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"Venture to the Interior", Laurens van der Post
Penguin, 1957

Do not start reading this book while flying. I'd just launched into Chapter 3 when my flight was called. Chapter 3 is where van der Post stops explaining why he feels he has one foot in Africa and one in Europe, and starts describing his appalling series of flights from London to Nairobi. Not for the faint-hearted I can assure you.

Van der Post is off to assess two unchartered regions of Nyasaland (what is now Malawi) for the British government. He has such a sense of foreboding about the trip to Mlanje and its mountain that you are almost too prepared for what eventually happens. Then it's off to the other end of the country to explore the Nyika plateau. Both adventure-laden trips are made on foot.

Throughout the trip, the reader is treated to van der Post's thoughts and feelings about this part of the world to which he feels so close. Some of it naturally seems dated now, but it also provides a glimpse of how the British Empire actually worked in some of its further flung outposts.

If the story seems to take a while to get going, it is perhaps because it is not a story with a beginning, middle and end; rather it is a slice of van der Post's remarkable life and, as such, it bears remembering that this is fact not fiction. JT

Overall verdict: A quick read from someone who really has done it all.
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It's hard to reconcile the Madagascar of Murphy's 1985 travels with the tales of dispute verging on civil war that have been emerging from the country in mid-2002. The ravaging effects of the recent disputed election are at odds with the relaxed, apolitical country that Murphy presents. But 15 years is a long time, and if much of the country is still as undeveloped as Murphy describes, many people may have hardly noticed the politics of the capital.

Murphy and her daughter start in the capital, Antananarivo (one of the simpler Malagasy names, which are generally long and complex), then after a trek in the central mountains they move to the south-east and south-west coasts. But her account starts with a long and dry historical account of the development of Madagascar. Although some historical context is important, 24 pages of it became tedious. It sets the tone for much of the rest of the book: heavy on description (of cities, landscapes, flora and fauna) but sometimes light on character. History comes up again and again, sometimes interrupting passages of entertaining narrative.

When Murphy adds some colour to her writing, the results are rewarding. The two road journeys in the south of the country are especially memorable, despite the discomfort endured by Murphy and her companions. The language barrier may have prevented much discussion between Murphy and the people she encounters, but the contributions of her daughter (who seems to have had a thoroughly miserable trip) and other travelling companions are limited to one-liners.

What comes through most strongly is the author's view of the country. Nothing wrong with this: after all, it is her book. But her views on Madagascar's development often turn to preaching. She leaves the reader in no doubt as to her views on what's gone right and what's gone wrong. Almost all western influence is portrayed negatively. Allied to this, she has a habit of comparing what she sees in Madagascar to her native Ireland. Although Ireland is not the wealthiest country in the world, it is probably more like the UK than it is like Madagascar.

However, it's well worth persevering through the description and preaching. Madagascar is a fascinating country, and gets little exposure in the western press. Murphy loves it there, despite all the problems encountered during her travels, the warmth she feels for the people shines through. This is a travel book in the classic sense: description of a far off and strange place, avoiding both the introspection of Paul Theroux and the enforced jollity of Bill Bryson. OR

Overall verdict: Travel books on Madagascar are few and far between, but this is a fascinating country. If you can get used to Murphy's writing style, it's well worth a read.

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Theroux exports his ascerbic wit to the Mediterranean for this reconstruction of the Grand Tour. It is pointless berating him - as many do - for his constant criticism and disparaging remarks. What is more remarkable in this book is the contrasts he throws up, both in his own writing - the tone of which shifts several times - and in the places he sees. He studiously avoids high-brow culture in one form, opting for the "real" towns and villages, yet spurns the tourist meccas for literary discussions. An interesting mix, but of course both indigenous village, and concrete resort are real, and people live and work in both places.

He acknowledges his horror of the worst of the Spanish coast with this particularly damning passage: "The meretriciousness, the cheapo appeal, the rankness of this chain of grease-spots is so well known it is superfluous for me to to describe it; and it is beyond satire. So why bother?" Sadly, I imagine Theroux's usual conversational approach to travelling would create marvellous vignettes of some of these places. But he has more prestigious and authentic fish to fry.

His section on the former Yugoslav republics of Slovenia and Croatia and the chapter on Albania are truly worth the price of the book alone. Albania, in particular, is still all but unknown in western Europe and this is an eye-opening account from 1994 of the poverty and paranoia of this most isolated of European states.

Exhausted, Theroux takes a break before recommencing his journey in an unexpected setting: a luxury cruise liner. Although potentially at odds with his usual modus operandi, I enjoyed this section immensely. Theroux manages to unearth the interesting characters on board and what could be more Grand Touresque than drifting through the Med with the wealthy. Is this Theroux playing at being Fitzgerald? If so, he does it with aplomb.

Once he changes tack again, and battles through the Middle East, and eventually to North Africa, the book turns ever more into a literary pilgrimage. An interesting one undoubtedly, but his much-promoted brother Peter (who is an Arabic translator, as Paul frequently mentions. Did no-one edit this book?) obviously helped him along the way here. However, Theroux does get to meet some very interesting writers, even if he rarely engages with them on a personal level, at least not for our benefit.

Despite the contrasts alluded to earlier, the thread that runs throughout the book is that the Mediterranean region's identity transcends national borders. Everywhere he goes, Theroux is at pains to explain that the coastal towns are more like each other than their own hinterlands. Not a revolutionary point to make, but an interesting and well-enforced one here.

At one stage he explains that irony is often mistaken for curmudgeoness. He rarely helps to keep the distinction clear, but nevertheless Pillars of Hercules is an epic tour of a much-visted, yet rarely-contemplated tourist region. JT

Overall verdict: Stick with it.
Also see Europe
Also by Paul Theroux: The Old Patagonian Express & The Great Railway Bazaar
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