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Me, myself, and I...oh, and some other folks too

Some messages inlaid in this semester’s series of readings are crystal clear: the importance of exploration, the ingenuity of discovery, the race for property, knowledge, and respect. In one way or another, each of the travel classics that we have read have communicated some particular combination of these achievements, whether the goal of the author/protagonist was material or intellectual. In the face of the numerous (though often morally questionable) social and political accomplishments of each of our “classic” figures, it is crucial to also examine the more personal side of these famous literary and historical figures: how can we ignore the depth and breadth of the relationships forged during their travels? Whether our explorers sparked some sort of connection with another person, a place, a new society as a whole, or a deeper understanding of their own self-worth or destiny, it is undeniable that their travels helped to unlock new relationships. Bear with me while I dissect this concept in relation (no pun intended) to the stories we have read during our own journey through classic travel literature.

The Odyssey: In this ancient Greek epic, Odysseus’ relationships determine the course of the entire plotline. His obvious motivating factors are to return home and resume his status as king, husband, and father. During his journey from Troy these goals become compromised, and as a result Odysseus is forced to use his cunning skills of manipulation in order to ensure his return to Ithaca. Subject to his wiles are his crew members (who he does show genuine concern and respect for, yet ultimately uses as pawns in his larger pursuit), the gods, the inhabitants of each of the lands he encounters, and the monsters. His ability to interact with these various people and creatures is the invaluable tool that enables him to return home.

Herodotus: As I wrote in my blog post on Herodotus, he often used his own society as a mirror by which to compare those that he was visiting. This reflection shows his connection to his homeland, which peeks through quite obviously in his writing. His reaction to the indigenous peoples of the countries that he travels to is also very telling: more often than not, he writes about them with a condescending yet voyeuristic tone, simultaneously condemning and fetishizing many of his subjects.

Marco Polo: Taking a page out of Herodotus’ book, Polo captures the same scrutinizing tone, holding these “new” cultures up to judgement against his own Italian background. Furthermore, Polo is the first one to show a distinct religious prejudice, referring often to the Islamic societies as a threat, or projecting them as the enemy. His writings reflect the greater Christian sentiment of his time, that of the opposition to the “Saracens”. He not only posits himself as a contrast to their ways, but enlarges the objectification by involving the Church as a player.

Ibn Battutah: Here, religion is used as a conduit in a completely different way. Battutah, as a Muslim pilgrim, weaves his account as one from the inside, as opposed to the Mediterranean and European outsider perspectives of Herodotus and Marco Polo. His alignment with the culture allows him to permeate the genre in a distinct fashion, creating an entirely different perspective than those who preceded him and, indeed, of many to follow.

Columbus: The famed explorer’s diaries expose not only his spiritual connection to the Church as he indicates conversion of the natives as a primary goal of his expedition, but his somewhat superficial loyalties to the Spanish king and queen. His entries pander directly to their sentiments of sovereignty as he quantifies entire societies as “easily Christianized” or “easily made into slaves”.

Cabeza de Vaca: This conquistador manages, unintentionally, to do what Columbus would not deign to do: forge a connection with the native Americans. While thrown somewhat haphazardly  and unwillingly into this position, Cabeza de Vaca immersed fully into the culture, a feat accomplished by not one of the other travelers we have studied. His survival in the often xenophobic and violent native society is a testament to his ability to effectively connect and communicate with the tribes.

The Tempest: The storyline laid out in Shakespeare’s play stands alone in our reading selections in many ways. Not only does the fictional protagonist possess magical powers, but he singularly exercises complete control over the island, and manages to keep the virtue and nobility of his daughter intact. Obviously Shakespeare is the master of spinning a quite spectacular tale that has been a potentially questionable inclusion in our syllabus. However, the focus on the relationship between Prospero and Miranda illuminates the more personal motivators behind travel and survival: here, we have not only the first major female figure, but the first family member to make a significant appearance in our travel stories. This relationship is a more obvious one, but recalls the concept that each of our chosen characters did indeed embark with personal goals in mind in addition to the more socially and economically profitable.

