1) "Ghost Train to the Eastern Star" by Paul Theroux
Travel writer and novelist Theroux (The Elephanta Suite, 2007, etc.) offers an elegiac retracing of roads and railroads taken across the vastness of Eurasia.
Rejoining his 1975 travelogue The Great Railway Bazaar, Theroux takes to the chemin de fer from London to Kyoto four decades older and, it seems, more inclined to the better things in life (“a woman in a blue uniform brought me a bottle of Les Jamelles Chardonnay Vin de Pays d’Oc 2004 . . . and then the lunch tray: terrine de poulet et de broccolis, chutney de tomates, the entrée a fillet of lightly peppered salmon, with coup de chocolat for dessert”). He is a touch rueful and more than a touch reflective, viewing his metaphorically mirrored self in the sleeping-compartment window and thinking of marriages, friendships and youth lost. The meditative aspect soon yields to Theroux’s testy, Kiplingesque impatience with the cultures east of Folkestone, to his allergy to the “Asiatic ambiguity” that lies before him. He is willing to debate such things with the people he meets, unafraid to argue the relative merits of Western civilization vis-à-vis Islam, to name just one topic of conversation. As with his previous books, Theroux is unafraid of roughing it in the interest of getting a story, and some of his new memoir’s best moments find him stealing across snowy, remote borders, “like a specter, in a strange country at nightfall,” only to have his strength and compass restored by a delicious bottle of wine or morsel. Theroux wanders to places that scarcely cross most other travel writers’ minds, among them Vientiane (“a sleepy town on the banks of the muddy river, famous for its cheap beer”) and Phnom Penh (“scruffy, rather beaten-up…like a scarred human face in which its violent past was evident”). He also keeps up a running argument with the books he reads along the way, to say nothing of his contemporaries (Chatwin never traveled alone, he harrumphs, and neither does bête noire Naipaul).
Fans of Theroux will say that he hasn’t lost his touch; the more critical will say that he breaks no new ground. Either way, worth looking into.
2) "The Lost City of Z: A Tale of Deadly Obsession in the Amazon" by David Grann
A stirring tale of lost civilizations, avarice, madness and everything else that makes exploration so much fun.
As New Yorker staff writer and debut author Grann notes, the British explorer Percy Fawcett’s exploits in jungles and atop mountains inspired novels such as Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Lost World, and his character is the tutelary spirit of the Indiana Jones franchise. Fawcett in turn was nurtured by his associations with fabulists such as Doyle and H. Rider Haggard, whose talisman he bore into the Amazonian rainforest. Working from a buried treasure in the form of long-lost diaries, Grann reconstructs the 1925 voyage Fawcett undertook with his 21-year-old son to find the supposed Lost City of Z, which, by all accounts, may have been El Dorado, the fabled place of untold amounts of Inca gold. Many a conquistador had died looking for the place, though in their wake, “after a toll of death and suffering worthy of Joseph Conrad, most archaeologists had concluded that El Dorado was no more than a delusion.” Fawcett was not among them, nor was his rival, a rich American doctor named Alexander Hamilton Rice, who was hot on the trail. Fawcett determined that a small expedition would be more likely to survive than a large one. Perhaps so, but the expedition notes record a hell of humid swamps and “flesh and carrion-eating bees [and] gnats in clouds…rendering one’s food unpalatable by filling it with their filthy bodies, their bellies red and disgustingly distended with one’s own blood.” It would get worse, we imagine, before Fawcett and his party disappeared, never to be seen again. Though, as Grann writes, they were ironically close to the object of their quest.
A colorful tale of true adventure, marked by satisfyingly unexpected twists, turns and plenty of dark portents.
3) "Three Cups of Tea" by Greg Mortenson
An unlikely diplomat scores points for America in a corner of the world hostile to all things American—and not without reason.
Mortenson first came to Pakistan to climb K2, the world’s second-tallest peak, seeking to honor his deceased sister by leaving a necklace of hers atop the summit. The attempt failed, and Mortenson, emaciated and exhausted, was taken in by villagers below and nursed back to health. He vowed to build a school in exchange for their kindness, a goal that would come to seem as insurmountable as the mountain, thanks to corrupt officials and hostility on the part of some locals. Yet, writes Parademagazine contributor Relin, Mortenson had reserves of stubbornness, patience and charm, and, nearly penniless himself, was able to piece together dollars enough to do the job; remarks one donor after writing a hefty check, “You know, some of my ex-wives could spend more than that in a weekend,” adding the proviso that Mortenson build the school as quickly as possible, since said donor wasn’t getting any younger. Just as he had caught the mountaineering bug, Mortenson discovered that he had a knack for building schools and making friends in the glacial heights of Karakoram and the remote deserts of Waziristan; under the auspices of the Central Asia Institute, he has built some 55 schools in places whose leaders had long memories of unfulfilled American promises of such help in exchange for their services during the war against Russia in Afghanistan. Comments Mortenson to Relin, who is a clear and enthusiastic champion of his subject, “We had no problem flying in bags of cash to pay the warlords to fight against the Taliban. I wondered why we couldn’t do the same thing to build roads, and sewers, and schools.”
