Every journey we take, whether we’re walking up the road to post a letter or flying to the other side of the world, poses a certain level of risk. Some of the risks are easy to identify (getting run over, being involved in a plane crash or a terrorist incident), while others are impossible to predict, but exist nonetheless. Yet on any trip we take, we make judgements of the risks involved, whether or not we stop to think about the thought process beyond them. All too often, these judgements are based on very shaky reasoning.

On our recent trip to Indonesia I rented out a motor scooter, despite having never ridden one before. I would probably never have thought of doing this in the UK, but here it was the only option to get around in this one particular place. I was aware of the risks, but once I’d decided to do it, that was that. Even passing the wreckage of a fatal bike accident hours before didn’t deter me from renting a bike; I explained it away in my mind as something that could have happened anywhere, and even to a pedestrian. Only a couple of weeks earlier I wouldn’t have entertained the idea of getting on a motor scooter; and yet when faced with the option of being stuck in a small town for a couple of days and missing the main nearby attractions, my perception of the risk appeared to change.

We were in Indonesia at the time of the tragic Air Asia crash. On several occasions in the previous weeks, we’d encountered fellow tourists talking about their travel plans in SE Asia and how they’d decided on their itinerary according to the Air Asia timetable. They were determined to avoid any of the Indonesian carriers, many of who are known for a less-than-stellar safety record. Immediately after the crash we heard travellers expressing their anxiety at getting on an Air Asia flight, seeking instead any available alternative. Had the risk equation changed so suddenly with that single incident? Or are our decisions based far more on a gut reaction and influenced by the news headlines rather than hard facts?

We’ve been guilty several times of this same reaction, changing a trip because of negative news, even when the UK government travel advice has suggested there was no reason not to go to our planned destination. Most notably we skipped a trip to Istanbul in 2009 at a time when a series of protests were taking place in the city, choosing instead to go to Syria.

And these risk calculations go to a far deeper, more mundane level than the big ‘to go or not go’ question. Are we as diligent in wearing seat belts in the back of a taxi when nobody else appears to be wearing them – even when the standard of driving would suggest it’s more necessary than ever? What about walking on hiking trails or exploring old ruins which, in the UK, would have safety railings and multiple warnings – how and why do we change our perception of what is safe, according to the local variances in safety practices?

Perhaps it’s just as well we do make highly individual, often irrational, and generally unpredictable decisions based on what we perceive as the risk involved in a particular activity or journey. A universal approach might mean a pattern of boom and bust for many businesses associated with tourism.  We make our own risk judgements, and even when we stop to think about them, in many cases we’re not making decisions based on anything more sound than the current direction of the wind.

Safety – should we trust our own judgement? is a post from: 501 Places

According to the UNWTO (UN World Tourism Organisation) there are now over 1 billion people travelling internationally each year; a number that is expected to increase sharply as more people in India and China acquire the means to go on foreign holidays. In the world of travel and tourism this travel bonanza is being embraced with thousands of new hotels being built, a flotilla of giant cruise ships under construction and airlines taking record orders for new fleets that will whisk people away to their adventures.

Travel is good

The act of travel is generally seen as overwhelmingly positive. Travel broadens the mind. It exposes us to different cultures. It teaches tolerance. To quote one of the most over-used travel clichés, “the world is an open book and those who do not travel read only one page.”

But are we too quick to accept the supposed virtues of travel? And what constitutes travel in any case? Are the valuable lessons we attribute to the act of  travel accessible only to those who go to another corner of the world and have to get by in a place where the language is foreign, the food is alien and the culture is wildly unfamiliar?

Most of us accept that the act of flying many tens of thousands of miles has an environmental impact, however large or small we might believe that impact might be. It costs serious money too. It would be fair to assume therefore that those of us who do travel a lot have convinced ourselves that we are reaping benefits from our time on the road that outweigh both our financial outlay in paying for our trips as well as the more woolly cost of the carbon footprint we’ve created. But what exactly are those benefits?

Is travel good?

Is it the exposure to other places, other cultures, other cuisines? Can we really quantify such benefits and decide on their relative worth? Presumably we do and that’s why so many of us (myself included) keep on paying for those flights and hotels, jetting off and then coming home and immediately planning another adventure.