The only plausible overarching theme is that of the formation of an important, defining relationship. Chronologically, there is only some correspondence in theme and relation. For example, our earlier writers – Homer and Herodotus specifically have completely different motives. Later in time, Columbus and Cabeza de Vaca share the goal of colonization, but have vastly different experiences with the terrain of the New World and its inhabitants. The Tempest stands out particularly by reason of the protagonists’ situation – that is, not having had much choice in the matter about being stuck on the island. Ideologically, there were many different motivators: Columbus and Cabeza de Vaca strove for economic prosperity, Ibn Battutah and Columbus for a display of religious piety, Prospero and Odysseus for returning to –or establishing a sense of –home.

The connections forged by each of these major characters – whether to their own agenda, the people they encountered, the promise of wealth, or any other factor – propelled them through their travels. The importance of their relationships is intrinsic to the development of their stories.

Prospero

Loreena McKennitt

It is always immensely pleasing to discover a successfully rendered cross-medium adaptation of a classic text such as Shakespeare’s The Tempest; in this case, the haunting vocals of Canadian folk singer Loreena McKennitt that trip through Prospero’s final soliloquy. McKennitt’s delicate soprano connotes almost exactly the tone of the protagonist’s speech: the simultaneous resignation (“Now my charms are all o’erthrown,/ And what strength I have’s mine own,/ Which is most faint”) and determined appeal to the audience (“…release me from my bands/ With the help of your good hands…”). Though the lines in The Tempest were not initially intended to be transformed into lyrics, nonetheless by a Celtic-inspired songstress of the 21st century, McKennitt does a remarkable job of capturing a combination of sentiments from Prospero’s epilogue, modernizing the text without losing the character Shakespeare created.

Lope de AguirreIn Cabeza de Vaca’s commentary, the odds of explorer-to-native finally make sense. Given numerous advantages over the foreigners, most importantly familiarity with land and climate, those who have been conquered in the previous stories we have read become the conquerors – or almost – at many points in Cabeza de Vaca’s expedition. While it is understandable that some of the first settlers to the Americas were revered as “men from the sky” (Columbus) and admired for their novelty, surely by the time that Cabeza de Vaca arrived in Florida many of the natives had wised up. That may be the case, but it is more likely that the inland tribes had a greater propensity towards violence due to their comparably constant need for self-defense; at least living on islands afforded a token more security than the persistent threat of invaders through the forest.

While reading Cabeza de Vaca I couldn’t help but think of a film that I watched with a critiquing class a few semesters ago. Though Aguirre, der Zorn Gottes (Aguirre, the Wrath of God) the journey of the Spaniards here is through the Andes and not across what is now southwest America, the imagery and desperate tone of the explorers draws definite parallels.

Poster from the 1972 movieAguirre, filmed in Peru and Mexico in 1972, was written and directed by Oscar-nominated German Werner Herzog and stars a middle-aged Klaus Kinski. The plotline follows a group of Spaniards in search of El Dorado in 1560 and is based on the diary of Dominican monk Gaspar de Carvajal, who served as religious counsel on the expedition of Gonzalo Pizzaro. Despite speculation swirling around the production of Herzog’s manuscript, Kinski’s protagonist is rooted in history: the real Lope de Aguirre did in fact rebel against Pizzaro and lead a quest down the Amazon for El Dorado.

Obviously this is a different situation than presented in Cabeza de Vaca: here, the Spanish have a distinct power over their native slaves, in contrast to the constant violent barrage from the northern antagonist counterparts. Additionally, the expedition begins with relative opulence: the opening shots of Herzog’s film show men in full courtly garb, native slaves acting as servants, and even a handful of women on board the rafts they set afloat (Aguirre’s relationship with his daughter provides us with the sole glimpses of the main character’s humanity). Similarly, however, their numbers begin greater, their confidence steeper; the exceptionally drawn parallels between Cabeza de Vaca’s travelogue and the harrowing scenes from Aguirre become apparent as morale – and food – decreases.

