Anthony Bourdain’s Window into Africa

Anthony Bourdain might have been a celebrity chef, but viewers of his Emmy Award-winning travel show, “Parts Unknown,” didn’t tune in for curry and noodle recipes.

Cooking was simply the conceit Bourdain used to have a conversation about the culture, politics, struggles and triumphs of people around the world.

As a human geographer, I was drawn to how Bourdain upended the travel show genre, telling compelling and complicated stories about people and places most Western viewers tend to view through a lens of simplistic stereotypes or caricatures.

Even more remarkable, his work wasn’t relegated to obscurity. The show aired on CNN – a mainstream cable outlet with millions of viewers.

I was especially interested in the way the show depicted Africa, a continent Western media tends to portray using what novelist Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie famously called a “single story” – a monolithic narrative of poverty, backwardness and hopelessness.

So in a paper published last fall, I analyzed Bourdain’s Africa episodes, which took viewers to Congo-Kinshasa, South Africa, Tanzania, Madagascar and Ethiopia.

In them, he largely rejects the “single story” approach taken by much travel writing, and later travel television, since at least the 16th century. While the stories told about Africa in the West have changed over time, they’ve often lacked nuance and multiple voices – something Bourdain was eager to provide.

A ‘single story’ of horror and hopelessness

In the imaginations of many Westerners, Africa exists as a silent, docile, set piece – a contrasting “other.”

Sociologist Jan Nederveen Pieterse notes that for centuries – through deliberate lies and well-meaning mistakes – travel writers, missionaries and popular media outlets have wrongly depicted Africa as a place devoid of civilization, a frontier of wilderness and savagery.

The dominant narrative goes something like this: If the West is stable, Africa must be chaotic; if the West is mature, Africa must be infantile; and if the West is technologically advanced, Africa must be primitive.

Reality television and travel shows often deploy these tropes. Cultural anthropologist Kathryn Mathers has written widely on media depictions of Africa, suggesting that programs like “Survior: Africa” and Nicholas Kristof’s popular newspaper columns tell predictable stories of poverty and chaos with little effort to contextualize them within a larger history.

The dynamic voices of Africans – hardly a monolithic category – are often absent in these narratives. In the rare event they do appear, they’re often presented as people without politics who exist only to welcome tourists and protect rhinos. Intrepid conservation officers and overburdened health workers are favorite characters, along with the traditional leader, the street vendor and the small child in school uniform.

Cable news coverage of Africa also tells a “single story.” As Mathers wryly notes, when the continent does get coverage, the stories can be distilled down to the same topic: “the horrors of the hopeless continent, as seen on CNN.”

Bourdain’s critical lens

But Anthony Bourdain was also “seen on CNN.”

Beginning with his memoir, “Kitchen Confidential,” Bourdain built his persona as a speaker of unspoken truths. Likewise, he steered his travel show to “parts unknown” – or, more accurately, parts only known through incomplete tropes.

In each episode, Bourdain gives a brief historical overview to remind the audience that places are made by their histories. He doesn’t gloss over the difficult ones. For example, when explaining contemporary Congo, he implicates his American viewers:

“When the new country managed to inaugurate their first democratically elected leader, Patrice Lumumba, the CIA and the British, working through the Belgians, had him killed. We helped to install this miserable bastard in his place: Joseph Mobutu.”

When Bourdain is in Madagascar, he reflects on his own conflicted relationship to tourism and colonialism.

In Season 6, Ethiopian-born, Swedish-raised chef Marcus Samuelssonjoins him in Ethiopia. Together, they explore the theme of home in the context of the African diaspora.

While one might criticize Bourdain’s perspectives, he could never be accused of taking a sanitized, apolitical approach.

In the episode on Tanzania, he visits a Maasai village – a common pit stop for travel shows about East Africa. But “Parts Unknown” rejects the stereotype that the Maasai are an isolated, backwards tribe that exists apart from the modern world.

When a villager learns that Bourdain was born in New Jersey, he tells the host that his son attends university there. The conversation picks up again later in the episode, when Bourdain and the Maasai man thoughtfully ponder globalization and the anxiety and opportunity of social change. Bourdain understands that his African hosts aren’t anchored to a static past. Instead, they are dynamic actors in a global economy.

Bourdain writes his own reflections into each script. In Madagascar, Bourdain reminds viewers that

“the camera is a liar. It shows everything. It shows nothing. It reveals only what we want. Often, what we see is seen only from a window, moving past and then gone. One window. My window. If you had been here, chances are you would have seen things differently.”

The episode then cuts to previously rolled footage but reedited in the style of Mathers’ “horrors of the hopeless.” It’s all done to show the ease with which dominant narratives are packaged and to emphasize that “Parts Unknown” seeks to convey something entirely different.

The greatest strength of “Parts Unknown” was its comfort with unknowns remaining unknown – its resistance to arriving at singular truths about complex places. Bourdain never claimed that the “artifice of making television” – as he called it – allowed more than “one window, his window.”

Yet it was an open window, a critical lens that helped his large audience disentangle the tropes so often served up by popular media. Bourdain was critical of the single story, critical of widely held stereotypes and perhaps most critical of his own position as a masterful storyteller.

THIS ARTICLE WAS ORIGINALLY POSTED ON THE CONVERSATION

Inside an Apache Rite of Passage Into Womanhood

For the Mescalero Apache Tribe, girls are not recognized as women until they have undergone the Sunrise Ceremony- an ancient, coming-of-age ceremony that lasts for four days. Last May, VICE got rare access to the ceremony for Julene Geronimo - the great, great grand-daughter of the renowned Apache leader, Geronimo. We followed Julene through each day of her arduous rite-of-passage to better understand what womanhood means for the Apache tribe, and how these ceremonies play a significant role in preserving a way of life that almost became extinct.