Answering by delivering what his country will not, Mortenson is “fighting the war on terror the way I think it should be conducted,” Relin writes. This inspiring, adventure-filled book makes that case admirably.
4) "A Year in the World" by Frances Mayes
A collection of tales about searching the globe for inspiration, only to find fulfillment on the return home.
Seemingly inspired by Martin Buber (“All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveller is unaware”), Mayes (Swan, 2002, etc.) finds comfort in the world as a visitor, not a permanent resident. In previous work, Mayes has described her adopted provenance of Tuscany with insight and allure. Here, her location has changed, but her writing remains in familiar territory. Divided into chapters that each represent a separate adventure, the book is at its best when its author describes the people she encounters along the way, like Rachid, the faithful tour guide in Fez who possesses an unusual enthusiasm for Joseph Conrad, and Guven, the rug dealer in Istanbul who speaks eight languages and sends notes woven in miniature looms. Literate and seductive, Mayes’s anecdotes are immersed in the culture of each destination. Whether it’s listening to soul-filled fadoin Portugal, sailing in a traditional Turkish gulet along the Lycian Coast or participating in a Greek baptism in Mani, her observations get to the essence of place. The travelogue falters a bit when Mayes details her visits to museums and ruins; these guidebook staples can grow tiresome and require a degree of patience. Food is a constant topic throughout the book: tortilla de verdura in Madrid, steaming churros in Sevilla, tajines in Morocco and Sally Lunn bread in the Cotswolds. Shelter causes concern because Mayes and her companion, Ed, suffer from a common affliction: They have high expectations. They crave intimacy with their environment; large, impersonal chain hotels are out of the question. Getting the nod is an old stone charmer in the south of France and a well-outfitted row house in Lisbon. A noisy rental in the English countryside, meanwhile, proves unacceptable.
This is Mayes in top form.
5) "Getting Stoned with Savages: A Trip through the Islands of Fiji and Vanuatu" by J. Maarten Troost
Troost returns to the South Pacific, where he had spent a couple years on Kiribati (The Sex Lives of Cannibals, 2004), when the sensory overload of life in Washington, D.C., gave way to a gilded weariness.
His life as a well-paid drone for the World Bank got to Troost. He yearned for his days on Kiribati, at their wonder and mystery, of water so blue it made him gasp. Forget the human feces on the beach, ringworm and dengue fever, the unrelieved diet of rice and rotten fish and the dreadful time the beer delivery went to the wrong island. Living on a South Pacific island could be grim, horrifying and revolting, Troost writes, but never less than interesting. So off he goes with his wife to Vanuatu, where the earth is alive and well and reminds you of it everyday, whether through volcanic eruptions or earthquakes. Troost works hard to find all that is fine and weird on the former British-French land mass. There will be coconut shells filled with kava—the local recreational intoxicant wrung from a masticated spitball of pepper bush root; discussion of the impulse behind cannibalism (“while I may not have completely understood what holy communion was all about, Catholicism did allow me to see the nuances in cannibalism”); and considerations of the spectacular governmental corruption of the island. Troost, who also briefly nests in Fiji, is a travel writer who delivers the gratifying, old-school goods: curious cultural practices; encounters with venomous, nay murderous, creatures; perspective on recent history, with all the chaos wrought by European interlopers.
Troost is now washed up in landlocked Sacramento, but this “unapologetic escapist” should soon be on the move.
6) "Dark Star Safari: Overland from Cairo to Cape Town" by Paul Theroux
America’s master traveler (Fresh Air Fiend, 2000, etc.) takes us along on his wanderings in tumultuous bazaars, crowded railway stations, desert oases, and the occasional nicely appointed hotel lobby.
