Rumaizah Abu Bakar | A Call to Travel: Muslim Odysseys | 2014 | Kuala Lumpur: Silverfish Books

At the beginning of this book is a wonderful poem by Al-Imam ash-Shafiee (767-820 CE). The version below is taken from Susan Whitfield, Life Along the Silk Road (2nd edition), 2015, Oakland: University of California Press, p. 126, but another version, along with the original text, can be found here.

There is no rest for the one of intellect and refinement in his locality, so leave your homeland.
Travel, and you will find a replacement for that which you left, and exhaust yourself, for therein is the sweetness of life.
Verily I saw water become putrid in its stagnation, and become sweet when it flows.
And the lions would not be fierce if they didn't leave their grounds, and the arrow would not strike if it didn't leave the bow.
And if the sun stayed in its place in the universe, people would have grown tired of it,
And if the moon did not disappear every now and then, the anticipating eye would never spare it a glance.
And raw gold is as good as the dust that covers it, and the staff covered in dust is mere firewood.
In leaving your destiny will change, and in emigration you will become precious, like gold.
And Allah knows.

Fantastic or what? How can anyone resist reading a book with an opening like that...

Rumaizah's book describes her travels to Turkey, Saudi Arabia, and Indonesia.

It is endorsed by several people who know what they're talking about. But despite the inherent interest of the section on her pilgrimages, I found myself just a tad disappointed by the book overall.

Daphne Lee's review reflects my impressions quite accurately:

"I could have done with less of haggling over taxi prices and detailed accounts of getting lost in Turkey or elsewhere, and more of Rumaizah examining the differences in Islamic practices and her responses to these differences."





Also in line with Lee, however, I admire the way the author doesn't shy away from acknowledging the inevitable frustrations of travel: "[W]hen she encounters difficult people or situations, Rumaizah doesnt mince her words, and is totally honest even if it means showing a less than accommodating side of herself."

Perhaps she overdoes the description of the day-to-day travails of travel, but at least she doesn't give a candy-box impression of her journeys.

When I blog about our travels, I always wonder whether I have the balance right. I certainly don't pretend everything always goes well. I'm honest about the times when journeys don't go to plan, or cause disproportionate aggro.

But I don't particularly document the discouraging travel days -- the days when suddenly you get charged the "foreigner price", whereas up to then you've been paying what everyone else pays; the days when, as if by magic, communication attempts that others have previously managed to understand become incomprehensible; the days when everything seems opaque and difficult.

The main reason I don't document them is that they are totally outweighed, in the great scheme of things, by what goes right. The vast majority of people do not overcharge us, and go to great lengths to understand us. Most of the time, most of the stuff we do works. So I don't want to blow out of proportion relatively unimportant contretemps. I certainly don't want to follow the "martyrdom" school of travel writing that sets out to glorify the intrepid author by showcasing his/her suffering heroism in the face of huge odds.

But maybe I overdo my elision.

As travellers, you're often a little vulnerable. You often feel a bit silly, or a bit uncomfortable. But then, as travellers, you know next to nothing, and it's actually good to be reminded of that. The discouraging days keep you humble (and also act as tiny reminders of the very genuine pain that real, active hostility causes much more vulnerable migrants).

So perhaps, inspired by Rumaizah, I ought to rethink my balance, portraying more openly that only through (a certain amount of relatively minor) strife can the glorious prize of travel that the Imam describes be actually realized.