Lots of people want to buy a good guidebook. Not an existential, cultural, moral, political or philosophical compendium. A travel guide. But it’s increasingly difficult to find good ones. So much so that, today, travel writing is turning into a series of stereotypes, banalities and the vain aspirations of self-styled travellers. The best guidebook is increasingly turning out to be an escapist novel: a thriller, a crime or action story involving lots of sex and intrigue.
This is the case with the novels of John Burdett, the British former lawyer who divides his time between the Côte d'Azur and Thailand. His detective stories (where the mixed-race detective is torn between the mystical drive of an ex-monk and the carnal desires of a bordello patron) are the perfect guide to Bangkok and the wider Asia area.
Another recent example is the first novel by Ron McMillan, a Scottish journalist based in Bangkok with extensive experience of Korea and China. His first effort is entitled Yin Yang Tattoo and leads its reader on a discovery of Seoul and the rest of Korea.

“It’s not great literature”, said Ron in a recent interview. It’s escapist fiction, which offers a psychological escape from everyday problems, immersing the reader in an exotic, adventurous and erotic dimension far-removed from the mundane reality of existence.
The term escapist (whether associated with a novel, film or other artistic expression) is often used as a derogatory term, as opposed to more high-brow forms of expression. It indicates something politically incorrect.
But there are other areas in which escape has held on to a deeper, more complex meaning. It can express a sense of rebellion, abandon, transgression, desperation and vitality. A search for meaning in life. In this way, escape gives value and meaning to the forms in which it is expressed.
The perfect example of this is Easy Rider, the Dennis Hopper film that came to symbolise an age and a generation.

The escape trilogy by director Gabriele Salvatores (Marrakech Express, Turné, Puerto Escondido) was no less influential. The last of the three was adapted from the homonymous novel by Pino Cacucci, known for his protagonists prone to escape.
In this sense, escapist guidebooks are often books about escape itself. Especially because they have been written by expatriates, people who stay where nothing is familiar, where the light is surreal, the smells come from unknown spices and the sounds are alien. These self-exiles immerse themselves in a far-off place that reflects a reverse image of themselves. In Asia this feeling of escape is stronger than elsewhere. Outsiders have to deal with a complex mix of survival, adapt to traditions that are as ancient as they are outlandish, the language barrier, murky bureaucracy, corruption and adventure. It’s easy to get lost in this maze, giving in to self-indulgence and absolving oneself from one’s sins by committing others. Perhaps that’s what enables good guidebooks to be written. The problem lies in then wanting to go beyond, and starting to think about Conrad. But that’s another story. Another escape route.