But are there similar experiences to be had, lessons to be learned, wisdoms to be acquired, that don’t require us to spend the money or the earth’s resources? Do we really need to travel to enjoy these benefits? Surely those virtues of travel that so many espouse depend not so much on the world outside, but more on our own awareness and ability to make the most of our immediate surroundings? Couldn’t we learn the same lessons in our own countries and continents, which for all of us hold enough places of interest to last us a lifetime of curiosity, if we care to look hard enough?

Our world is obsessed with consumption and the travel industry is where this obsession is most aggressively practised. We are encouraged to go further, for longer; to eat more, to buy more, to experience more. There’s an industry around every single activity related to travel; even the simple act of going for a walk.

St Augustine may well have questioned how much of ‘the book of the world’ is available to those who do not travel. It’s worth bearing in mind that in his day a walk to the nearest town would for most folks have been a highly adventurous journey.

Do we really need to travel? is a post from: 501 Places

Take a trip to almost any country in the world and you’ll find war and conflict behind many of the major tourist attractions. Perhaps this should not come as a surprise: war has afflicted every corner of the world and has left a mark, usually both physical and emotional, that is in most cases more visible than the legacy created as a result of more peaceful endeavours.

On one level there are many excellent museums dedicated to the subject of war in general or focussed on a particular tragedy (such as the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum). Then there are sites of atrocities (think Auschwitz or the Cambodian Killing Fields) that have become must-see stops for anyone visiting the nearby cities.

Some places (the Marshall Islands are a prime example) happened to be in a strategically important place when two major powers came to blows and got caught up in someone else’s fight. In other places the war may be long gone but its legacy continues to take lives through the tragedy of unexploded bombs. Tourists in Laos are encouraged to visit the MAG (Mines Advisory Group) office in Phonsavan, learn about the lives destroyed by ordnance leftover from the American war (the locally used term for what we know as the Vietnam War) and make a donation to support their incredibly dangerous work.

Defensive structures can be found in every corner of Europe and the Mediterranean, for centuries the scene of one bloody battle after another. From the magnificent castles on the Welsh coast to the surreal concrete bunkers that litter the Albanian countryside, even in peaceful times the landscape of Europe has been shaped by the threat and the fear of war.

So why this fascination with the conflicts and tragedies of the past? Why do we make a point on our travels of visiting the sites of battles that had nothing to do with our own country and about which we could happily continue to live in splendid ignorance? Surely we would be better off spending our leisure time exploring the natural landscapes, admiring the local wildlife and celebrating the work of local artists, scientists and statesmen?

People often use the term ‘dark tourism’ to describe the fascination with visiting places where atrocities took place, and suggest that it is important for each of us to see at first hand the sites where gross inhumanity took place, as it is only by remembering what happened in the past that we might have a chance of stopping it happening again. That argument is particularly powerful in the Nazi concentration camps and other places where mass slaughter took place; but what about the sites of other conflicts, war memorials or unremarkable battlefields?

Like it or not, war has shaped more than just the national boundaries we observe on a map. It has created heroes and villains, victims and perpetrators. Each side writes its own history, and there are stories of bravery that are celebrated for generations and chapters of history that are censored from the national consciousness.

War, more than any other part of history, is critical in shaping our national identity. It is perhaps for that reason that we not only continue to teach our children about the battles fought on our own soil, but encourage visitors to our countries to learn about them too.

War, what is it good for? Tourism, actually is a post from: 501 Places

Have you ever noticed the different ways in which visitors to a museum or gallery take in the objects they are looking at? Have you seen how some people stand there, as if in a trance, transported into whatever place or time period they’re observing, while others read a sign, take a photo and move on? 

A few months ago I visited Dennis Severs’ House, a highly original museum set in an ordinary Victorian terrace behind London’s Spitalfields Market. The experience is part-museum part-theatre, with visitors asked to pass through the various rooms of the house in complete silence in order to absorb the sounds and smells that have been carefully and often very subtly recreated to match the visual displays.