A World Cup for the Overlooked

CONIFA Offers a Humanitarian Alternative to FIFA.

Conifa World Cup, Group C, Padania v Székely Land, Bedfont Sports Centre, London/England. By Ungry Young Man from Vienna, Austria. 3 June 2018. Photo Credit: Confifa

Soon, the eyes of the world will be on the FIFA World Cup. There will be all the usual pomp and spectacle, feats of athleticism, and celebration of unity. And yet, FIFA’s large-scale corruption is no secret to fans and players alike. Recurring scandals have tainted the name of soccer’s governing international organization, culminating in the arrest of seven top officials for claims of corruption in 2015. But FIFA also has a somewhat less known history of excluding the many teams that do not meet its participation requirements. To play in FIFA, the team’s nation must be recognized by the international community, and only one football team from each country is allowed to participate.

In 2013, the Confederation of Independent Football Associations, otherwise known as CONIFA, was formed with the intention of providing a world stage for these unrecognized teams to compete on. In a poetic opposition to FIFA, CONIFA was founded as a non-profit and represents teams comprised of people without a state, unrecognized nations, minorities, people who prefer representing their cultural identity over country of birth, and anyone else who cannot, or prefers not to meet FIFA’s requirements. CONIFA now includes 47 member teams and represents 334 million people worldwide. “We have nothing against FIFA,” CONIFA General Secretary Sascha Düerkop told the press shortly before the opening of the CONIFA World Football Cup, “They are very great to learn how not to do things.”

The 2018 CONIFA World Football Cup opened on May 31 in South London, and was hosted by the London-based Barawa team of Somali refugees. Among those represented at the cup was the Pandania team, comprised of players from eight different regions of northern Italy, and winners of the past two CONIFA European Football Cups as well as ending fourth in the 2016 World Football Cup. Another notable team is Abkhazia, the former title holders representing their semi-recognized Eastern European state. Representing Matabeleland, a war-torn area in western Zimbabwe, are the Warrior Birds, who successfully raised the 25,000 dollars necessary to make the trip to England entirely through crowd funding and selling jerseys. “No one ever believed we would make it to London but we made it,” said captain Praise Ndlovu, “I'd like to say thank you to everyone.”

The final match of game was between Northern Cyprus, a state recognized only by Turkey, and Karpatalya, representing the Hungarian minority in Ukraine. While in the end, Karpatalya won the match 3-2, CONIFA is about more than just winning, it’s about inclusivity, about allowing everyone to participate on the world stage.

“As long as FIFA has existed, there has always been a non-FIFA world of teams who want to play on a global stage but can’t for a variety of reasons,” Per-Anders Blind, the president of CONIFA, told The New Yorker. “What we have done is fill a gap, a white spot on the map that nobody cared about.” CONIFA represents a more honest, somewhat purer version of football, which has returned to FIFA’s original intention of supporting the world-wide football community and organizing truly international competitions.

EMMA BRUCE is an undergraduate student studying English and marketing at Emerson College in Boston. She has worked as a volunteer in Guatemala City and is passionate about travel and social justice. She plans to continue traveling wherever life may take her.

Wakhan, An Other Afghanistan

Journeying through a remote region of northeastern Afghanistan, untouched by the war and preserved from the Taliban regime, this story pays tribute to the ancient culture of this land, which has never disappeared but which has simply been forgotten.

This narrative serves as an introduction to my multi-platform project, ‘Wakhan, an other Afghanistan’. One of the photos from this project won first prize in the 24th annual National Geographic Traveler Photo Contest, and the 78-minute film ‘Wakhan’ was selected as one of the firm favourites to feature in the Etonnants Voyageurs Festival in St-Malo, France.

My mind takes me back to 8 August 2011. It must have been around 2 o’clock in the afternoon, but in any event, time here takes on an alternative dimension, something which we have been discovering and settling into since the beginning of our journey.

Then I remember a young Afghan saying to me a few weeks earlier, “You have your watches, and we have the time.”

Under the arborescent canopy of a small shelter made with stones and yak excrement, Fabrice and I wait for our hosts to bring us bread and tea, which has been our sole source of nutrition morning, noon and night for more than three weeks. Dates, energy bars, dried fruit — these are a thing of the past, and I have already lost 15 kilos.

We had planned ahead with two people in mind, forgetting on market day at Ishkashim — the village on the border between Tajikistan and Afghanistan — that we would be accompanied by one guide or several for this expedition along the Wakhan Corridor, as far as China.

We travel for a month in the company of Amonali and Souleman, two Ismaili Wakhis of twenty-four and thirty-two years of age, who are taking care of our horse and our donkey. A last-minute addition to the group is QuarbonBek, a twenty-year-old Sunni Afghan and real ‘city boy’, who we have picked up at Ishkashim to fill the role of interpreter.

After the first week of hiking across the Hindu Kush at 3,500 to 5,500m above sea level, we have exhausted all our supplies, and from now on we have to satisfy ourselves with the low-calorie diet of bread and tea with yak milk which is provided — and which we can buy — in every village. We have chanced upon small quantities of rice here and there, and then three days ago some lamb for the first time, which has ended up making us all ill, as if our bodies were rejecting the meat.

Humbly and respectfully we have been adapting for three weeks to the local diet, experiencing firsthand the process of survival to which all these families remain inextricably bound. Every encounter and every meal reminds us that in this region, which fully awakens the senses and intensifies the emotions of the traveller, life expectancy stops short at 50 and the infant mortality rate verges on 60% — the highest in the world.

