On a warm spring night in 2016, I found myself lost and alone in the small hours of morning in Kashgar. My welcome to the Xinjiang province of western China that night was not inhospitable, but my request of ‘near the hostel’ was lost in translation when I and four bleary-eyed others were herded into a taxi made for four people (including the driver) by a man who may or may not have worked for the prefecture’s tiny airport. I, the only Caucasian-descended taxi patron, was delivered last after a dizzying number of direction changes through darkened streets. We stopped in the middle lane, the taxi driver turned to the backseat and pointed to my left down an ancient unlit road flanked by dust-brown buildings that looked older than western civilization. Apparently, this was my stop.
It took me an hour of fruitless wandering across the old city in the dark to eventually stumble across a tiny convenience store. Manning the shop was a stout older gentleman clad in a white tunic and sirwal who took a look at my map and kindly escorted me to an unmarked gate some distance through the desert-coated streets. He confidently knocked on the gate, gestured to me as a butler might when welcoming guests, and walked back into the night. He soon disappeared around the corner and I stood, still lost and alone, in front of a gate.
In Lyrical and Critical Essays, Albert Camus wrote that “what gives value to travel is fear. It breaks down a kind of inner structure we have. One can no longer cheat—hide behind the hours spent at the office… which protect us so well from the pain of being alone… Far from our own people, our own language, stripped of all our props, deprived of our masks, we are completely on the surface of ourselves.” Travel strips us of the layers of habit and custom that streamline our daily world. Upon arrival to a new place, we must learn everything again from the ground up. We cannot read the signs, we cannot ask basic questions; we are laid bare and must begin anew if we wish to accomplish whatever goals led us away from the familiar and into the unknown.
Travel is the bluntest and most effective way to immerse oneself in the unknown. When we enter foreign places and leave our transportation behind, the option of not interacting with the unfamiliar evaporates. To cover our basic needs, we must enter situations we are ill-equipped to handle. Doing something simple, like getting food, is a hurdle that needs deconstructing to its core concepts. How do I order food from this place? Who do I ask? How do I ask? How do I pay? How much is it? Do I eat it here? If not here, where? What kind of food even is this, anyway?
As philosophers, we tend to be quite proficient at deconstructing concepts to their core elements. We are also very familiar with how difficult it is to be correct and the many pitfalls that dot our perceptions and reasoning. These skills and experiences are indispensable while traveling. I am unafraid to have my assumptions proven wrong. It does not bother me if my solution does not work. It is not a problem if everything must be reevaluated in light of a new perspective. I am a philosopher; I am very comfortable with being unsure about stuff.
Despite what Camus claims, I do cheat when I travel. I cheat by always bringing something familiar with me, something that provides me immense comfort in stressful situations and guides me when I need it most: philosophy. The conceptual toolbox sharpened and honed as a student, teacher, and practitioner of philosophy keeps me company in the unknown. It is my lighthouse, whether I am down the street or across the planet; it is my guide to safe harbor.
I stood outside of that unremarkable gate in Kashgar feeling remarkably unsure about my situation. In Camus’s words, I was very much on the surface of myself. In that quiet moment, a bit of fear began to dig into my being. The fear wasn’t of being harmed or befalling some kind of misfortune, it was simply a fear of the unknown. I did not know if the gate opened to my hostel. I did not know what to do if it remained closed.
In the darkness, all alone, I cheated and my brain reached for those familiar, comforting philosophical tools I always carry with me. I thought of Camus and the absurd reality that my entire life led me to a gate on the opposite side of the world and I had nothing to do but wait outside of it. I took a few steps back, deeply inhaled the crisp desert air, and laughed a little to myself. There was nowhere else I wanted to be.
