Choose Your Own Adventure
Review of The Wandering by Intan Paramaditha (USA: Harvill Secker, 2020), translated by Stephen J. Epstein
By Sarah Jane Lee
Not all who wander are lost. In her debut novel The Wandering, Intan Paramaditha brings readers across multiple worlds, timelines, and dimensions that span modern-day New York, ancient folk tales, and even outer space. A cultural nomad herself, having been born in Jakarta, studied in California, and now living in Australia, Paramaditha blends timeless classics such as The Wizard of Oz with the mythology of her youth to present a culturally complex examination of travel and liberty. Its meta-playfulness leaves readers pondering about the nature of narrative freedom, even as they decide the protagonist’s actions and fate.
Choose-your-own-adventure or secret-path novels are a genre of children’s literature that gained popularity in the 1980s and 1990s. In this genre, stories are written in second-person perspective, and readers assume the protagonist’s role to determine how the plot unfolds. The Wandering obeys these conventions. Beginning with “Prologue: Demon Lover,” Paramaditha sketches a passionate but fleeting love affair between the protagonist and a demon. When asked what she would like, the protagonist asks for the ability to travel and is bequeathed a magical pair of red shoes that comes from, it is hinted, the Wicked Witch from The Wizard of Oz. Although the shoes’ fairy tale origins are whimsical, and the affair itself couched in pet names and wry humor, the narrative makes it clear that the protagonist’s wish to travel is Faustian in nature. Demon Lover warns that although the shoes will enable you to travel, they will also make “wandering […] your eternal lot.” As he warns the protagonist:
If you want to go home you’ll lose everything. Your home will not be what it was. There will no longer be a place for you here. Regrettably, there will be no place for you there either.
Although travel is often imagined as a form of freedom, Demon Lover’s warning suggests that travel itself is a type of incarceration. If one is permanently in a state of travel, places and people will become transient, bearing little to no significance. The protagonist is thus confronted with the decision to remain content with the status quo, or spend an eternity wandering the earth. For Paramaditha, this choice is one rooted in gender politics. In an interview with Options about the book, Paramaditha declares herself a “disobedient woman,” saying that “Disobedience is needed to move things forward.” Rather than warning women against rocking the boat, Paramaditha’s narrative begins with an act of rebellion. The gift of travel must be accepted in order for the narrative to proceed.
Imagery and description play a vital role in The Wandering. European cities such as Berlin and Amsterdam are presented as exotic, captivating landscapes compared to the initial representation of Jakarta. Because of their allure, readers may initially think of these Western worlds as bewitching and surreal. Furthermore, it is in these locations that the story of Snow Red, an alternative account of Snow White, unfolds. Presented as a folk tale, Snow Red bewitches those she meets with a kiss, dooming them to follow her for eternity. Her ominous presence is intensified by the landscapes in which she appears: with an “endless blanket of heavy snow… houses and withered trees… her long scarlet dress trailing over the ice.” This commingling of vast, unknown territories with folktales amplifies the novel’s notion that the charms of travel and adventure are both alluring and dangerous.
As a writer with an Indonesian background, Paramaditha blends Western references like The Wizard of Oz and Snow White with indigenous folk tales like Malin Kundang that offer another perspective on the nature of travel. Born into poverty, Malin Kundang sails off with a rich merchant only to return years later after amassing his wealth, marrying a princess, and acquiring his own crew. He refuses to recognize his impoverished mother, who in return curses him to become stone for his unfilial ways. Of course, the narrator of The Wandering notes, “that’s the usual version of the story.” Compared to the classic The Wizard of Oz, Paramaditha’s adaptation of the Indonesian folk tale offers readers a more pessimistic perspective on travel, weaving in details that imply that Malin Kundang was culpable in his own demise:
Every encounter served as a bridge leading elsewhere, and Malin Kundang was addicted to making his way across the other side […] Every adventure demands betrayal.
You see? How difficult it is to speak of roots, of soil, and of oaths when your ancestors were sailors.
Haul up the anchor! Choose your own betrayal!
If the red shoes of the novel offers a Faustian bargain, Paramaditha’s Malin Kundang suggests that travelling will lead to betrayal, denial, and even rejection of one’s roots for the purpose of fulfilling “the most ancient human desire” of self-discovery. It is left to readers to decide if the choosing of adventure at the cost of losing one’s original self is worth making.