We pause for several hours in one of the villages situated along the Corridor ‘high route’ that is the pathway for the return journey, making a transition from the lands of the Khirghizes to Wakhi territory. From Ishkahim to Erjhail — one of the last of the Corridor villages to border with China — we will probably walk more than 450 kilometres over the course of 30 days, following in the footsteps of Marco Polo and Alexander the Great in crossing the entirety of the Wakhan Corridor.

Our horse carries the rucksacks, tent, sleeping bags, camping stoves and gas cylinders, as well as the few additional clothes we have — outer-layers, rather than spare garments — while our donkey is loaded with 40 kilos of photo, video, sound and IT equipment, wrapped in two flexible solar panels, an essential for recharging all the batteries in a region which we assume to be completely without power.

Yet to our astonishment, the Khirghizes — a nomadic people of Mongolian aspect, the last remaining descendants of Genghis Khan, living on the highest plateaux of Wakhan, several weeks’ walk away from any of the main Pakistani, Afghan, Tajik or Chinese villages — have solar panels, satellite aerials, television sets, and an impressive array of batteries, cables and chargers. And when Oji Ossman, the chief Kyrgyz in the village of Kashch Goz, produces a mobile phone from his military jacket — even though obviously there is no network coverage —  in order to take our photograph, all our assumptions about these tribes, the idea that they are still leading the lives of their ancestors, seem absurd and unfounded.

People in this part of the world are undoubtedly feeling the effects of new technology, a process triggered by the exchange of goods.

The Wakhan Corridor, as part of the Silk Road, has been established for centuries as a route for traffic and trade of all kinds. Pakistanis, Afghans and Tajiks still spend weeks at a time traversing the mountains, on foot or on horseback, to purchase from the Khirghizes the herds of yak, goats and sheep which have always been at the root of their livelihood.

We shared the guest yurt in KashGoz with three Pakistani herdsmen, who had come from the Hunza Valley with the intention of obtaining a herd of goats in exchange for a television satellite aerial, several solar panels, and some sacks of rice and flour.

In Erjhail, we encountered Ramine and his brother, two young Afghans who had walked in excess of four weeks from Kabul to buy around one hundred goats and ten yaks from the village chief. We would go on to spend two days in their company before travelling together for several days on the journey home, until our paths went their separate ways.

As always, the looks we attract from the four herdsmen in the Wakhi village perched high in the mountains, where we rested for a few hours, are benevolent, but also perplexed. They are asking themselves, “What are these two strangers doing here?” “A report about us” is the most likely answer from Souleman, pointing out with his finger the camera and video equipment placed on a piece of cloth on the ground.

Of course, we are the foreigners, the exotics — and sometimes even the object of complete incomprehension. “Why do they come and live like us in such hardship?” is the feeling we often detect in our conversations.

Our hosts frequently thank us for coming to meet them and for taking an interest in their lives. Repeatedly we feel the sadness in their gaze as they watch us leave again. I have the feeling that they are somehow counting on us from the moment we are welcomed.

We are now in a relatively advanced state of physical and mental fatigue, and the distance separating us from each other is immense. Throughout the whole journey we have felt ourselves connected, part of a shared experience and a brotherhood.

But at this exact moment, our facial expressions and the breakdown of our appearance betrays the disconnection. Even though we know exactly where we are on the topographical map, in our heads it is the first time that we are feeling so distant, maybe even lost?

Considering the original motivation behind an experience like this, what have we truly uncovered in the Wakhan? What will we be able to share on our return, and through our photographs?

What stories to tell? There are so many.

At the heart of a journey devoted to documentary, it is the personal and professional questions which confront each other, providing answers and sometimes shedding light on one another. And when I look at Fabrice, who is silent as I am, my companion of days gone by, of this moment and always, I feel myself reconnecting.

There we are, the two of us. We have been searching for something, and only now do we find its presence — a profound sense of humility.

We have never been consciously afraid, neither of the mountains, nor of all that we have witnessed in Afghanistan in more than 20 years, yet the self-knowledge of this moment is deeply reassuring.

Because if I ever shut down — something which I feel capable of right now — he will be there to restore me. By shutting down, I mean cutting the cord, and no longer being able to endure the weight of escalating hardship, a burden which grows hour after hour, days and weeks on end.

As a humanist, it pains me to see so many men, women and children living under such extreme conditions, and myself unable to endure any longer the psychological torture of knowing that the next bit of potato or piece of fruit is a mere three weeks walk away.

Have we become psychological prisoners of our own investigation? I watch Souleman, crouched down opposite me. This young man, who seems ten or fifteen years older than his thirty, is smiling, supporting me now as he has done for the last three weeks, in such a way that with every gesture I make, I can feel his watchful presence.

I cannot allow myself to betray the trust he has placed in us both, since the start of this journey, and which we feel on so many levels.

I sense that it is not just the traveller that this young man is supporting and protecting, but also the writer, who has promised, with all his photographic and cinematic recording kit, to uncover to the rest of the world his very existence, that of his loved ones and of his community as a whole. We cannot afford to show any sign of weakness.

So when the bread and tea are eventually served, bringing us back to our senses and to the harsh reality, I look at Souleman and smile at him in my turn. Through this knowing smile, a mutual promise is made.

He will keep me safe and sound until the end of my journey, and I will pay homage on our return to all those we have encountered, opening the world’s eyes to an other Afghanistan, which has never disappeared but which has simply been forgotten.

THIS ARTICLE WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED ON MAPTIA

VARIAL CÉDRIC HOUIN is a photographer, creative director, writer, explorer, seeker. He has put his artistic chops in the service of the planet.

www.varialstudio.com

Wild Africa

Leaving the urban setting and modern life behind, for 15 years I have been privileged to travel through some of the wildest regions left on our planet — compelled to capture the unique personalities and expressiveness of the magnificent wild animals of Africa. All in black and white, all part of one big family album.

