By the Donald?
The man is the very picture of consistency. No matter what the circumstances or stakes, when the chips are down, Donald will be, well, Donald.
His demeanor reminds me of Orson Welles’ favourite parable, the one about the scorpion and the frog. I’m sure you’re familiar with it but, just in case, here it is, recited by the Master himself:
The allusion, methinks, is fairly obvious.
Whether it’s shaming an ex-beauty queen or sparring with the bereaved parents of a dead American serviceman, the Donald constantly gives the impression that he just can’t help himself.
Stung by his poor performance in the first presidential debate, the alleged billionaire had to lash out at somebody. What was the name of that gal Hillary referenced in one of her tiresome talking points? Bingo! It’s three in the morning, can’t sleep, guts are acting up, I’ll have a go at her…
That such a mindset is hardly, er, presidential, doesn’t really enter into it. Cultivating a statesmanlike persona is difficult when you’re continually resorting to groin shots and head butts, biting in the clinches. Not sporting, you say? F**k you, pal! You don’t like it, grow thicker skin. Where’s your sense of humour?
This is America, after all: brash, disrespectful, rude. The bad boy of the international scene. USA, dude. Love it or leave it.
Other commentators have described the current poisonous state of American politics, the toxic effect money and the access to power it buys has had on democratic institutions.
The mere fact that a man with the history and background of Donald Trump is one of the last two individuals contesting for the highest office in the land says a lot about the “state of the union”—bad, very bad indeed.
The notion that somehow, through some distortion of reality I cannot comprehend, there are millions of salt of the earth, working class citizens out there actually rooting for the Donald, intending to (God spare their immortal souls) vote for the man, come November 8th, bespeaks of a spirit of profound helplessness and despair present in the American psyche. A drowning man grasping the point of a sword and all that.
But, maybe, and this is just a thought, there’s a method to Trump’s madness. I’m not talking about some bizarre strategy to get himself elected and never mind what the pundits and spin doctors say. I’m proposing that his frequent lapses in judgement, the many times he’s gone “off reservation”, picked fights when he didn’t have to, are actually part of a careful campaign of self-sabotage.
Hear me out.
I believe that as far as the Donald’s concerned, the race is everything and the thought of taking the oath of office, assuming the burdens of being the President of the United States, bores the living hell out of him. Can you imagine D.T. enduring an endless state dinner on behalf of a potentate from some African “republic” or South American kleptocracy, trying to make small talk, grinning through the ordeal?
The mind reels.
No, the Donald has had his fun, his ego boost, but the game is starting to lose his interest. He’s done wonders for the Trump trademark, of course, and maybe that was part of his clever plan all along. When he loses, he goes back to his business empire (its true worth still very much in doubt), cashing in on his heightened media profile. Thanks to his Fox-fuelled campaign, he has successfully climbed and blustered and elbowed his way to the top of the celebrity food chain, assuring himself a place on the “A” list for years to come. Trump Hotels, Trump Casinos filled to capacity with punters hoping to catch a glimpse of that famous orange swatch of hair, ringed by bodyguards, bound for the penthouse, deigning to look neither right nor left.
“That man could have been president,” they’ll whisper among themselves.
As if it would have been a good thing.
But, to me, right from the start there’s been a miasma of smugness surrounding the magazine, Kalle Lasn & contributors revelling in coming across as hipster despair mongers. Using all the tools in the ad-man’s arsenal (splashy graphics, catchy slogans, minimal substance) to cleverly subvert the corporates at their own game. Mocking and vilifying the consumer mindset while making sure each issue contains at least of couple of subscription cards, not to mention plugs for “approved” gear and cool doodads. Join Team Nihilist, wear “Black Spot” sneakers and feel superior to the rest of the dumb proles in their Nike/Converse/sweatshop apparel.
At times they give the impression of a bunch of black-clad, no logo-ed arseholes who’ll be standing around when the shit finally hits the fan, going: “Nyeah-nyeah-nyeah-nyeah-nyeah. Told you so, motherfuckers!”
I don’t know who’s worse, someone like that or one of those “magical thinkers” so common these days, complete doughheads who believe that technology got us into this mess and, dagnabbit, human ingenuity will get us out again, save us in the nick of time. Just like in the movies.
Where I do agree with Adbusters is that there is a war for reality going on and we have to resist the reassurances and blandishments of capitalism (“Don’t worry, be happy”, “You’re richer that you think”, “You deserve to spoil yourself”, etc.) and see the underlying truths the string-pullers are working so hard to efface. Wipe away the smog of unreality spewed out by the spin doctors and heavily indoctrinated economists and view a world in the midst of another great extinction event. This one largely of our own making.
