“Warm beer. Cold women. You know I just don’t fit in.”
With this prelude he triumphantly meanders off the main dirt road and into that bar to find a seat, couch or stool. Yes. Yes. Yes. The beer is cold, soe's he massages it along his forehead, exhaling all the while. But this bar is momentarily quiet – it is the eye of the storm into which Drombrovsk has wandered. Enter – “Hurricane Dusty Farrell the Illinois State Quarterback – BROOHAH!” The Polish observer can only mutter “shit” as 6 American college boys vigorously roll in.
“FUCK YEAH MAN! JAGER! FAAAR-KING YAY-GRRR!” yells Number 17 at the visibly frightened bar keep. They spread throughout the faded, fluoro wooden den priming the air with an electric cultural presence. The new ambiance is both alluring and repulsive, as divided revelers (previously in the shadows) scowl and head to the door or step-up, dance and drink. Our man on the ground has a whole beer to finish and watches on with curious intrigue.
“Hey little Asian dude!” shouts Number 37 at a huddle of Nepalese, “Com’ ere you crazy little bastard. We are doing shots! Right now! Yeah you! You an’ me!”
The undeniably large kid drags a local from the shivering crowd. The Number 4 slaps Number 2 on the shoulders and signals at Number 13, who is ambitiously rolling under the flickering lights.
“Wooh! THAT is why I fucking love you man! You fucking ARSEHOLE! Look! Tevo is break dancing in his own spew!” exclaims Number 4, who is then joined by Number 2 as they both cheer at the graceless spectacle. A virile chanting crescendos as the rowdy pack somehow unify in a shambled chorus, “you…es…ay! You…Es…Ay! YOU-ES-AY!”
The blind, patriotic call continues to build as Drombrovsk drains the beer and makes off - out into the quiet street. He is neither afraid nor annoyed, as dusk begins to call in the day, but there is a definite confusion of thoughts concerning those robust tourists.
* * *
The global tourist trail is awash with national groups who have been explicitly bound to certain stereotypes. What Drombrovsk witnessed in that small town in the Himalayas, is a manifestation of the growing idea that the American traveler is an over zealous, culturally insensitive, drunken buffoon. Every outing I have undertaken from these insulated shores of Van Diemen’s Land produces parallel accounts - it seems that this nationality of genuine explorers, these good ol’ sons and daughters of the United States, are subject to an overt and unwarranted level of prejudice. But who levels these charges? The numbers and events are fixed truths in the Drombrovsk narrative, what we mustn't forget is that the specific nationality could be easily dismissed.
I were once in Barcelona, years ago, sitting with a nice young couple from Oregon, and cards were dealt and stories traded about various police institutions and the Jewish faith and so on, when some five or six Europeans decided to intervene our mellow conversations. This was no pleasant, jovial or even cheeky intervention, these bona fide Eurocentric’s began wailing abuse at the Americans because of their head of state (at the time) President George W. Bush. They went on and on, as if this particular topic hadn’t been discussed at monumental length in every public and private sphere the world over. The couple from Portland city diplomatically fielded the rant and continued to do so, even after they had become personally responsible for the destruction of the English language. How boring and “poo-poo” we said to them (we the colonial upstarts) and returned to our wines.
Then the poor boys of Gainesville, Florida are sitting in a restaurant in Jakarta being spied ordering burgers, fried chicken and “goddamn beer”. Later that evening, in a pool hall on Jalan Jaksa, some English, Irish and Australian fellows and ladies, felt it necessary to reprimand these southern lads of music, engineering and poetry about their culturally boring dinner selections. The intellects of the New World avoided exacerbating an inane confrontation, by withholding the fact that they had been three weeks in the darkest heart of West Java, eating only minnows and rice. Thankful we were, once the gourmet dining police had gone to bed, for those hardy travelers were off to Conrad’s very own Heart of Darkness the following day – to Sydney and the brutal, uncharted world of generic IT jobs and one-year working visas.
