Women’s Travel E-Mail Roundtable, Part Six: Wanna See My AK-47?

10.10.07 | 7:09 AM ET

More e-mails: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

From: Stephanie Elizondo Griest
To: Liz Sinclair, Terry Ward and Catherine Watson
Subject: Wanna See My AK-47?

I am struck by Liz’s suggestion that women travel writers might have an easier time breaking through to their subjects than men. From what I’ve observed, men seem to be taken more seriously when they introduce themselves as journalists/writers, but I do think people let their guard down more easily with women. I spent much of 2005 traveling throughout Mexico researching my next book, and nearly everyone I encountered from indigenous resistance fighters to politicians to paramilitary thugs was willing to talk to me, even when it was not in their best interest to do so. Some told me stories as a way of flirting with me (“Wanna see my AK-47?”); others as a way of trying to manipulate me. Still others seemed to sense my empathies and trusted me. When I traveled alone to Oaxaca to investigate its fomenting populist rebellion, I was immediately adopted by protesters who worried about my personal safety. Being perceived as helpless can be helpful sometimes.

As for Terry’s lovely birthday musings, I couldn’t relate more. Traveling teaches you the inherent value of a day and the possibility each new one holds within. Writing enables you to share the stories of the people whose paths you cross along the way. Partnering the two is utter bliss.

And therein lay the travel writer’s dilemma: you become so aware of how exciting/adventurous/fulfilling life can be, it kills your soul to do anything else! Unfortunately, my particular genre of travel writing (memoirs with a social-activist slant) doesn’t pay terribly well, so I’ve had to make sacrifices to stay in the field. Lots of sacrifices. Health insurance was the first to go. Then my Brooklyn apartment, followed by three-fourths of my belongings (well, they went into storage). In order to promote my latest book and write my third, I became a full-fledged nomad in August 2006, and in the thirteen months since have traveled to more than 40 cities and (briefly) resided in five. While I revel in this lifestyle, I worry sometimes about its sustainability. Relationships are a logistical nightmare, and there is no way I could raise a child (or even a ferret) with my schedule. And every time I think about pension plans or retirement funds, I break into a cold sweat.

Yet, there is no question that I am doing what I was put on this planet to do. Somehow, that justifies the sacrifices. And being nomadic has its perks. I’m becoming such a self-sustained, self-contained unit, I’m expecting to self-pollinate any day now.

Which doesn’t mean I don’t use the Couple Card now and then! Like Catherine, I’ve found it quite potent even without a stand-by mate. Nothing scares off sketchy suitors like: “My husband is due here any minute. He’s a lieutenant in the U.S. Marine Corps/Jujutsu instructor/sniper for the LAPD.”; I have also dropped the old “But that’s all the money my husband will give” me line, in order to seal a bargain at the market.

And I deeply relate to Catherine’s sentiment about not enjoying “plain old private travel” as much anymore. Traveling has become a form of activism—a way of engaging with the world that either creates or records something profound. My next overseas venture is to Mozambique to document a friend who works with AIDS orphans and flood evacuees.

It recently occurred to me, however, that in all my Mexico travels, I never once saw a beach. Or climbed a mountain. (Unless a Zapatista enclave happened to live upon it.) As a writer, I sometimes feel trapped in perpetual work mode. And I’m finding it increasingly difficult not to look at every travel experience—or life experience—as “material”; How do you all separate the two?

©2009 World Hum, All Rights Reserved