My first meeting with Africa was like a thunderbolt.

There was a part of me that wanted to return to our roots, and Africa resonated with me like the animal instinct that lies deep within each of us. After travelling for thousands of miles, I always have this incredibly vibrant feeling of being in entirely unknown territory. Africa is always evolving, free, and wild... hugely wild.

Above: Lioness (2015)

Above: Hugs of lioness (2006)

Utterly disconnected from our urban environment, for more than fifteen years I have been drawn — mind, body and soul — to photograph the remarkable animals from this land of light and contrast.

Above: Cheetah before the rain (2006)

Above: Elephants and bird (2015)

I am constantly inspired by the sense of serenity and harmony between the natural landscapes and the diverse wildlife that roams these lands.

Everything is connected and the animals are totally adapted to their environment. I take photographs based on my gut instinct. For me, the thing that matters the most is the connection.

Above: Elephant, The road is closed (2015)

Above: Elephant crossing the river (2009)

I cannot stand strict pre-visualisation or procedures that lock people into pre-formatted ways of work. My conviction is never to prepare my shots. I prefer to be guided by luck, and to be inspired by the ever-changing spectacle of wildlife. Out in the field, I often work with a local guide who will drive the car while I concentrate on taking photos. It is very important to be utterly present in the moment, and not to be disturbed.

Opportunities in wildlife photography never come twice.

Above: Zebras crossing the river (2015)

Above: Rhinos quartet (2013)

For me, there is no difference between animals and humans in terms of photography technique. When I take a picture of a lion or a giraffe, I use exactly the same approach as when I photograph people. I try to capture something of the animal’s unique personality and expressiveness, as well as their strength and sense of freedom. I believe my pictures can create a connection between the animal and viewer, as the viewers discover a personality in these animals, and realise they have emotions too.

Above: Lion in the grass (2013)

Above: Two zebras (2004)

Above: Cheetah portrait (2013)

I am always filled with a great sense of tranquility and happiness when I leave the urban setting and modern life behind — travelling for weeks on end through some of the wildest regions left on our planet.

For me, there is nothing more powerful than the strength and beauty of Nature, and yet, at the same time, it is very fragile and precarious.

Above: Elephants crossing the plain (2013)

Above: Giraffe in harmony with their natural setting (2013)

Today, the fall of wildlife in Africa and elsewhere is disastrous.

I cannot know if we will discover more effective methods to halt or reverse this devastating change. However, I choose to hope and believe that we can. I believe that people are fed up with shocking images of destruction, poaching and deforestation — and yet it is of grave importance that we share these images, as we must all know what is happening on our planet. I don’t know exactly how photography can help preserve our wild ecosystems, but I feel proud when people experience my images and understand that these animals are just as ‘human’ as we are — with a personality, and a family.

Above: Lion, The small one (2013)

I believe that we must have a sincere conscience for our fellow animals, and the devastating impact our species is having on so many of them. We must open our minds and hearts to the fact that we all part of a living, breathing planet, and recognise that we are just one piece of this wonder.

We must leave more space, more life, for all the other species, because we will not survive their extinction. It is humanity’s greatest challenge.

* * *

THIS ARTICLE WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED ON MAPTIA

LAURENT BAHEUX

I am a self-taught French photographer inspired by the soul of nature and wildlife. I express this only in Black and White, like a big Family Album. www.laurentbaheux.com

The Origins of Pama-Nyungan, Australia’s Largest Family of Aboriginal Languages

The approximately 400 languages of Aboriginal Australia can be grouped into 27 different families. To put that diversity in context, Europe has just four language families, Indo-European, Basque, Finno-Ugric and Semitic, with Indo-European encompassing such languages as English, Spanish, Russian and Hindi.

Australia’s largest language family is Pama-Nyungan. Before 1788 it covered 90% of the country and comprised about 300 languages. The territories on which Canberra (Ngunnawal), Perth (Noongar), Sydney (Daruk, Iyora), Brisbane (Turubal) and Melbourne (Woiwurrung) are built were all once owned by speakers of Pama-Nyungan languages.

All the languages from the Torres Strait to Bunbury, from the Pilbara to the Grampians, are descended from a single ancestor language that spread across the continent to all but the Kimberley and the Top End.

Where this language came from, how old it is, and how it spread, has been something of a puzzle. Our research, published today in Nature Ecology and Evolution, suggests the family arose just under 6,000 years ago around what is now the Queensland town of Burketown. Our findings suggest this language family spread across Australia as people moved in response to changing climate.

Aboriginal Australia is often described as “the world’s oldest living culture”, and public discussion often falsely assumes that this means unchanging. Our research adds further evidence to Australia pre-1788 being a dynamic place, where people moved and adapted to a changing land.

Map of Pama-Nyungan languages, coloured by their main groupings. Compiled by Claire Bowern using data from National Science Foundation grant BCS-0844550.

Tracing Pama-Nyungan

We used data from changes in several hundred words in different languages from the Pama-Nyungan family to build up a tree of languages, using a computer model adapted from those used originally to trace virus outbreaks.

Different related words for ‘fire’ in certain Pama-Nyungan languages. Green dots show languages with a word for ‘fire’ related to *warlu; white has *puri; red has *wiyn; blue has *maka, and purple *karla. Chirila files (http://chirila.yale.edu) and google earth for base image.

Because our models make estimates of the time that it takes for words to change, as well as how words in Pama-Nyungan languages are related to one another, we can use those changes to estimate the age of the family.

We found clear support for the origin of Pama-Nyungan just under 6,000 years ago in an area around what is now the Queensland town of Burketown. We found no support for the theories that Pama-Nyungan spread earlier.

