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Last time I rambled inanely about this series of historical travel books that I'm reading on and off, Olaudah Equiano was pointing out that slavery's not a very good thing really (though with more anger, and quite a lot of Biblical quotations). Since then I've read quite a few more, so I feel in need of an update. A whistlestop tour, then, of a hundred-odd years of global meandering (and quite a lot of insect-collecting).
James Cook's Hunt For The Southern Continent should have come before Olaudah Equiano's Sold As A Slave, but I screwed up. His wasn't nineteenth century hithering and thithering, then - mostly because he'd been eaten by the time the nineteenth century came along; which is unfortunate as it turns out. Yes, okay, it would have been unfortunate anyway (particularly for him); but had it turned out that he was as racist and infuriating as some of his predecessors in this series, it would have been harder to feel especially sorry for him. Actually, though, he comes across as rather a nice bloke, scudding about the sea in 1773 and 1774, looking for things, and investigating islands, and generally being rather nice to the locals. A shame that some of them later ate him, then. Given what some of the people who came after him were like, they should have let Cook be, and eaten his successors instead. Bit of a dry account at times, largely because of all the captain's-log-style information about position and prevailing wind, but the details about the various islands visited, and their inhabitants, can be rather colourful. Quite a nice book really.
Jaguars And Electric Eels sees Alexander von Humboldt wandering around the Amazon in 1800 - rather enjoyably with one of Cook's crew from Hunt For The Southern Continent. Clearly there was a shortage of explorers in those days, and they found themselves having to double up. Von Humboldt's account is quite charming, with some lovely descriptions of the Amazon and its surrounding scenery. He does have a rather unfortunate attitude towards insects, though. I know, I know. They had to learn. We know what we do today because of people like him. It's just that collecting insects is distinctly unfriendly. "Look at the gorgeous butterfly! Let me gas it!" Still, it was 1800. I suppose I really should cut him some slack. And it's a very nice book otherwise.
To The Holy Shrines by Sir Richard Burton is next. Dates from 1854, so clearly not that Richard Burton. Can't remember if that one was a sir or not. Probably not. Anyways, in this book, rather than marrying Elizabeth Taylor, he journeys about in the Middle East dressed as a Muslim. His adventuring spirit and courage are remarkable, as it would probably have been certain death had he been unmasked. He was determined to take part in a pilgrimage, though, and see all that went on; and that's exactly what he did. His knowledge of the area, the language and the customs must have been pretty much unparalleled in the West at the time. He largely manages to avoid the sniping side-swipes at his host country that seem to be so much a sport of his fellow authors in this series. He's not above being scathing at times, though. Somebody really ought to have gathered this lot together at some point, and beaten them over the head whilst yelling "Different does not necessarily mean wrong". Mary Wortley Montagu he is not. However he's not Marco Polo, either, so that's got to be good.
Next comes Walter Henry Bates with In The Heart Of The Amazon Rainforest, from 1859. Bates paints a fine picture of the Amazon, with some terrific descriptions of the scenery, the people, the colours and the weather. His respect for the locals is obvious, though even he can't resist the occasional passing shot at the "savage". It's a tough one for a soft-hearted wimp like myself, though. The man seems to spend the entire time killing things. He does, however, make some fine observations about conservation, commenting that since the arrival of white men on the scene, certain populations of animal are unlikely to be able to maintain themselves. In the old days it was often the hunters that were, perversely, the greatest conservationists. They might have killed, but they respected as well, and were careful not to kill too much. Less potshots at jaguars just for fun, though, if you don't mind, Mr Bates. And be nicer to dogs in future. Bravo on the partying side, though. The local brew is good stuff, clearly.
For all of Walter Henry Bates's unfortunate tendency to kill things, he can't even begin to match the bloodthirstiness of Alfred Russel Wallace. In Borneo, Celebes, Aru he travels about the Malay Archipelago between around 1854 - 1862, basically being a complete bastard to orang-utans. His theorising on evolution is remarkable. He's a much better writer than Charles Darwin, too, so it's a shame that it was the latter who became famous for the theory. Wallace would have made a far better job of a book like On The Origin Of Species - although Wallacism isn't quite as good a word as Darwinism, admittedly. And I'd be inclined to begrudge him the celebrity anyway given his hobby of being a complete bastard to orang-utans. When on one occasion he shoots a male (several times, so it wouldn't have been a quick, clean death), and then decides that he couldn't be bothered to climb up the tree it's in to collect it - and then hurts his foot almost immediately afterwards, and spends a month laid up with it badly infected, it's very tempting to laugh. Oh, who am I trying to kid. I did laugh. Serves you right, matey. He's no nicer to the bird population; and he's another one to take great pleasure in extolling the beauty of the local insects whilst killing them all to death, too. I know such things furthered our knowledge massively, but that doesn't mean that I have to like it. Especially the bits with the orang-utans. A git, then. A clever git, but still a git.