The memory I took away most from my visit was the clear desire of the late Mr Severs that the house should inspire visitors to use each of their senses to absorb and appreciate their surroundings. I understand this to mean that when visiting museums or galleries I shouldn’t head straight for the interpretive description of whatever is standing/hanging in front of me. Instead I should stop, take things in slowly and try to make sense of what I can see/hear/smell/feel on my own terms, without the help of an ‘official’ interpretation.

Reading the Boards

As a philosophy it’s a simple one; quite unremarkable in fact. Yet it has stayed with me since my visit and I’ve been reminded of it in almost every old house or museum I’ve been to since. Perhaps I’ve been more guilty of this than most, but if I step into a room with objects that have text next to them my instinct has me heading straight for the text after giving the object little more than a cursory glance. There’s an inbuilt desire to know what I should be seeing before taking the trouble to look properly.

Having started to consciously take a step back and try to observe and absorb before reading the words of the curator or creator, I feel I’ve discovered a new pleasure in visiting museums (the good ones at least). It probably appeals to my fondness for puzzle-solving, but I like to work out what a picture is trying to say, what an object was used for, or what might have taken place in a room, before finding the ‘official’ answer.

Seeing through your own eyes

Perhaps I’m just a bit slow and the experience at Dennis Severs’ House has shaken me out of a lazy habit of letting others do the thinking. Perhaps it’s just me who has passed through so many places and taken little or nothing away as a result of not bothering to look properly.

But if any of this sounds vaguely familiar to you, perhaps you’ll stop and think when you’re next in a museum: do you want to experience it through someone else’s eyes or your own? The latter will require a little bit of work, but the rewards are almost certainly well worth the effort.

Visiting museums: seeing things in a different way is a post from: 501 Places

I’ve been involved in a project looking at recent immigrants’ first impressions of the UK and have been very surprised at what people notice about our country. The sight of double-decker buses, rows of identical red brick houses and the experience of driving on the left side of the road all make a strong impression with many people who come to the UK for the first time.  Yet for those of us who live here these are such an unremarkable part of our daily lives that we find it strange that others find them in any way curious.

But perhaps it makes sense in the context of our travel experiences. When we arrive in another part of the world, the unfamiliarity of our surroundings provides a buzz of excitement that is an essential part of the magic of travel. We eagerly absorb everything and use our senses to see, hear, smell and taste the new world around us.

Yet as we do this it is normal for us to process whatever we experience in the context of our more familiar world. We’ll admire  a tall building in Asia and wonder how it compares to the Empire State Building or London’s Shard; we’ll taste the meat of an animal for the first time and immediately compare it to chicken or beef; even hearing a strange language for the first time, we’re inclined to observe its similarities to other languages closer to home.

I’m reminded of Watership Down, a book I enjoyed reading when I was little. Despite the book being about a group of highly-intelligent talking rabbits, the author Richard Adams makes many references to the human world.  In one paragraph he contrasts the laughter and curiosity of people in a remote African village to their first sight of a horse and cart to their complete indifference to a plane streaking high overhead across the clear sky. While one is an unusual application of familiar animals and objects, the other is so far removed from their normal life that no references can be made and the sight of it cannot be placed into any sort of context. As a result it is simply ignored.

The above is simplistic and clearly written in a different time, yet if we pick through the racial stereotypes there is still a message worth taking out of it for the traveller. When we step on foreign soil we are drawn to the exotic, the unusual and the unexpected. Yet those things that make the biggest impression with us are often the one which allow us to compare and contrast them with more familiar equivalents that we’ve left behind.

What then, is our equivalent of the plane in the sky? What experiences do we encounter on our travels that are so alien to us that we have no idea how to make any sense of them, forcing us to look instead for the more familiar? Or has technology and the pioneering of others created a world where everything is now within the limits of our comprehension?

Chasing familiarity in far-flung places is a post from: 501 Places

Have you ever stood in a gallery and instead of staring at the artwork, been more intrigued by the reactions of the other visitors? It’s easy to appreciate when looking at something as subjective as an abstract painting that each observer experiences what he/she sees in their own way; one man’s masterpiece is another man’s garbage.