Written in second person, The Wandering is a novel that actively interacts with its readers. Though the protagonist is described as hailing from Jakarta and growing up with a “common family that [lives] like the majority of common folk,” the use of the personal pronoun ‘you’ allows readers from various walks of life to seamlessly inject themselves into the narrative without squeezing into a specific character archetype. By blurring the lines between protagonist and reader, Paramaditha compels the reader to empathize with the protagonist’s various dilemmas, sometimes in a disquieting manner. In one eerie ending of the story between Lila and Maya, two elusive characters from the chapter “The Rumpelstiltskin Game” that questions the notions of identity, the narrator of the book addresses the protagonist and thus the reader. “And who are you: Lila, or Maya? […] Who is gazing in the mirror now?” This maddeningly hypnotic story of morphing identities ends on an inconclusive note. It may not matter who Lila and Maya exactly are; what remains of this mystery is the lingering sense of the unknown. Paramaditha’s omniscient narrator thus eschews a purely passive role, and is instead delightfully aggressive, sassy, and occasionally pensive in their observations. They play an active role in influencing the reader, interjecting in both the most timely and abrupt scenarios to persuade readers to reconsider or even turn away from certain choices:
On planes, we rarely escape a travelling companion who entraps us with tales. You have no choice but to continue on to the next page.
You story is coming to an end now. To learn your final fate, turn to page 414.
If you don’t want to know the fate of the red shoes, well, who gives a damn? Turn to the next page.
If you want a final adventure that might only create a spectacular mess, turn to page 405.
Informal and judgemental, the narrative voice engages the reader in reflections and questions that have to be weighed before proceeding to the next page. More interestingly, the narrator highlights the pervasive power dynamic between author and reader. Though the reader has latitude to retrace their steps, their freedom is ultimately circumscribed within the pathing set by Paramaditha herself. This elevation of the choose-your-own-adventure format invites thoughtful questions about the nature of storytelling: what creates a satisfying narrative? When does a reader put down a book and walk away?
The Wandering has more than ten different endings to the protagonist’s adventure, which are definitively marked out by the word ‘FINIS.’ These endings appear in seemingly random segments of the novel in no particular order, emphasizing the lack of control the reader has on the progression of the plot in spite of the choices they are offered. There are both endings that align with typical narrative tropes, such as ‘happily ever after’ and ‘the future adventures await,’ as well as outright horrifying and disturbing endings (think Ari Aster or Darren Aronofsky films). Among the latter are a few unexpected endings that highlight the circularity and strangeness of an individual’s life. In one such ending, the protagonist’s journey does not actually end, and readers are instead returned to the beginning of the novel (“If you have the courage, put on your red shoes and return to page 9, the beginning of your adventure.”), as if to present them with one more chance to relive their lives and rechoose their path. The statement “If you have the courage” almost seems like a taunt meant to goad the reader into starting over again, and thinking twice about how they wish to proceed this time round.
Another ending presents readers with the opportunity to determine their own fate:
Parentheses play a significant role in the novel as they not only reveal the narrator’s stream of consciousness, but also materialises the tension between identity and adventure. There is a certain dramatic irony in hearing Paramaditha’s voice, challenging her readers to be the author of their own stories after leading them around on what is essentially a wild goose chase. With only the word ‘FINIS’ as a textual marker, the finality of the reader’s adventures is left in their hands. By hinting to the reader that their story could be never-ending, readers are made aware of the conflicting, romanticized ideals about international adventure and self-discovery. They can choose to continue wandering the Borges-like maze of narrative paths within The Wandering, thereby fulfilling Demon Lover’s prophecy that the protagonist will continue circling the earth eternally, or accept the inconclusive ending in front of them.
Intan Paramaditha’s The Wandering is certainly a refreshing twist to the travel novel. Not only is her writing stylish, she also encourages readers to take charge of their own “red-shoes adventure.” She does not let them rest easy and rely on a distant narrator to do the work for them. Rather, she keeps them on their toes amidst the twists and turns of each storyline. When it comes down to it, the novel encourages us to make peace with ambiguity. Regardless of whether there is an answer to the question of where one’s home truly lies, The Wandering brings us thrills, satisfactions, and sometimes even disappointment, when we think we find what we have been looking for.
Sarah Jane Lee is a final-year student studying English Literature at Nanyang Technological University. Whether it is through critically analysing the fragmented self, or pondering on the Camusian absurdity of the human condition, Sarah believes that Literature constantly seeks to answer the question of what makes us human. When not indulging herself in Haruki Murakami’s 1Q84 or P.C. Jersild’s A Living Soul, you can find her at the Muay Thai gym, kicking her stress away.
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