Customer Reviews

Hitching Rides with Buddha

5 star:		(0)
4 star:		(0)
3 star:		(0)
2 star:		(1)
1 star:		(0)

 

 

When I began reading Hitching Rides with Buddha (originally published under the more suitable title Hokkaido Highway Blues), I was immediately impressed with Ferguson's easy wit, encyclopedic knowledge, and string of ready metaphors. Here was an ardent young writer with real talent, a flare for the polished phrase, and a carefree sense of humor. Or so I thought. It did not take long, I'm afraid, before I found myself re-assessing him and his book.

From a technical standpoint, Ferguson is a highly proficient writer. In places, his prose is inspired, and I find myself caught up in its beauty and charm. But, all too often, I find myself shaking my head at his arrogance, lack of sensitivity, and tasteless quips. There is no doubt that he has experienced a side of Japan that many ex-pats do not see, and he takes the road less traveled whenever and wherever he can. However, his adventures are too serendipitous, too carefully crafted, that they stretch credibility, and I find myself wondering whether I am reading fact or fiction. One reviewer used the term "hitchhiking novel", and I think this astutely covers what I mean. It is a book full of every conceivable urban legend, stereotype, and cliché concerning the gaijin experience in Japan, and amazingly, it has all happened to a single person during a single romp across the country.

Ferguson lived in Japan, by his own account, for about five years, so it is entirely possible that such an amalgamated wealth of experiences could accrue. But it's as if he had assembled every event, every encounter, every book he'd read, and tried to figure out a way to string it all together. The result is a garish and overburdened charm bracelet that sags under its own weight.

Many of the experiences related in this book are overshadowed by a continual attempt to be clever or funny, which is inevitable, I suppose, if you set yourself up to be a comedian. Perhaps, then, it is Ferguson's choice of genre - the travelogue - that is at fault? Travel can be, and often is, full of the mirth of human kindness, and it is often the people rather than the places that remain embedded in the memory. But, here, too, I find myself repulsed by the derisive or insensitive portraits of people who went out of their way to help a complete stranger. Ferguson paints in broad generalities, with a brush oozing with smug sarcasm. Japanese characters are illogical, drunk, naive, perverted, even stupid. In short, they rarely rise above caricatures.

Simultaneously, Ferguson laments his status as an outsider, a man always on the periphery of Japanese society. There is a certain responsibility that comes with writing about travel, and it hinges on creating bridges of understanding between cultures, not perpetuating - or worse, exploiting - existing clichés and stereotypes. It's as if Ferguson sat down to write a travel journal and ended up with a comic novel. No small accomplishment in its own right, but call a spade a spade.

It is a shame that such a prodigious writing talent has been squandered on lackluster satire. Ferguson has terrific insight in places, and his descriptions of places, festivals and scenery are first rate. But such moments of clarity and precision are marred by an urge to play the class clown, by a sort of undergraduate flippancy. To paraphrase what he says of Japan: I have a real love/hate relationship with his book; I want to read/trash it, for it comes so near/far of the mark.

I find it sad that someone who professes to love Japan and to know so much about it, can devote so much time and energy to highlighting its foibles, running down its culture and scurrilously satirizing its people. Ferguson remains at the center of the experience at all times, sure of his sources of information (guide books and barroom chatter?), and absolutely certain of his own superior intellect. This is at odds, of course, with the role of travel writer, which asks only that one be self-effacing, modest, observant, embracing and, finally, understanding.

I want to finish by plugging two obscure travel accounts of Japan by New Zealander Craig McLachlan that deserve greater recognition: Tales of a Summer Henro, which covers his walking pilgrimage on Shikoku (1200 km); and Four Pairs of Boots, which chronicles his walk from one end of Japan to the other (3200 km). The prose may not be as eloquent as Ferguson's, but the sincerity, love and sensitivity for Japan is evident on every page. And furthermore, MacLachlan's accounts are rigidly grounded on reality.