Lest we forget

But perhaps we’re less inclined to notice these differences when we visit historical sites and are presented with cold, hard facts. War memorials, battlefield sites or sites of atrocities such as concentration camps appear on the face of it to be less open to subjective interpretation. There is after all, a strong focus in most cases on the recounting of actual events, of passing on an important part of our history to the next generations.

And yet the different ways in which these sites are experienced is far more dramatic than in any museum or gallery. How we view our history changes from nation to nation and perhaps more sharply from generation to generation. An old man wandering through a London museum with his grandchildren might stop and stare at an old wartime photo. The child might perhaps recognise a famous landmark that still stands in the city today. The grandfather on the other hand is likely to experience a flashback to a time and place where he experienced the same scene through his own eyes.

While the 20th century brought unprecedented technological progress, for much of the world it also brought great trauma, with tens of millions killed in wars and many more displaced and moved against their will from their homelands. Travel the world today and you’ll rarely be far from the scene of a tragedy that is marked by a memorial or museum. Most of those who come to visit these sites were not alive at the time of the events they commemorate, yet they visit through a curiosity to learn about the past. In many cases these sites have become part of the established tourist circuit.

For the majority of us raised in the last 60 years, it’s hard to appreciate just how lucky we are. We have never known what it feels like to be thrown out of our homes at a moment’s notice, to see our communities wiped out, to scavenge for food and see people we love die from starvation. We have lived through what is the most peaceful and prosperous time the world has known.

Keeping the past alive

As the years roll on the stories that the memorials and museums depict will continue to be told, but the numbers of those who are able to recall them at first hand are inevitably dwindling. Our parents and grandparents are the custodians of many priceless anecdotes and epic adventures that form an integral part of who we are.

I am forever grateful that my parents were willing to record their wartime journeys for us to keep. These stories are more incredible, more relevant and more personal to us than anything that the best museum could put together. Whatever else is done in the wider society in remembering the past struggles, we should not miss out on the chance to learn from those who are closest to us. After all, once the older generation have left us these stories will be forever lost.

Remembering the past: why we should listen to our parents is a post from: 501 Places

London has a well-deserved reputation for being the home of many of the world’s best museums. Wander through the grand old buildings that are home to the Natural History, the Victoria and Albert or the British Museums and you can admire some of the finest collections of antiquities and rare objects.

Yet as we look closely at those priceless items and wonder about their origins, our 21st century moral compass might just begin to wobble with uncertainty. Those precious jewels from India: did we pay a fair price for them? How about those African ceremonial altars: what was the story behind their removal from their home soil? (No need to answer these questions) And what about those intricate ivory carvings: do we look at them with admiration or with anger and sadness?

Visit almost any collection of objects and curios and the question of ethics springs up. Many of the world’s great museums have been built up through a combination of meticulous research, careful acquisition and a procurement policy (at least in the early days) that could be written on the back of a rare Chinese postage stamp.

And yet we still stop to look. In recent visits to several of London’s big museums we’ve made our way through crowds of children as they stared intently at collections of rare and extinct animals or at unusual artifacts retrieved from another time and another place. There is little doubt that by giving public access to such objects of interest, we inspire the next generation of doctors, vets, conservationists and environmentalists. By showing real examples of the diversity of the human race and the natural world, curious minds are nurtured and grow to create the thinkers and doers in the following decades.

So can the end ever justify the means? Should we keep animals in captivity merely to help educate both children and adults about the importance of looking after our planet and its inhabitants? Can the the shooting and stuffing of a rare bird in a previous century be considered a positive action thanks to the joy and curiosity it has inspired from behind a glass panel in a museum?

I think back to my business school classes and the concept of a sunk cost. Perhaps the moral price of acquiring a ceremonial mask or an elephant’s tusk has long been paid and there’s no point us getting worked up about it. We might as well enjoy it; the more we gain from its current state as a museum exhibit, the more we help balance the ethical equation.

But that argument doesn’t sit easily for me. I’ll keep going to visit museums and zoos and to look at collections with a questionable history. My natural curiosity is enough to take me to these places, even if I do wander around with a series of questions going round in my head that are rarely answered on the interpretive boards.

A final thought on this: barring some form of apocalypse, museums will exist in some form of other in another 200 years. They will show curious folks how life was back in the primitive days at the start of the millennium. I wonder what practices from today’s world will be frowned upon and considered unenlightened by the people of 2212.