This sense of desperation is what caused me to alight immediately on Herzog’s film; the depiction of the complete vulnerability of the Europeans in the “uncivilized” jungle, at the mercy of the elements, terrain, and natives seemed to me an excellent filmic example of the Cabeza de Vaca’s sentiment, at least at some points in his journey. Herzog amplifies the juxtaposition of the two cultures by including more evidence of courtly Spain and by making the wilderness even more of an unknown; here Cabeza de Vaca had an upper hand in knowing that there was evidence of Christian settlers before him, but Herzog’s Aguirre is subject to the vast darkness and eerie silence of the woods along the Amazon. By the end of the film the sense of isolation has driven him insane. It is a wonder to me that the same didn’t happen to Cabeza de Vaca, especially since he was constantly in native clutches and at risk of execution or sacrifice; perhaps the fact that his assailants were right in front of him provided comparable peace of mind.

Columbus and Queen IsabelaThere’s no denying that Christopher Columbus was a pioneering and crafty explorer, but did he have to be so damn condescending about it? 

He may have kept notes in the margins of a dog-eared copy of Marco Polo’s Travels, but Columbus’ end goal was evidently far more superficial and scheming than his admiration for the earlier trailblazer lets on. Setting out straight for what had been deemed by Polo and Sir John Mandeville to be “lands flowing with gold and spices” (pg. 13), Columbus pandered not only to the devout royals that funded his voyages but sought to pay what could be called indulgences to an even higher power: the Catholic Church.

When presented, the two goals – money and missionary work – seem to directly contradict one another. Still, it’s obvious that the two went hand in hand during Columbus’ lifetime and far before. For hundreds of years prior to the explorer’s birth in 1451, wealthy abbots had ruled regional churches, and even the least devout of emperors spent fortunes on cutting-edge art and architecture glorifying God: the most opulent of all crafts and the brightest of most intellectuals were dedicated to promoting the Christian domain. The idea of luxury and the papacy were intrinsically connected, and affiliated kingdoms in Columbus’ day were bent on pleasing the organization as much as possible with various showy displays of piety, from the construction of soaring churches to the participation in the anti-“pagan” Crusades. Anything that propagated the virtue and dominance (again, seemingly contradictory qualities) of the Catholic Church was of utmost importance to Christian emperors; the added bonus of colonization and expanding wealth were also pretty distinct motivators.

In Columbus’ travelogue, the various entries teeter between highlighting his personal greed and a tendency for zealous displays of his faith: Columbus has bought into the Christian craze of idealizing his religion as completely sovereign, and finds himself buffered by the confused natives who believe the Spaniards to be “men who have come from the skies” (pg. 58). Upon realizing that he does not have enough time to scoop up as much physical wealth as possible, Columbus instead capitalizes on the mistranslation, and writes that many of the islanders would “easily be made Christians” (pg. 53). 

The way I see it, Columbus figured that if he had to return to Spain relatively empty handed – i.e. without gold or spices – then at least he could offer the devout Ferdinand and Isabela assurance that a new culture has begun undergoing the process of conversion in their name. Unfortunately for him, that’s about all that he gets from the first voyage. 