“All news of out Africa is bad,” Theroux gamely begins. “It made me want to go there.” Forty years after making his start as a writer while serving as a Peace Corps volunteer in Malawi, he returns for a journey from Cairo to Cape Town along “what was now the longest road in Africa, some of it purely theoretical.” More reflective and less complaining than some of his other big-tour narratives (e.g., The Happy Isles of Oceania, 1992), Theroux’s account finds him in the company of Islamic fundamentalists and dissidents, sub-Saharan rebels and would-be neocolonialists, bin Ladenites, and intransigent white landholders, almost all of them angry at America for one reason or another. The author shares their anger at many points. Of the pharmaceutical plant outside Khartoum that was flattened by a cruise missile on Bill Clinton’s orders a few years back, he remarks, “Though we become hysterical at the thought that someone might bomb us, bombs that we explode elsewhere, in little countries far away, are just theater, of small consequence, another public performance of our White House, the event factory.” Such sentiments are rarely expressed in post–9/11 America, and Theroux is to be commended for pointing out the consequences of our half-baked imperializing in Africa’s miserable backwaters. His criticisms cut both ways, however; after an Egyptian student offends him with the remark, “Israel is America’s baby,” he replies, “Many countries are America’s babies. Some good babies, some bad babies.” Theroux is often dour, although he finds hopeful signs that Africa will endure and overcome its present misfortunes in the sight, for instance, of a young African boatman doing complex mathematical equations amid “spitting jets of steam,” and in the constant, calming beauty of so many African places.
Engagingly written, sharply observed: another winner from Theroux.
7) "Lost on Planet China" by J. Maarten Troost
The roving journalist and travel writer takes on China.
In his previous two books—Getting Stoned with Savages: A Trip Through the Islands of Fiji and Vanuatu (2006) and The Sex Lives of Cannibals: Adrift in the Equatorial Pacific (2004)—Troost chronicled his time on the tiny, isolated islands of the South Pacific. Here, the author considers a decidedly different environment, a “massive and rapidly changing…vast and complex country.” That description proves to be an understatement, as he encounters one bewildering thing after another, from the “hermetically sealed Super Deluxe Executive Suite” at the Grand Hyatt Shanghai, the world’s highest hotel, to rampant prostitution and unspeakably foul restroom conditions. “It is remarkable,” he writes, “how quickly a country like China can reduce a foreigner—this foreigner, in any case—to a state of childlike powerlessness.” As Troost travels through Beijing, Shanghai, Qingdao, Guangzhou and a half dozen other teeming cities, he notices the pervasive remnants of the Cultural Revolution, as well as the driving force behind the new “Chinese Model” for organizing society: “unfettered capitalism combined with authoritarian rule.” With the rapid growth of the Chinese economy, the author notes, comes a widening gap between the rich and the poor—the government is currently sitting on a $1.4 trillion reserve—in addition to increasing levels of air and water pollution, which Troost duly notes in each impossibly smog-choked city. The author finds relief in the relative order of Hong Kong, the utter barrenness of the Taklamakan Desert, the quiet calm of Lhasa (Tibet) and the staggering beauty of Tiger Leaping Gorge, but he is underwhelmed by the fabled Shangri-la. Interspersing sections of cultural history—and plenty of tasty and not-so-tasty culinary tidbits—throughout his travelogue, Troost offers a serviceable primer on life in China. But uncharacteristically awkward prose too often creeps into the narrative, and the author relies heavily on bland generalizations (“It’s a complicated country, China, full of complicated people”) in lieu of thoughtful commentary.
Not as smooth or consistently engaging as his first two books, but worthwhile reading for armchair travelers and Sinophiles.
8) "Without Reservations: The Travels of an Independent Woman" by Alice Steinbach
The travel memoir of a professional woman on a Grand Tour.
In 1993 Steinbach, Pulitzer-winning journalist and divorced mother, went on a nine-month sabbatical in Europe. "In this,my Year of Living Dangerously, I was . . . wading into the stream of the unknown, accepting whatever the gods had to offer."
Her sojourn begins in the Faubourg-St. Germain during a Parisian spring, where she meets Naohiro, a Japanese widower in whom she develops a romantic interest. In London for the summer, Steinbach meets a trio of women who become her nursemaids when she falls ill; she befriends Jean, an Australian psychoanalyst, at Freud’s house and joins her for dinner with the smart set.
Steinbach enrolls in a late-summer course at Oxford, learns an important lesson about ballroom dancing from Barry, her pot-bellied instructor, and wanders up and down the Italian peninsula, frequently turning to memories of Naohiro for emotional sustenance and to the words of Freya Stark for spiritual guidance. If the adventure evolves without the higher risk of other kinds of travel (and travel memoirs), and if the dramatic episodes primarily involve civilized exchanges with shop clerks and museum-goers, Steinbach doesn’t make more of getting lost around Brasenose College or of hitting upon the perfect wedding gift for a temporary friend than she can (or should); the book quickly loses its early sense of willed promise and gains a likable, well-mannered modesty as it unfolds—the quiet, nothing-to-it triumph of getting from an unfamiliar airport to a distant hotel.
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