Ocean currents that have served as the planet’s heating and cooling system for millennia are shifting, prevailing airstreams changing, the climate around the world reacting the environmental impact of the modern industrial era. We’re seeing massive human migrations, desperate people seeking to escape privation, hunger, loss of arable land. Historically, resource scarcity is the one condition guaranteed to provoke conflict; a hungry populace will seek radical solutions the way a drowning man will grasp the point of a sword.
But what can be done? As Charles Eisenstein points out, it’s natural to lose hope, feel completely overwhelmed by the scope of the disaster confronting us. The head knows we’re probably fucked, Earth headed for a massive meltdown…but the heart insists we have to at least try, for the sake of those as yet unborn. And so we feel at odds with ourselves, a fundamental split in our being. What to do?
And, of course, it all comes down to a personal transformation. That is the one aspect of the world we can control. We have the ability to just stop buying, stop craving stuff, more crap. We can divert a small amount of our salaries each month to good causes. We can volunteer, become better citizens, contributing to our community, getting to know our neighbours. We can seek out and support political candidates who recognize the seriousness of our plight and pledge themselves to finding solutions, even if that means forsaking the status quo. We can preach the gospel of thriftiness and frugality to family and friends and we should never miss the opportunity to shame conspicuous consumption, ridicule the pretensions and props of the wealthy and stupid among us.
There’s no such thing as fair play in this war for reality, no Geneva Convention guidelines to follow. There’s too much at stake. The corporates and their shills have their greasy mitts on the levers of power and those of us who still hold out some hope at preserving a semblance of human life on this planet must employ the mindset and tactics of guerrilla warriors since antiquity—speed, stealth, cunning—to achieve our objectives. Nibbling at the edges, gnawing away at the underlying supports and institutional foundations. Sowing seeds of dissent, doubt. Subverting authority, sabotaging power structures. Never failing to offer alternatives, fresh perspectives, while stubbornly withstanding the temptations and treasures dangled before us by our insidious foes.
There comes a time when each of us has to make a choice, balance our current, comfortable lifestyles against a near future where our grandchildren suffer because of their ancestors’ indifference, profligacy, selfishness. Once you make that choice there’s no going back, no compromise possible.
Welcome to the Resistance, comrade.
Now do you have the courage and mental strength to face your final test?
Which will it be: the blue or the red pill…
Photos by Liam Burns
A couple of months ago AdBusters put out the word that they were looking for new visions to empower and inspire the eco-warriors and Occupiers who have lost their passion and need a fresh injection of ideology and righteous anger to motivate them and rekindle their energies.
I gave it some thought and wrote up a manifesto of sorts, a call to arms, an appeal for a “slow revolution”.
Dutifully sent it off to AdBusters around the end of February…and never received so much an an acknowledgement in reply.
Guess they didn’t like what I had to say.
Well, I’m attaching my “Blueprint For a Slow Revolution” to this post and you’re free to download and peruse it. Pass it on to whoever you like, see if it provokes any discussion.
Frankly, I think it’s a deeply subversive and dangerous document.
You’re the kind of person who hunts through Google or Yahoo entertainment sidebars looking for “Jennifer Aniston Heats Up Red Carpet” or “Miley Cyrus Grinds Her Way to Adulthood”. You can’t wait to find out the latest poop with the Kardashians and have a sick fascination with the British royal family that borders on obsession.
What is it with you and celebrities? Why do you instinctively reach for a tabloid the way a chimpanzee is drawn to a scatter of dimes?
Take a gander around, look at the culture you and your monkey-brain kind have created with your stupid, acquisitive, wide-eyed ways.
Sequels and spin-offs and comic book adaptations, because your minds are too scattered to grasp original concepts. Bad, derivative art, audio/visual porn, easy to assimilate, just as quickly forgotten.
Here’s a question for you:
Instead of endlessly trolling the internet for a glimpse of Jennifer Aniston’s rather mundane aureole, why aren’t you:
—working on a cure for ovarian cancer or coming up with a new, revolutionary branch of cosmology?
—concocting a plan to end the stalemate in the Middle East?
—devising an all-inclusive religion that will help humankind attain its destiny in the stars?
Yes, indeed. You’re the sort of inane, pathetic asshole who will happily pony up fifteen bucks to see any piece of crap movie and rationalize it afterward: “Yeah, I knew it was just fluff…” Your NetFlix queue would make a twelve year old blush in terms of its sheer vapidity. “Transformers 3”, “Fast & Furious 6″…how about: I/Q. 68.
At what point do you draw the line? What, and I’m deadly serious, is too stupid even for your egregiously short attention span and under-developed forebrain?
How far would you go for a look, the most fleeting glance, at a celeb’s nether regions?
And how much would you be dumb enough to pay?