How museums get their stuff: should we care? is a post from: 501 Places

As so often happens, the comments section of my recent post looking at what inspires us to choose our travel destinations has proved to be more interesting than my original entry. Both Maxine Sheppard and Pam Mandel highlighted the role that the history of a place can play in enticing us to visit; I was reminded of their comments on our return from a short break in Chipping Campden, a lovely market town in the heart of Cotswolds.

Chipping Campden has many things in its favour and it serves as a very good base for a visit to the Cotswolds. I was immediately drawn to a story that has been linked with the town for 350 years; a murder case that involved a confession, three convictions but no actual crime. The story of the Campden Wonder is perhaps one of the most intriguing mysteries you’re likely to encounter and it is no surprise that it has stood the test of time and remains a celebrated part of the local history.

The story takes place at the end of the English Civil War and has been preserved from 17th century published records. It is told with all its twists and turns here. William Harrison, the elderly steward of a local landowner, had been visiting neighbouring villages collecting rent money when he failed to return home. A search party was sent that was initially led by his servant John Perry. No trace of his master was found and when blood-stained items of clothing were discovered along the roadside Harrison was presumed murdered. Perry was held in custody by local magistrate Thomas Overbury and was soon the prime suspect in the disappearance and likely murder of William Harrison. Telling a string of ever taller tales to the authorities, Perry eventually claimed it was not he who committed the murder, but his mother and brother.

All three were eventually tried, convicted of murder and hanged on nearby Broadway Hill overlooking Chipping Campden. It was in the following year that William Harrison walked back into Chipping Campden, very much alive and well. What happened to him for the two years when he disappeared from all contact remains the source of much speculation. Harrison himself claims that he was kidnapped and sold as a slave by Turkish pirates, working for most of the period in western Turkey for an elderly physician. He gave his account as a written testimony to Thomas Overbury, who kept what is considered the most reliable record of the entire story.

Harrison’s account is accepted by many although not all who have studied the Campden Wonder in the following years. Some claim he couldn’t have gone far from the town itself. At the time many presumed that Joan Perry, the mother of John Perry, was a witch and she had cast a spell that accounted for his sudden relocation to Turkey. Others still assumed the whole tale to be made up.

As the helpful staff in the Tourist Information Centre in Chipping Campden informed me, there are several versions of the Campden Wonder story in circulation today, each one providing a different explanation to the events of 1660-1662. I chose a book written by the local historical society as my takeaway research material and learned much more about this unusual mystery as a result.

We will never know which version of the Campden Wonder is in fact the truth, yet this lack of certainty does not in any way diminish the story. The words “Nobody knows for certain what actually happened” seem very much to be expected when relating to a 350 year old incident. Not only was it a long time ago but with a distinct lack of the tools we have at our disposal today to record and share such events, it is perhaps a wonder that we know anything about the case at all.

Wandering around Chipping Campden and along its many miles of surrounding paths it is easy to admire the spectacular views that stretch across the Cotswold Hills and beyond. Yet armed with a tiny bit of knowledge of the events that shook this market town 350 years ago, the place names and the landmarks take on an extra significance. In this way the preservation of local history achieves far more than merely giving local enthusiasts something to do. However impressive the scenery and local buildings may be (and in this part of the Cotwolds they certainly are impressive), it is the accounts of human behaviour in all their tainted splendour that truly bring a place to life.

For more information on this delightful part of the world I would recommend getting yourself a copy of the Rough Guide to the Cotswolds, written by Matthew Teller. It is a comprehensive guidebook for the region while managing to be light enough to keep in your day-pack.

The Campden Wonder: How history can bring a place to life is a post from: 501 Places

The streets and public squares of Budapest were once dominated by a series of giant imposing statues that celebrated the power of communist philosophy. When the Soviet influence was overthrown the newly elected government had to work out what to do with these over-sized symbols of repression. They decided to set up a dedicated park on the outskirts of the city to house these statues.

A visit to Memento Park is a popular part of the itinerary for many tourists coming to Budapest. These statues were once a graphic reminder of a life where even whispers within the family home could lead to trouble with the authorities. Now tourists adopt humourous poses in front of Lenin and his disciples, with the symbols of terror now taking on a definite air of retro coolness.

