I got thinking about one of our age's main obsessions the other day: The obsession of identity.
Genocide. The word is loaded with portent, carries tremendous emotional weight, and, the way it is bandied about now, has become almost meaningless.
Traveling well requires a shift in perspective. It's necessary to look at our surroundings differently, instead of viewing everything through the fatally flawed lens of "It's Not Like This at Home."
Selling out, man. It's like, the worst, you know?
Travel. It's one of those things in life that many of us think we know how to do, well, just because. Like speaking to our wives or understanding when to shut up (two deeply interrelated subjects).
This is a story about a dirty, lying little man named Carl Beech. It's also about a lot of people who were conned by him into not doing their jobs properly. It's about innocent men whose lives were ruined by complete bullshit. And it's about a country that threw out it's most cherished values in order to seem more "sensitive."