Writing geared at backpackers tends to fall into the category of either genre fiction , (Alex Garland's The Beach, Mark Mann's The Gringo Trail) or else travel writing of a more non-fiction persuasion. The goal here at Backpacker Fiction - and the goal with my new manuscript - is to somehow blend a narrative of adventure with the verisimilitude of non-fiction while employing the poetic and character-based language of literary fiction.
Here's an excerpt from the beginning of my new work, The Tiger-Wolves Stop to Drink:SKY STILL DARK WHEN I OPEN EYES again, dirty breath of sleep against the cold pane of rattling bus; us all perched on curves of sit bones like transported canaries under cloth, heads on cradle shoulders, laps, knees, but those constant potholes tossing us back into awake – taut, like the bang of a drum. In the blackened distance out over the grassy shoulder of road, palm trunks, glowing embers of soldier fires, plateau of rice fields and hump of that far mountain; the big dipper balanced on its handle at the horizon. Four icy bulbs square off its spoon flinging the pole star west, the last two stars of crooked handle planted in the earth. Whiff of sudden citrus in the rocking dark. Beside me, big-toothed woman drops chin to her chest, hips arc into the space of my seat but don’t mind since they’re warm and the air-conditioning has everyone huddled together. Across the aisle the young men, shouting with laughter as we pulled away from Yangon that afternoon, now drooped over each other in heaps like wilted stalks, knitted hats and jackets buttoned, sandals dangling from dusty feet.
Pothole sends shoulder into woman; she looks at me, shivers, then tosses her blanket over my bare legs. Gratitude ma’am, I think to her. Air-con’s got everyone miserable but no one wants to say to the driver who’s got his side window open, spitting red betel from his cheeks. Sides of all the buses are covered in dried streaks of it, like busted through flocks of lazy dragonflies. Still, thanks for this blanket. Some warmth I wrap close to skin, then pull knees to chest. Wool smelling like woodsmoke and sweet, clean like washed in a river, laid on hay to dry while millet boiled in a pot by burning teak logs. Wonder what fire it was kept by, feet that rested on, bodies it belonged to, what its eyes were and what that sugar is.
Thirteen hours north to Mandalay. Baz a seat ahead and across the aisle with mouth open, head lodged in the valley between seat and window, bare arms tucked inside t-shirt, knees to chest like Peruvian mummified with crumbling leather skin. Come to Burma for respite. Glad he had the idea in the first place, since both knew that nothing would change so long as we stayed where we were; that loss of perspective that creeps up inside flesh and techno thump on a beach like Haad Yao. Got to clear the system once in a while since everything gets so greasy in the glare of cosmic screens that bubble with tricks of the universe. Come to Asia for culture, freedom, mad times in exotic landscapes, not to weave past drunken Westerners liquored with cheap whiskey, picking fights with the Thais who’d sooner knife them then haggle diplomatically. So goddamned jaded about our presence here. Thousands shipped in and out of the islands, come to party, puke in the surf then off to more pristine climes. Always that hollering in English and those tinny speakers hung over bamboo-bars blaring radio songs from back home making the bikini girls squeal and the boys get vulgar. Glad we left; didn’t feel like Thailand at all but some tropical holding room for those not wild enough for true Asia. Glad that’s all finished. Now traveling with Baz on this bus with wood-back seats, paint-chipped and filthy with the rolls of tender human bodies comforting for sleep, sewing a giant thread up the chest of Burma.
Yawn like a woken child. Stare out the window onto flat fields and roadsides, wanting to jump off and walk in the crisp, smoky air, meet some wandering soldiers would share a fire with and yawn some more. Herd of ghostly cattle in silhouette with the moon, avenues of date palms on diminishing flooded paddies the white birds wade in catching rice trout, all vanishing into black mountain that grips the dipper.
Two seats in front, see the back of two foreigners’ heads, guy asleep on girlfriend’s shoulder. Saw them board in Yangon but wasn’t in the mood for chit-chat even though somehow this responsibility. You can look away from filthy cripples edging the Khao San or copper-haired women trawling babies through Delhi traffic, shoving them through the windows of your rickshaw, but never the gold-faced cleanliness of the backpacker. Never the white. But truth be told, another foreigner isn’t out to fuck you. Possible. But not likely. At least not any who would make the effort. Haad Yao was full of burly past-life convicts who’d pull a knife if you looked at them wrong. Those ones don’t venture far from the beach bars though, not into Burma anyways. The poorer the country, the friendlier traveler you’ll meet. Figure it has something to do with the comforts you give up and the type of person wanting to know how that tingles.
Seems girl can’t sleep either, watch her playing with ends of blond hair, staring out the window searching for red eyelid dawn. Man seated ahead of them slips orange slice into mouth, him too waiting for the burning forehead of sun, or even just the tinge of blue found only on cold dawns and icebergs. Must have smelt his thumbnail puncture the skin of that fruit. Close my eyes, tip chin to chest and hope to sleep through this deep freeze, waking under the towering ferns of Mandalay.
During the process of researching my book, I've come across some incredible images of child soldiers. There's both a haunting and surreal quality to them because they don't quite seem believable, yet the majority of countries hosting armed conflicts still deploy soldiers under the age of fifteen.
* no copyright infringements intended. I wish I could have linked to their host pages.
Writing geared at backpackers tends to fall into the category of either genre fiction , (Alex Garland's The Beach, Mark Mann's The Gringo Trail) or else travel writing of a more non-fiction persuasion. The goal here at Backpacker Fiction - and the goal with my new manuscript - is to somehow blend a narrative of adventure with the verisimilitude of non-fiction while employing the poetic and character-based language of literary fiction.
The thing I love most about documentaries is that you're pretty much guaranteed an interesting watch. What's more, it's likely to be an interesting watch about a subject that usually you'd never given a second thought towards. Werner Herzog's Encounters at the End of the World brings not only the continent of Antarctica to life, but weaves a layered and existential narrative cocoon around the type of life forms that find themselves on that desolate continent to begin with: humans included.
Due to the impending due-date of my thesis, I've had to stop posting mediocre travel anecdotes to focus on wrapping up this novel. Being so close to the end summons whole new clans of self-doubt, boredom and regret. Time for a good-ole "writing a book as a journey" metaphor. 
War-torn countries somehow always become future backpacking hotspots. Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos and now Iraq. This article on the front page of the International Herald Tribune signifies the perhaps premature advent of independent tourists to the country whose conflict has defined our generation. 