Our visit to Memento Park was fascinating, yet it did leave me thinking about how we often completely change our view of historic moments over the years. Events that are undeniably tragic become dramatic and even romantic over time. No single event demonstrates this better than the tragedy of the Titanic. An accident that results in over 1,500 deaths qualifies as a tragedy on anyone’s scale. Yet dozens of movies have romanticised the events on board the sinking ship, none more so than James Cameron’s 1997 three hour epic. Exhibitions, merchandise and tours make up the Titanic marketing mix.

Anniversaries become a major opportunity for tourist boards to cash in on the public interest in these tragedies. The 100 year anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic in 2012 is being hailed as a major opportunity for Belfast, Southampton and other regions to bring in millions of pounds of additional tourism revenue.

So what makes a tragedy fair game for commercialisation? Is it a question of time elapsed? 99 years is a long time to mourn and all those directly involved have now died. Will we see the same pattern commemorating the events of September 11th in New York? Perhaps a travelling exhibition where you get a ticket that assigns you as an investment banker or janitor or waiter, and then as you pass through the interactive displays you find out if your character lives or dies? It sounds distasteful now, but how will it sound in another 70 years?

What about murderers? Society looks at today’s killers with revulsion, yet we can pay good money to follow Jack the Ripper trails across East London, led by characters in period costume hamming up the horror and blood lust. Which of today’s evil men and women will become the legends of tomorrow?

Looking at those statues in Budapest, erected by a regime that killed thousands and affected the lives of millions, I watched as young Hungarians laughed and faced the exhibits with total irreverence and even ridicule, something their parents would never have been able to do. Perhaps there is a line to be drawn under tragedies; a point at which solemnity and respect give way to humour, nostalgia and even financial exploitation. Where that line is drawn is another matter entirely.

Is it ever right to make money from tragedy? is a post from: 501 Places

Today I completed an email interview for another site. One of the questions required me to give a piece of advice to new inexperienced travellers. Instinctively I wrote that we shouldn’t be shy in talking to strangers; the encounters that result will almost always provide us with our most cherished travel memories. I absolutely believe this to be true; yet talking to strangers is something I really struggle with.

I gather from talking to others (not strangers obviously) that I’m not alone in my social unease. With this in mind I thought I would share a few suggestions for those who are keen but anxious to ignore their parents and teachers and start talking to strangers (taking sweets from strangers is another matter entirely).

Some places are better than others for sparking those random introductions. Hotel or guest house breakfasts, notoriously quiet affairs at the best of times, often involve us sitting next to strange people and munching away in silence. A simple opening gambit of ‘Are you planning anything nice today?’ can break the tension and start a lengthy conversation that may even provide some valuable tourist tips. This question does not work so well with someone travelling on business who is about to spend 10 hours in an office, so choose your target with care.

Another excellent place to talk to strangers is in a park. Sit on a bench and sooner or later someone will plonk themselves next to you. Depending on where you are in the world and the age/sex/appearance of your newly acquired bench-mate, a conversation about the weather, sport or teenage fashion may be appropriate. The big advantage of this location for meeting strangers is that you are most likely to encounter local people who can provide a precious insight into life in Tirana/Lima/Middlesborough. Be careful though: depending on the age gap, your choice of overcoat and the proximity of the nearest public toilets, your attempts at engaging with your new local friend might be mistaken for something different.

There are places where speaking to strangers is never a good idea. Nowhere is this more clear cut than on the London Underground. Eye contact alone will mark you out as something of a loose cannon; if you dare to speak to a stranger the suspicions of all around you will be instantly confirmed. Expect many awkward shuffles away from you and heads buried deep inside quickly opened newspapers.

I suspect opening a conversation with a stranger is much like sky-diving (I find neither activity comfortable but have successfully managed to avoid at least one). As with leaping out of a plane, you need to just let go of your inhibitions. Start a conversation with a mild, neutral opening and the chances are that the other person will happily join in. After all, they are probably just as shy and only too happy that you came forward to break the ice.

The fear of talking to strangers is a post from: 501 Places