There is Josh the veterinarian from Washington State, who could quote (whilst drunk on rum) all the great Russian novelists to the unknowing masses in Chile. Audrey and Rhonda from Illinois, studying law in Durban and always fighting off trained racist guard dogs. Tee-rent from San Diego didn’t care how loud he was, all he cared for was environmentally ergonomic construction, French girls and playing music with “who ever is down”. Or Old Eric from Kauai, smiling and sailing with his wife throughout distant blue atolls or anywhere else he pleased, and if some "jerk-off journalist" in Samoa wanted to fight because he was too old and too loud then it was time to "duke it out on the beach". All these people had an entrenched inspiration and hope; vibrant, huge and infectious personalities that would steer them beyond misguided accusations and self-doubt.
* * *
It’s true that on the world stage America has often not been held in high esteem; this has been the growing case since the 1950’s. The Yankee sailors, on leave in Australia, would come ashore and strike the dance halls and bars sweeping the local ladies away from the doldrums of a conservative, war weary society. It would seem that this said more about the laconic ocker than the lonely seaman on shore leave. The local man who sits in the corner grimacing into his 10 oz. beer, unable to launch a suitable retort against these dashing foreigners on the dance floor, has only himself to blame.
The United States has been the global hegemonic power, by a huge margin, since the conclusion of the second Great War. This supreme position, although eagerly pursued by White House foreign and domestic policy, has garnered the country international ill-feeling. Not everyone likes the top dog, but most have to begrudgingly acquiesce to this hierarchy.
'Soft Power' is a term used to consider the cultural potency that a national body indirectly or directly exudes onto other states. It is this American soft power, which appears to particularly enrage and encourage outspoken behaviour from other travelers. The television and music, jive-talking, bold gestures, broisms, whack clothing, green backery and consumerist cappo-pig dogging are all components of a cultural phenomenon, which has captured the brains, imagination and wallets of people everywhere. But is it truly a case of the tele-box being the opiate of the masses? Are we simply mindless absorbers of the only way - the American Way? Problematic though it may be for people to admit, American culture runs deeper than a mere veneer of brashy cheese. We engage with it consciously and find it is exciting and fundamentally hopeful, and that it isn't European. Nobody can deny Vanilla Ice.
* * *
Larger social, political and historical contexts can sometimes assist in our understanding of seemingly random encounters and events. It makes life easier when we can explain away contradictions, even if that opposing idea is more like the truth than our minds would allow. However, this narrative has slowed and is ironically twisting into the canals of academic writing, this is exactly what we need to avoid. We should stop prescribing larger models of thought to the individual. It is from this way of thinking that stereotypes and grand judgments are able to evolve, from the thin veil of myths, into a factual and grotesque plumpness.
The Americans out there, on the road, taking charge and exploring the world by larger perspectives should not be chained to a perceived solitary national image. Essentially, what happens is not the meeting of two peoples, but a political engagement. The lady from Austin Texas is being cautiously trapped, whilst she spins and sings on a hostel chair, waiting for the computer screen to talk to her. Wandering past are those that would later sneer in the kitchen and lounge, about her thoughts and beliefs, without her having uttered a word on the matter of personal politics. The fact remains, that many of us do not possess the political skill or objectivity to examine and interact with other people through this lens, without making horribly misguided judgments. We must understand and attempt to read the humane poetry of every individual. Let the person speak, have a drink with them, lose in a game of cards (if you have the time), talk about woeful and joyous occasions - those Americans, and all the people, can read a newspaper or watch the television if they want those grander versions of national truth.
* * *
Jimmy Bodean, the stalwart Yankee, sits on the edge of that old porch before bed every night and screams from his pores "American Dreams! American Dreams!" Gazing sadly out across suburbia, he fulfills his role as the White Trash Prophet. Then before slipping into bed and a restless slumber he quotes an old Russian - who loved his homeland just as much as Jimmy, in an endless and sinewy, patriotic thread - and from the foot of the bed with clasped hands in prayer, he asks politely and solemnly -
- "Lord, let me be a poet
Let me not deceive the people"
:: Words & Photo - GF
