Week Two: Mapping Territories, Part 2

I wouldn't know where to begin when it comes to formally mapping a territory. Of course, it doesn't help that I don't have background in geography, cartography, or anthropology, but the scope of such a project must be enormous. Travel planning includes figuring out what you’ll see, where you’ll go, and how you’ll get there, and if one is being scientific about it, there are (theoretically) procedures to follow in order in order to impartially study a people, history, culture – whatever it is that one’s task is. In my previous blog entry, I focused on how I map my travels, but in a larger sense, mapping new landscapes, countries, continents, and people is part of the history of travel writing, and in many cases, it was part of the colonial mindset that would help travelers figure out how to define what they saw in terms they, their sponsors, and their readers could understand based on a limited understanding of cultural pluralism and cultural relativism.

In a 1991 talk, Pratt introduces the concept of contact zones, which, as she explains, “refer to social spaces where cultures meet, clash, and grapple with each other, often in contexts of highly asymmetrical relations of power, such as colonialism, slavery, or their aftermaths as they are lived out in many parts of the world today” (34). There’s an inherent imbalance here: The travelers who came from far-off lands had the opportunity to describe a foreign people with whom they may not have been able to effectively or clearly communicate, and who therefore might not have been able to describe language, customs, food, religion, etc. the contact zone was highly politicized and unbalanced in terms of power. Historically speaking, the sociocultural complexities of the native people would have been outside the grasp of an imperial culture. Native and indigenous cultures were maligned and misunderstood, however unintentionally (and intention has a lot to do with it, although motivation does not necessarily justify the imperialists).

There is more than one way to “map” when it comes to travel writing. Mapping the interior or the body is one way; mapping continents is done on a larger scale, but all this means is that cultures are visually depicted. Blanton notes that one difficulty is mapping faithful representations of foreign maps were done in familiar terms (1). Mapping is, of course, another form of narrative, and purposes of travel affect any such narratives – whether travel is done for exploratory purposes, for development, for economics, or, at the other end of the spectrum, for including social and psychological issues (Blanton 3, 4). Divergent purposes lead to different narrative structures. In other words, audience and motivation affects purpose of travel and travel writing, which affects narrative style.

The issue at hand, relating to Pratt’s contact zones, is how to effectively analyze a culture to which we do not belong: Travelers’ motivations affect their ability to understand a different culture. Given travelers’ varying degrees of insider/outsider status and depth of knowledge of a culture, interpreting any given aspect can become especially complicated. Leibsohn recounts the complexities in analyzing a historic artifact (the Codex Mendoza, below): taking into consideration initial observations, contextualizing placement of an object or person, and finding sources for examining the ways a single work of art may have meaning, because, as she says, “[I]t’s important to realize that there’s no such thing as a single meaning for any particular object, any work of art, that there are always competing ones.” Considering the larger historical context and knowing which questions to ask are also important facets, and having this background could allow one to map a culture in terms of societal (mis)understanding.

a map from the Codex Mendoza (c. 1543),
that represents the founding of Tenochtitlan,
the large imperial capital of the Aztecs

Week Two: Mapping Territories, Part 1

I love old, historical maps. Before my husband and I went to Iceland last summer, I found a print of a map created by Abraham Ortelius, a 16th Century Flemish geographer and cartographer. (Ortelius is credited with creating the first true atlas.) I bought it and had it framed, although - of course - I also found a copy in Iceland that I transported home. I personally like the sea creatures and monsters included around the edges. I suppose if anyone was likely to control the sea monsters, it would be the Vikings.

Ortelius' map of Iceland, c. 1590

One of the reasons I like old maps so much is because I like seeing how spaces have changed; how the map is drawn and positioned, what is included, shows me how countries and their people are interpreted. (Why Ireland is depicted as sideways is curious. I can attest that many Irish people are sideways - although perhaps that just includes my relatives - but it's an oddity nevertheless.) I've been to Ireland more than any other European country, and I've driven around many places throughout the country, so I like trying to see how familiar places have been identified.

Ireland (Hibernia)
from Ortelius' 1592 Latin edition of the Theatrum oris terrarum

With more recent European travels though - Ireland aside - I like to plan my trips, with the understanding that plans might change, that places I'd wanted to visit and see might not happen, or I might see something else to see that I hadn't planned on. 

Much of my own mapping experiences are based on both historically and contemporarily important sites, as well as being based on geography. I map out what I want to see and how I'm going to get there, and the geography affects how I get there. Depending on how long I'm going to be visiting a place, for example, and how much of the area I'd like to see will affect if I rent a car (as I did in Iceland), or if I make use of public transportation (as I've done in Stockholm, Helsinki, and Dublin). 

My most recent trip was the 19-day trip my husband and I took to Iceland, and for more than half that time we drove around the exterior of the country. We could have taken buses; we could have backpacked or rented bicycles. The former had no bathrooms; we're not interested in backpacking or bicycling. Driving was the most practical option because it gave us the freedom to stop to explore, to eat, and to admire the sheep that decided to run in front of us one morning (we wondered if the rental car company offered sheep insurance). Driving also allowed us to explore historical and natural sites - like þingvellir National Park, or a whale watching tour - that we might not have seen otherwise, had we stayed on a tour bus, and it gave us the freedom to stay as long or as little as we liked. This meant, though, that our mapping included walking and a boat - places that were inaccessible to cars.

Many of our mapping experiences - because  my husband is the person with whom I travel most - are also based on restaurants and museums. For our last week or so in Iceland, we stayed in Reykjavik, a small enough city in which we didn't do much driving. We rented a small room close to an area that was close to the waterfront, shops, restaurants, and museums, so we were able to walk.

We were able to walk to the Sun Voyager.

Our mapping neither especially includes or excludes people or political systems - although, again, if there is an aspect that is historically relevant, we would do our best to see it. My husband and I both have special interests in history (in case you might not have been able to tell), but our politics are not exactly in alignment, so it's not an aspect of travel we go out of our way to see. We did, however, make an exception to see Alþingi - the Parliament House in Reykjavik - where one can view meetings from the public gallery. This was really cool to see, although we had no clue what was being said.