The Dome of the RockTo refer to Ibn Battutah solely as a religious pilgrim completely sells short his travels and his legacy. As Tim Mackintosh-Smith, the editor of the 2003 edition of his Travels, reflects in his introductory foreword, Ibn Battutah was also a “hagiographer, ethnographer, biographer, anecdotal historian and occasional botanist and gastronome”. Indeed, by reading Battutah’s travelogue it is easy to agree with Mackintosh-Smith: the 29-year journey does not merely focus on our protagonist’s obligatory hajj to Mecca. Still, let’s look at Battutah’s travels through the lens of religion – it is almost impossible to ignore that particular angle. Venturing through the Holy Land, he continually finds himself at many of the most influential sites to the three major Western religions (Judaism, Islam, Christianity), and falls easily into the category of hagiographer and “anecdotal historian” simultaneously. We dove into the Travels knowing that Battutah was a Muslim pilgrim, and it is interesting to gauge his reaction to the holy sites of the Judeo-Christian faiths. These worlds collide when Battutah reaches Jerusalem, where Islamic monuments such as the Dome of the Rock lie minutes away from the rumored Hill of Calvary, the exact spot where Jesus was purportedly crucified and buried. While these monuments are still considered incredible feats of architecture today, imagine how overwhelmingly wondrous it must have been for a 14th-century traveler to lay their eyes on the Dome of the Rock, the Al-Aqsa mosque, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre! Battutah’s voyages would eventually take him all over southern Europe, where the Gothic movement was in full swing, and through China, where the ancient temples had stood for centuries. Still, seeing these particular “gracious sanctuaries” – especially those two incredibly holy places of Muslim worship – must have been absolutely superb given his clear allegiance to his faith. The influence of early Judeo-Christian architecture on that of the Muslim monuments is impossible to gloss over. The layout of the Dome of the Rock is unbelievably similar to that of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, constructed in the 4th century under the supervision of Emperor Constantine’s mother, who decreed the Hill the location of Christ’s Passion and burial. The Dome of the Rock is a second-degree adaptation of Roman art from the early Christian period – a grandiose style not typically seen in Battutah’s native lands. However, modifications on the theme obviously exist, tailoring the building style to the faith: in fact, the interior walls of the Dome of the Rock are inscribed with pleas asking the Muslims to reject the teachings of Christianity. The mélange of inspiration: spiritual, architectural, artistic – to be found in Jerusalem is truly fascinating. Speaking strictly on the subject of monuments, it is even more interesting to note their incredible similarities despite the vast differences in faith bases. In many respects, the amalgam of religious and social culture that Ibn Battutah found in Jerusalem can be considered a microcosm of the Western medieval world.

Was the mutual hostility inflicted by the Crusades a factor in Polo's travels?At Gallatin, we often find ourselves scratching our heads over the seemingly haphazard, somewhat bizarre combinations of interdisciplinary curriculum that amount to our fellow students’ majors. Far beyond the typical arts-and-sciences conundrums, we have the mixed blessing of cultivating a concentration that may combine any number of personal and academic interests, ranging from the somewhat oversimplified (the growing number of “creativity” majors) to the impossibly specific (the fabled “gargoyles” student?). The luxury and liberty of designing our own course of study is often coupled with tireless explanations of our scholastic and professional aspirations, as well as a saturation of skepticism from parents and non-Gallatin students (“Oh, that sounds intriguing…but what are you going to do with that?”).

I’m sure that many of my fellow students will agree with my preamble. But what does this have to do with The Travels? For me, the excerpts from Marco Polo’s journeys unite my own slightly random concentrations: Iconography and Travel Journalism. Though my studies began at Gallatin with a distinct basis in religious art history, they have evolved to use religion as a lens through which culture and art are viewed: hence, the inclusion of Travel Journalism in the title of my developing thesis/colloquium. Marco Polo’s accounts do not have an overbearingly Christian bent, but he does spend a significant amount of time describing the religions and belief systems of the “idolaters” he encounters on his travels. As a quasi-religion major, these segments grabbed my interest.

Particularly intriguing are the Polos’ retelling of early eastern Christian history (the verity of these events is debatable in each circumstance), including the terrorism of the Christian masses by the Caliph of Baghdad in 1225 (p.53). Here, the sanctity and truth of the Christian faith is brought into question by the Muslim leader, who ultimately falls into agreement with the tenets of the religion and the might of the God after witnessing what could be described as a mystical miracle: the moving of a mountain by the pious.