The timing of this expansion is consistent with a theory that increasingly unstable conditions caused groups of people to fragment and spread. But correlation is not causation: just because two patterns appear related, it does not mean that one caused the other.

In this case, however, we have other evidence that access to ecological resources has shaped how people migrated. We found that, in our model, groups of people moved more slowly near the coast and major waterways, and faster across deserts. This implies that populations increase where food and water are plentiful, and then spread out and fissure when resources are harder to obtain.

You can see a simulated expansion here. The spread of Pama-Nyungan languages mirrored this spread of people.

What languages tell us

Languages today tell us a lot about our past. Because languages change regularly, we can use information in them to work out who groups were talking to in the past, where they lived, who they are related to, and where they’ve moved. We can do this even in the absence of a written record and of archaeological materials.

For places like Australia, the linguistic record, though incomplete, has more even coverage across the continent than the archaeological record does. At European settlement, there were about 300 Pama-Nyungan languages. Because there are at least some records of most of them we are able to work with these to uncover these complex patterns of change.

There are approximately 145 Aboriginal languages with speakers today, including languages from outside the Pama-Nyungan family. Many of these languages, such as Dieri, Ngalia and Mangala, are spoken by only a few people, many of whom are elderly.

Other languages, however, are actively used in their communities and are learned as first languages by young children. These include the Yolŋu languages of Arnhem Land and Arrernte in Central Australia. Yet others (such as Kaurna around Adelaide) are undergoing a renaissance, gaining speakers within their communities.

Nathan B. performing “Yolŋu Land” using English and Yolŋu Matha.

Finally, though not the focus of our study, there are also new languages, such as Kriol spoken across Northern Australia, Palawa Kani in Tasmania, and Gurindji Kriol. Many Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders also know English, and most Indigenous Australians are multilingual.

Without records of all these languages, and without ongoing work to support speakers and communities, we aren’t able to do research like this, and Australia loses a vital link to its history. After all, European settlement of Australia is a tiny chunk of the time people have lived on this land.

This article was originally published on The Conversation.

CLAIRE BOWERN

Claire Bowern is Professor of Linguistics at Yale University. Her 2004 PhD is from Harvard University and examined the historical morphology of complex verb constructions in a family of non-Pama-Nyungan (Australian) languages. Her research focuses on the Indigenous languages of Australia, and is concerned with language documentation/description and prehistory. 

Tokyo: Random Access Memories

This short film features random shots of Tokyo, offering an artistic perspective of this non-stop city. Shot and edited by Junwoo Lee.

5 Cities That Are Leaders in Sustainable Public Transportation Initiatives

The World Economic Forum released its most recent Sustainable Cities Mobility Index, which ranks some of the globe’s largest metropolises based on both the viability of transport and its relative footprint.

The Index measures factors such as connectedness via public transport, including metros and buses, as well as pedestrian accessibility, ease of use by cyclists, among others. What unites each of the five cities featured here seems to be the overall strategy of incentivizing use of public transport, while disincentivizing the tendency to commute by automobile. In this way, public transportation systems trade on efficiency: by running frequently, integrating renewable energy sources, and maximizing often-limited physical space in the crowded cities, the public transport strategies of each of the cities listed have served to reduce car emissions significantly. 

1. HONG KONG. Named number one on the sustainable mobility index, Hong Kong has constructed an impressive MTR metro system, which is responsible for 90% of residents’ daily journeys. Likewise, the cost of transport in Hong Kong has remained relatively low, permitting accessibility to all residents, further disincentivizing travel by car. In fact, due in large degree to the success of the public transportation system, less than 20% of residents of Hong Kong own a car. 

2. ZURICH. At number two on the list, Zurich has demonstrated a great deal of success minimizing transportation by car, with just 37% of the population owning a car, as well as a little over a quarter of journeys measured occurring by car. The majority of public transportation in Zurich occurs by high-speed light rail, a system widely recognized to be one of the most energy- and space-efficient modes of public transport.

3. PARIS. In 2012, Paris pledged to reduce travel emissions by 60% within the most populated areas of its city, introducing more networks of pedestrian walkways and bike paths, incentivizing the use of bicycles and electric cars through two new city rental systems, as well as altering delivery systems such that it limits the number of diesel-fueled vehicles driving through the city each day. Parisian city officials have also been working to initiate regular “car-free” days, as well as other measures that promote alternative forms of transport.

4. SEOUL. Throughout the past decade, Seoul has pioneered a significant number of innovations that promote sustainable mobility. An inefficient highway system has been repurposed to become a large public park with an extensive network of pedestrian causeways. Moreover, Seoul has employed specified bus lanes, which have increased by nearly one million the number of citizens who use the public transport system each day, as opposed to driving. The significantly greater efficiency of public transportation, as well as the ease of access afforded to pedestrian traffic has cut down greatly on the number of citizens commuting by car, one of the most inefficient and least sustainable modes of travel. 

5. PRAGUE. Prague has undertaken the “Tune Up Prague” initiative, just one of a series of sustainable transportation proposals enacted under the 2015 Sustainable Urban Mobility Plan. The “tune up” has focused on increasing foot and bicycle travel through the facilitation of pedestrian pathways. The proposal has also worked to bring accessible, sustainable transportation to all, seeking to bump up the amount of wheelchair-accessible metro stations by 23%, such that 95% of the city’s metro stations are wheelchair-accessible.

In integrating energy and space-efficient public transport with initiatives that promote pedestrian and cyclist travel, the five cities listed above have developed transportation networks that are both accessible and sustainable. Incentivizing public transport increases a city’s ability to experiment with “greener” travel, while simultaneously reducing automobile emissions. The ingenuity of each of the five metropolises provides a crucial example for other major cities, working towards a more sustainable, more connected future. 

