Travel writing

Lately, I have been thinking about travel writing. I am reading a friend's book, Poets and Pahlevans: A journey into the heart of Iran (Marcello Di Cintio, 2006) and it is making me think of the craft of travel writing.

How does it actually happen? I picture a sweaty and tired traveller hunched over a rumpled notebook in a sparse hotel room, a naked bulb hanging from the ceiling, frantically scribbling with a runny ballpoint. Or maybe a laptop on a cafe table, high, louvred windows and incredible luxury at dirt cheap prices as the monsoons flood the streets outside. Iced coffee after iced coffee on lazy afternoons. The first is a furtive, private affair. The second a more romantic, colonial fantasy. Or is it more of a stream of consciousness thing? Self narration through mundane daily activities?

"I hailed a taxi, the dust at my feet softening the harshness of the sun-baked earth. A broken-down, applegreen car pulled up. There were already four customers squeezed into the front and back seats. My place was in the front seat, next to a young woman in a tight, sequined top and traditional African pagne. Her face shiny with sweat, she smiled and shifted over towards the gear shift. There is always room for one more. "

Or is it an act of memory? I am always impressed when I read that some writer spent six months in some unobtrusive place such as western Massachusetts or Ontario, writing and recollecting about travels in Mogadishu or Kazakhstan. I wonder what gets distilled through memory, new context and the need to get onto something new.

All to say, I am quite enjoying the book.