Do you think people in the Arab world think the same way?
World isn’t angry with Americans, just our foreign policy
CONTINENTAL DRIFTER / ELLIOTT HESTER
[email protected]
Having just submitted the necessary paperwork for a travel visa to India, I am sitting inside a ramshackle office at the Indian Embassy in Jakarta, Indonesia, waiting to pay the $100 processing fee.
The Indian clerk sits behind a desk strewn with passports and visa applications. He examines my documents and then looks up sharply.
‘‘You’re an American,’’ he says.
Yes, I respond.
``And you want to visit India?‘’
Again, yes.
He studies my face as if trying to gauge a suitable level of sincerity. ‘‘Tell me,’’ he says in a voice so quiet it verges on a whisper. He leans close, taps his fingers against my documents, looks into my eyes.
``Why did your country go to war in Iraq?‘’
The question takes me by surprise.
It hangs in the air, heavy with guilt and innuendo. The tiny room suddenly becomes smaller, the air grows thicker. I struggle to find a response. Although the question may have been inappropriate, although I’m a traveler, not a politician, and my views on the war should not come into play while applying for a travel visa, it seems that passage to India may hinge on my answer . . . .
Back in October 2002, I departed the U.S. for a one-year around-the-world trip. Friends warned that this was not the time to take such a journey. I appreciated the concern, but was unwilling to change my plans. Besides, when is a good time to take such a trip?
At any given moment, one country or another is at war. Earthquakes, floods and other natural disasters plague our planet on an ongoing basis. Planes crash. Governments collapse. Terrorism rears its ugly head.
Despite it all, the world keeps spinning. Travelers keep traveling, though perhaps in lesser numbers.
`COCKY ATTITUDE’
But as the months flew by and the possibility of war became real, I noticed a slight difference in the way I was received. In Buenos Aires, Argentina, where my trip began, I met an Argentine couple at a milonga (tango dance). After learning I was American, they invited me into their home and introduced me to their family. They talked animatedly of visiting the States, when (and if) the Argentine economy ever straightens out.
While trekking through the Australian outback two months later, I entered into a heated debate with a Spanish traveler. When he discovered I was American, he told me he was sick of America’s ‘‘cocky attitude toward the rest of the world.’’ He said we were ‘‘colonialists.’’ I mentioned that next to England, Spain was perhaps better than any other nation when it came to colonialism. Then he uttered two words that ended the conversation: Hiroshima. Nagasaki.
In late February, while visiting Bandar Seri Begawan, Brunei, I shared lunch with a British expatriate. He was steadfast in his position against the war. But despite the fact that I agreed with him, that I think carpet-bombing a country is a questionable way to deal with a dictator who may or may not have bigger bombs, the expatriate shook his head.
‘‘You Yanks,’’ he said. ``You bloody Yanks.‘’
And then war broke out.
I was lying on a beach in Bali, Indonesia, when it happened. It was my birthday, March 19th. Lost in celebratory bliss, thanks to one of those world-renowned massage artists who roam Bali’s beaches, I had yet to hear the first news of battle. Scattered around me were perhaps 50 European tourists who lay baking in the hot island sun. A voice suddenly rose above the crashing surf. A French voice.
``The Americans, they did it!‘’
START OF WAR
I looked in the direction of the voice and saw two men staring into a newspaper. In an obvious display of disgust, one of the men smacked the paper with the back of his hand. The other stared expressionlessly. The war had begun.
The news traveled quickly, from beach chair to surfboard. People gathered in clusters by country – France, Italy, Germany, Indonesia – shaking heads, voicing displeasure in four languages. Suddenly, I realized I was the only American on the beach. Others must have noticed at precisely the same time, because a few heads turned my way. No one said anything, no one approached. But the fact that I was American and my country had led coalition forces into battle gave me something to think about.
At the same beach a few days later, I walked past a trio of Indonesian surfers. One of them looked at me and smiled. ‘‘Where you come from, my friend?’’ he asked.
``The United States.‘’
‘‘Ahhhh … bang, bang,’’ he said, pulling an imaginary trigger. ``War, no good.‘’
But the Indonesian didn’t blame me. As it turned out, neither did the Spaniard or the Briton. Like most of the people I’ve encountered since the war broke out, they are angry at American foreign policy, not Americans. The Indonesian lent me his surfboard. The Spaniard and I laughed together around an outback campfire. The Briton drove me from Brunei across the Malaysian border.
Then I found myself inside a ramshackle room at the Indian Embassy in Jakarta, facing a curious clerk. ``Why did your country go to war in Iraq?‘’
I wish I knew.
Next stop: Bangkok, Thailand
Contact award-winning travel writer Elliott Hester at [email protected]. To view photos and learn more about his global trip, check out www.eliotthester.com.