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Hallie Griffiths

Hallie is an undergraduate at the University of Virginia studying Foreign Affairs and Spanish. After graduation, she hopes to apply her passion for travel and social action toward a career in intelligence and policy analysis. Outside of the classroom, she can be found, quite literally, outside: backpacking, rock climbing, or skiing with her friends.

The Man Who Loved To Travel.

My Grandpa Joe was one of those classically great men. A mensch. Born in the bathroom of his parents’ Temple Street home in downtown Los Angeles in 1917. The family moved around Los Angeles a lot — from downtown to Boyle Heights to Tujunga to Beverlywood. Sticking close to the pockets of other Jewish immigrants who faced daily anti-semitism. In his pre-teen days, he would travel miles by bus to get to school, then travel all the way back to work in his father’s garment factory into the night — the schmata business — learning the machines. Then he’d do his homework. It was clear very early on that he was a standout student and, after skipping pretty much every other grade, he ended up at Berkeley. Apparently, he was in a rush to meet my grandmother, Ethel, who was also at Berkeley. After graduation, they came back to L.A. He also ended up in the garment industry, one of the first to create women’s sporting apparel.

And as great and respect-worthy as that all is, the story of how he made his way in the world was simply a precursor to a just-as-impressive story of how he made his way around the world. Joe’s true passion was travel.

By his retirement, he had also started a small side business as a travel agent. He called it, Love To Travel. He kept himself busy (and his travel deductible) by organizing and sometimes leading tour group in various parts of the world.

By the time I came around, he had already been across the globe a few times — which was in and of itself a pretty exotic feat for the era — but he was only just getting started. Joe and Ethel rewarded themselves for a good life of hard work by spending the second half of it, over thirty years, visiting places all over the world. At least once a year, they would take off — most often in Western Europe, but also Canada, Mexico, the Caribbean, South America, Central and Eastern Europe, and probably quite a few more. When they’d return, the family would gather for an old-fashioned slide show. Ethel would prepare a platter of dried fruits and nuts, the screen would go up, lights would go down and the projector would flick on. What proceeded then would be a competition of memory for the small stories and events of their trip. My grandfather’s memory for detail was unassailable, but Ethel always had the last word.

Many years later, after he had died and it was apparent that I would continue the legacy of travel and photo-taking, my grandmother entrusted me with his many boxes of slides. They were highly unorganized and consisted of everything from loose negatives to filled carrousels to small, bulging slide boxes. Thousands and thousands of images. All un-labeled.

It’s taken me fifteen years to get it all together and scanned. I have barely started down the process of trying to figure out where these places are and what year they might have been taken. I may never know. In some ways, it’s not what really matters. I actually quite enjoy the mishmash of time and place that these images, in this scattered format, create. They come together exactly like my memory of him — a richly condensed man of great experience and joie de vivre.

What I love about these images (and this is only a very small taste of them) is that they are there to document the travel as much as the place. His images are heavily aware of being a visitor — in those days, foreign travel had a formality to it. In the images, you can see both the formulaic-ness of tourism but also a man who would climb to any height to get a better view than the crowds. He would do anything for a good shot — I watched him sneakily break off to go take a snap, many times.

I love the raw talent depicted in these photos. A high percentage of them are out of focus, which for me only adds to my appreciation for him. Focusing was hard, in those days — no electronics or fancy in-camera technologies. He learned it all on his own, with no training — and considering that, there’s a side story that develops with these images of a man who was learning a craft from love of subject backwards. Which is also how I learned photography.

My favorite image is one that I don’t recall ever making it into a family slide show. It features my grandmother driving an early 70’s Nova on a foreign beach somewhere. It’s a shocking image for me in so much as she never drove. Usually, Ethel was in the back of a stuffy Cadillac — she suffered from a deep, nearly-disabling anxiety and her overly-dramatic fears made her almost comically over-concerned about every little thing. Seeing her here, carefree and outrageously off-the-beaten-course adds an entirely different look at their relationship and adventures together.

In the end, your photographs should not only show a great life, they should convey what you loved. Enjoy the following story of the man who loved to travel.

Grandma Ethel, in Paris. Photo by Joe Ellenbogen.

Photo by Joe Ellenbogen

Photo by Joe Ellenbogen

The corner of Rue de la République and Boulevard de France in Marigot, Saint Martin (thank you Richard Hopkins). Photo by Joe Ellenbogen

Photo by Joe Ellenbogen

Photo by Joe Ellenbogen

Photo by Joe Ellenbogen

Photo by Joe Ellenbogen

Photo by Joe Ellenbogen

Photo by Joe Ellenbogen

Photo by Joe Ellenbogen

Photo by Joe Ellenbogen

Photo by Joe Ellenbogen

Photo by Joe Ellenbogen

Photo by Joe Ellenbogen

Photo by Joe Ellenbogen

Photo by Joe Ellenbogen

Photo by Joe Ellenbogen

Grandpa Joe, somewhere in the world. Photo by Ethel Ellenbogen.

Thank you for reading. For my own photography, find me at instagram.com/joshsrose

THIS ARTICLE WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED ON MEDIUM.

JOSH ROSE

Journalist, photojournalist, creative director.

How to Enjoy Travel Without Social Media

DID YOU KNOW that if a tree falls in the woods and you don’t post the video to your Instagram story, it still actually happened? I’m aware of the irony of writing about a topic like this on a popular travel website, where, if all goes well, it will be retweeted, shared on Facebook, and maybe even receive a video response on YouTube (please?), but there are ways to enjoy traveling without social media.