As the editor of the Penguin version of The Travels, R.E. Latham, illuminates in his introduction, Polo treats the Muslims “whom he persists in describing as ‘worshippers of Mahomet’, [with] the traditional Christian hostility” (p. 21). Though Latham does not include a direct reference, it is relatively indisputable that this “hostility” he notes is the result of anti-Islamic sentiment fueled by the Christian crusades that had dominated western ecclesiastical history from the mid-11^th century. By the time that Marco Polo reached the Middle East, the Muslims had been subject to an onslaught of violent religious “campaigns” designed partially with the intent of reclaiming the Holy Land. The Saracens that Polo describes are indeed identified as “Muslims, especially of the time of the Crusades”.

The belief-based hostility was not solely possessed by the Christians, as Latham notes; in his summary, Polo recounts that the Caliph and his advisors “all joined…in wishing ill to the Christians; indeed, it is a fact that all the Saracens in the world are agreed in wishing ill to all the Christians in the world” (pp. 53-4). Given such a broad statement, it is even more difficult to ignore the tense religious atmosphere at the time of Polo’s travels and how it may have colored his opinions of the foreign cultures. Here, Polo has painted the Christians as a sovereign nation, highlighting their power against persecution and intimidation, and their favorable position with a strictly monotheistic God. The Caliph’s ultimate conversion only further emphasizes the power of Christianity, and surely the story pandered nicely to the western readers of Polo’s travels.

Herodotus: Holding a mirror up to Ancient Grecian Society

While some may mock his naïveté and gullibility, no one can begrudge Herodotus his wide-open mind. Indeed, given his thirst for exploration, it is not far-fetched to name Herodotus an ideal traveler: he is ceaselessly intrigued by foreign cultures and tribes, and seeks to absorb as much information about their vastly differing practices and social pillars as possible. In this excerpt from his Histories, he has provided us with a meaty combination of folklore, royal history, and societal customs. However, while I admire Herodotus’ inquisitive nature and easy-to-read prose, it is impossible to ignore the fact that some of his stories are far beyond plausible, some fanciful to an almost comical degree.

Despite his assumed factual shortcomings, Herodotus’ account provides an interesting look through the “period eye”, using his own Greek culture as a foil for the practices of those that he examines. There are few practices of these foreigners that he condemns, even offering his assent to what by even ancient standards would be considered barbaric. He shows a healthy amount of respect to most of the tribal and societal standards, even deigning to overlook concepts that do not align with his Grecian sensibility, i.e. “Well, it is an ancient custom, so let them keep it” (in regard to the Magis’ indiscriminate killing of animals, pg. 48). His work is at points opinionated, but not overwhelmingly biased; his language largely allows his reader to form their own reactions to the customs laid bare before him, a relatively rare quality in modern travel writing to say the least.

In Book One, Vessels of Silver and the Headless Corpse, Herodotus turns the mirror back on his own culture by retelling the Egyptian account of the infamous escape of Paris and Helen from Sparta, thus exposing a radical yet surprisingly believable alternative plotline behind the fabled Trojan War. He refutes Homer, instead offering complete support to the theory that the doomed duo landed in Egypt on their way to Troy and the Egyptians, disagreeing with the impropriety and ungratefulness of Paris to Menelaus and the Spartans, refused to let him take Helen home to an adulterous bed in his homeland. The war is justified by the Grecian’s disbelief of Priam’s protestations that Helen was in Egypt, leading them to “suppose[e] this to be a merely frivolous answer, [and] laid siege to the town, and persisted until it fell; but no Helen was found.” (pg. 29)

While Herodotus often compares Greek culture to the ones he is writing about, this is the sole reflection on his own history that he ruminates on at any length. Furthermore, he accepts the foreign opinion as not only viable but likely: “I cannot believe that Priam....was mad enough to be willing to risk his own and his children’s lives and the safety of the city, simply to let Paris continue to live with Helen…” (pg. 29). This revelation may be somewhat groundbreaking. Despite the debated verity of the story, Herodotus is willing to accept – and to publish – an alternative account of one of ancient Greece’s most pivotal historical event. The ability to do so may reinforce his gullibility for some, but it is important to note that it does the same to endorse his open-mindedness, which proves to be most intriguing quality in his writing.