Low-tech travel is still an option

Some travelers get the idea that getting offline also means completely cutting themselves off from technology, when in fact a simple reduction will do. Leaving your phone at home and using a calling card to stay in touch may be annoying, but isn’t it worth removing the temptation of snapping a selfie? Just because we no longer live in a world where Polaroid cameras are ubiquitous doesn’t mean they aren’t out there to capture memories. If you use your blog primarily as an outlet for your creativity and not as a form of income, you can try jotting your experiences down on paper. Travel like it’s 1999.

Time goes further without technology

You may not be able to look back on what happened one day ten years ago in Thailand without some digital photographic evidence, but if you spent that time bathing elephants and getting drunk with expats you’re going to remember the experience better without wasting time documenting everything as it’s happening. My weekends in Japan usually fly by when I’m traveling solo and stop to write on my Macbook or scroll through IG on my phone, but when two Couchsurfers came to visit and we spent the whole day talking and exploring, I couldn’t help but appreciate how much longer the days seemed to last. Being mindful during your travels means taking the minute between when your food is served not to find the perfect angle for a picture, but instead reflect on how fortunate you are to have this nourishment in this foreign country with good friends.

Live your life without online feedback

Social media has fundamentally changed how we communicate in many ways, but probably none more than allowing snapshots of our lives to receive immediate feedback from the whole world. We’ve probably all taken a picture of a scene like a sunset over the ocean with the intention of wanting to know want other people think about it, without taking the time to wonder whether we actually like it in the first place.

Your travel experiences have value even if no else sees your picture and gives it a like. Seeing someone’s expression in person and understanding their reaction to your temple stay and spiritual awakening (even if it’s an eye roll) are going to mean more to you than someone writing a cliché comment with an emoji.

Think about where you travel, and why

I had a falling out with a friend last year after – having discussed the issue of the treatment of elephants at length – she chose to ride on one in Asia in a stereotypical tourist fashion. When I quite angrily asked what the hell she was thinking, knowing full well she was aware of how these animals were tortured, she casually replied “Yeah, well, I wanted a selfie with one.”

Think about your motivation in traveling to a place like Macchu Picchu or posing with a tiger… is it something you genuinely want to do, or just something you think would look pretty sweet on Instagram? Take away that incentive, and would you still go there, or do that?

Traveling without social media forces you to focus on why you travel, knowing that people may still hear about the story ex post facto, but you completely control the narrative. Why work yourself to death squeezing in another attraction before sunset to make sure it’s posted during prime viewing time if no one is going to see it? Avoiding social media generally gives you quality over quantity.

THIS ARTICLE WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED ON MATADOR NETWORK.

TURNER WRIGHT

Turner Wright is a marathon runner first, an adventurer second, and a writer through it all. Apparently, he has a thing for island nations, having lived in Japan, and soon to be headed for New Zealand. Check out his adventures at Once a Traveler.

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My First Zero-Bag Trip and Why It Was Important

I’m grateful to be fortunate in a few ways, but the one lucky bit currently on my mind is that I like to write. Generally, and especially when it comes to this blog, I try and write about things that seem important. I can certainly pound out mindless marketing drivel at ~90wpm as I did for a grueling six months in one particular job, but I never thought that was important (though I lied at the interview and said I did). In the years since calling that my profession I’ve learned some things. One of those things is not to lie at job interviews because even if you do get a job you don’t like, you will not be able to sustain it day-in and day-out. Another thing I’ve learned is that writing words that do not seem important is like eating at Taco Bell. It might seem like a good idea before you start, there’s no actual discernable benefit other than a temporary dopamine hit, and even as you’re doing it you find yourself wondering why.

I try and write blog posts that, at their most unsuccessful, will at least entertain. If they are a little more successful they might point you towards an object or idea that can be of use to you. My most successful posts will do both, and if I’m really on a roll, without any spelling mistakes. If I have an idea for some writing that will do none of those things, I don’t write it.

Sometime before the new year I had the opportunity to visit a beautiful landmark someplace close to my old hometown, the beautiful capital city of Toronto, ON. (There’s a joke in there for my Ottawa friends.) I went to Niagara Falls for a two-day, one-night trip. Being in a particularly minimalist mood as I decided what to pack up in my bag for the trip, I had a thought that sauntered into my mind, sat down, and refused to leave. It was: “All right Miss Fancy-Pants one-bagger, how about a real challenge? Don’t bring a bag.”

Since in my general experience the thoughts that refuse to leave are the ones that turn out to be important (even if at the time I don’t know why), I decided to listen to it. So aside from the items I take with me daily (wallet, phone, headphones, power bank), here’s what I brought for the two-day, one-night trip.

All I see when I look at this is how huge my fingers look.

I’m holding a little zip pouch with some lip balm, tweezers and cuticle trimmers (because all those things are annoying to not have on hand), and a just-in-case tampon. In my other hand is a pair of balled-up socks with some underwear tucked into the middle. These items went into the pockets of my Uniqlo down jacket, the jacket went onto me, and I went to Niagara Falls.

It was cold. I was unperturbed.

I know, you’re thinking, “But what about X?! How did you Y?! What did you do for Z?!” Well, I made some assumptions. The plan was to stay in a hotel. Since Niagara Falls is a city that inexplicably exists almost solely for tourists (and once long ago was a terribly bloody battlefield that soon after became a tourist attraction - but I digress) I figured the hotel room would be well appointed. I bet that there would be a toothbrush available, and soap to wash with, and probably skin lotion. The latter two of these assumptions resolved in my favor. There was mouthwash, at least.

I intended to wear most the same clothes on both days, aside from the change of socks and underwear, and this went fine. In fact, aside from the discovery that I never again want to go longer than twenty-four hours without brushing my teeth, I wasn’t really put out by not having more stuff with me. Actually, it was quite the opposite. Not having any bag at all made me feel quite like a kid at recess, freshly unshackled from the norm and wanting to run around just for the heck of it.

This was all some months ago and it’s taken me until now to write about it, mainly because I couldn’t decide why it was important. I figured it out earlier today during an altogether unrelated moment, listening to an audiobook at the gym. It was The View from the Cheap Seats by Neil Gaiman (my favourite author and a constant inspiration). If you happen to be at all interested in writing or observing life or breathing I highly recommend it. He speaks at one point about writing things to find out what it is he thinks of them. I had minimalism in the back of my mind and something fell into place. Like with the trip to Niagara Falls, and more importantly, in general, I experiment with doing without so I can discover what it is I really need - and to go a step further, to find out whether or not I have the fortitude and resourcefulness to do without anyway. It’s how I came to nomadism and traveling with one bag in the first place - by experimenting.

It’s all too easy to be on autopilot, doing things a certain way because that’s the way you’ve always done them. It’s a refreshing and informative experience to, just for the heck of it, try something that for you is completely unusual. It doesn’t matter if it’s about doing without, though it’s almost certainly guaranteed to make you feel uncomfortable, temporarily. It doesn’t have to stick, but it might. At the very least, you’ll learn something about yourself that you wouldn’t have found out otherwise. And that’s why it was important for me to take a short trip with nothing more than what fit in my pockets.

Next time, though, I’ll bring a toothbrush.

THIS ARTICLE WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED ON HER ONE BAG.

VICKY LAI

Vicky is a software developer originally hailing from Toronto, ON Canada. She's been travelling the world while living out of one bag since 2016. She loves telling stories through writing and photography, and combines these passions at heronebag.com.

Traveling Alone Is Insanity, But Do It Anyway

I wrote this post last year when I returned from a 4-month road trip across the country..

I still believe everything I wrote.

I just returned from a 12,000 mile, 4-month long road trip. Alone.

Some of the perks of traveling alone include:

• Doing whatever you want.

• Eating whenever you want.

• Being able to pause.

If you’re anything like me, you’re constantly consumed with other people having a good time. When I’m traveling with someone, I’ll sacrifice what I want to do to keep them happy.

I mean, I know that this sounds selfish, but I’m 23 and I need to be a little selfish before I get married and spend the rest of my life with someone. I’ve learned so much about myself even after four months, which is why you need to do a road trip all alone.

Loneliness Is Good For You

You need to feel that loneliness, because only then will you be able to face any inner demons that you might have. A twelve-hour drive kind of forces you to think. It’s just you and the road.

Trust me, when I was out in the middle of Montana, navigating my way through beautiful countryside, I had time to think. I had time to appreciate the little things, too, like talking to a gas station attendant after seeing nobody for days.

Just do the damn thing.

Feeling Terrible On The Road Is Okay

My first night on the road trip I felt deep despair. I wasn’t happy at all. I was in New Orleans, far from my home, and I knew nobody in this city. My gosh, traveling alone at that moment felt like the worst decision I could’ve ever made.

But I got through it.

I started smiling at people, and asking them how their day was. Sometimes they would start a conversation with me! Believe it or not, I made a few friends in New Orleans. By the fourth or fifth day in that crazy city, I felt at peace in the middle of a storm.

I was out there, but I was making the most of it. And isn’t that a metaphor for life?

You’ll Face Problems, But That Doesn’t Mean Your Trip Isn’t Worth It

I ran into problems on the road that I had to overcome. At one point I had to drop $1,000 that I really couldn’t afford to spend on a new brake system for my car.

When I came into the shop to test drive it, the brakes still didn’t work. I blew a major gasket, and I ended up having to stay with my friend in Phoenix for another week. These things happen.

In Austin I met a guy from the UK who needed to get out to San Diego. I agreed to drive him out that way, and in exchange I had a companion for the week.

Spend time traveling by yourself.

Make your own decisions, listen to your heart, start to be spontaneous. Allow yourself to get lost. Gain a new perspective.

The solo road trip is all about you, but it’s not always about being alone. It’s about making your own decisions, and asking yourself why you made those decisions. You’re just learning.

Uncomfortable Situations Suck At The Time, But Make You Stronger Later

I always say that throwing yourself into an uncomfortable situation brings growth. That’s why I stayed in crappy hostels in bad parts of the city. That’s why I was angry that my boss screwed me out of $600, but in a weird way was thankful for it. In those dire situations, I became who I am today.

I learned that life isn’t going to be fair, or easy, or breathtaking all of the time.

But I found through my trip that we can chart our own course through life, because I literally and figuratively did that for four months. And that’s the most valuable lesson of them all.

Nobody is steering the car but you! You turn on the ignition, you type in the address to the GPS, and you’re the one who decides when a view is just too beautiful to keep driving.

You are in control. The road does its best to throw you off track by introducing obstacles and problems along the way, but if you’re dedicated to it then you’ll make it to your destination one way or another.

I think if you’re traveling with someone else you’ll get these lessons, but just not as potent of a dose. You have someone to lean on if you run into problems out there, but when you’re alone it’s just you.

That’s why you need to do it. Don’t ask any questions; get in your car and go. You’ll be surprised at what happens. You’ll rediscover what it means to be alive. You’ll crush any obstacles that stand in your way, and when you get back you’ll be forever changed.

That’s why you need to travel alone.

THIS ARTICLE WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED ON THE MISSION.

TOM KUEGLER

Tom is a full-time Digital Nomad and travel blogger. He has his own Medium publication called The Post-Grad Survival Guide. Check out his website here.