Which, rather neatly, brings me to Mark Twain. In 1859 he travelled to Europe, and Can-Cans, Cats And Cities Of Ash is the story of that journey. It's funny, you know. I loved Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn when I was a kid. Who didn't? I even dug an old straw hat out of the attic, and used to wear it with my dungarees, in a vague attempt to look like Huck. I considered living in a barrel, too, but the weather in Missouri is clearly a lot nicer than it is in Gloucestershire, so the barrel thing never came to fruition (or it hasn't yet, anyway). What I'd never considered before, though, is what a complete git Mark Twain was. Famous American writer, yadda, yadda, yadda. Much lauded part of American literature, yadda, yadda, yadda. Yes, sure. Also, however, a total bastard. It's time to point out that part of his character too, I think. Ignoring the facile nature of much of the text - he was fairly young, and it was one of his earlier books, so I'll forgive him that - his quite appalling attitude to the inhabitants of some of the countries he passes through beggars belief. The arrogance of youth, perhaps? I hope so. I should hate to think that he continued to travel through life with the same attitudes that he displayed whilst travelling through Europe and the near East. It would be a sad waste of what appears to have been a not inconsiderable intellect. The least said about his attitude to animals the better, though. I use the term git advisedly. Bravo to his night-time excursion to see the ruins of Ancient Greece despite a fairly nonsensical quarantine order; though his apparent belief that the farms he passed on his way were his to do as he wanted with does him no credit. Other than that, this is a book I could well do without. Yes dear, you did create some literary icons, and the world's children will forever be grateful for the creation of Huckleberry Finn. But you're still a git. And your travel book's crap.
So that's that, then. Update complete. Next up is Isabella's Bird's 1873 jaunt Adventures In The Rocky Mountains, but I haven't finished that one yet. So far it's well written, descriptive and entertaining; but if she makes one more dig at the "Indians" I'll clobber her. Though not literally, obviously. I'm guessing she'd be pretty hard to reach.
James Cook's Hunt For The Southern Continent should have come before Olaudah Equiano's Sold As A Slave, but I screwed up. His wasn't nineteenth century hithering and thithering, then - mostly because he'd been eaten by the time the nineteenth century came along; which is unfortunate as it turns out. Yes, okay, it would have been unfortunate anyway (particularly for him); but had it turned out that he was as racist and infuriating as some of his predecessors in this series, it would have been harder to feel especially sorry for him. Actually, though, he comes across as rather a nice bloke, scudding about the sea in 1773 and 1774, looking for things, and investigating islands, and generally being rather nice to the locals. A shame that some of them later ate him, then. Given what some of the people who came after him were like, they should have let Cook be, and eaten his successors instead. Bit of a dry account at times, largely because of all the captain's-log-style information about position and prevailing wind, but the details about the various islands visited, and their inhabitants, can be rather colourful. Quite a nice book really.
Jaguars And Electric Eels sees Alexander von Humboldt wandering around the Amazon in 1800 - rather enjoyably with one of Cook's crew from Hunt For The Southern Continent. Clearly there was a shortage of explorers in those days, and they found themselves having to double up. Von Humboldt's account is quite charming, with some lovely descriptions of the Amazon and its surrounding scenery. He does have a rather unfortunate attitude towards insects, though. I know, I know. They had to learn. We know what we do today because of people like him. It's just that collecting insects is distinctly unfriendly. "Look at the gorgeous butterfly! Let me gas it!" Still, it was 1800. I suppose I really should cut him some slack. And it's a very nice book otherwise.
To The Holy Shrines by Sir Richard Burton is next. Dates from 1854, so clearly not that Richard Burton. Can't remember if that one was a sir or not. Probably not. Anyways, in this book, rather than marrying Elizabeth Taylor, he journeys about in the Middle East dressed as a Muslim. His adventuring spirit and courage are remarkable, as it would probably have been certain death had he been unmasked. He was determined to take part in a pilgrimage, though, and see all that went on; and that's exactly what he did. His knowledge of the area, the language and the customs must have been pretty much unparalleled in the West at the time. He largely manages to avoid the sniping side-swipes at his host country that seem to be so much a sport of his fellow authors in this series. He's not above being scathing at times, though. Somebody really ought to have gathered this lot together at some point, and beaten them over the head whilst yelling "Different does not necessarily mean wrong". Mary Wortley Montagu he is not. However he's not Marco Polo, either, so that's got to be good.
Next comes Walter Henry Bates with In The Heart Of The Amazon Rainforest, from 1859. Bates paints a fine picture of the Amazon, with some terrific descriptions of the scenery, the people, the colours and the weather. His respect for the locals is obvious, though even he can't resist the occasional passing shot at the "savage". It's a tough one for a soft-hearted wimp like myself, though. The man seems to spend the entire time killing things. He does, however, make some fine observations about conservation, commenting that since the arrival of white men on the scene, certain populations of animal are unlikely to be able to maintain themselves. In the old days it was often the hunters that were, perversely, the greatest conservationists. They might have killed, but they respected as well, and were careful not to kill too much. Less potshots at jaguars just for fun, though, if you don't mind, Mr Bates. And be nicer to dogs in future. Bravo on the partying side, though. The local brew is good stuff, clearly.
For all of Walter Henry Bates's unfortunate tendency to kill things, he can't even begin to match the bloodthirstiness of Alfred Russel Wallace. In Borneo, Celebes, Aru he travels about the Malay Archipelago between around 1854 - 1862, basically being a complete bastard to orang-utans. His theorising on evolution is remarkable. He's a much better writer than Charles Darwin, too, so it's a shame that it was the latter who became famous for the theory. Wallace would have made a far better job of a book like On The Origin Of Species - although Wallacism isn't quite as good a word as Darwinism, admittedly. And I'd be inclined to begrudge him the celebrity anyway given his hobby of being a complete bastard to orang-utans. When on one occasion he shoots a male (several times, so it wouldn't have been a quick, clean death), and then decides that he couldn't be bothered to climb up the tree it's in to collect it - and then hurts his foot almost immediately afterwards, and spends a month laid up with it badly infected, it's very tempting to laugh. Oh, who am I trying to kid. I did laugh. Serves you right, matey. He's no nicer to the bird population; and he's another one to take great pleasure in extolling the beauty of the local insects whilst killing them all to death, too. I know such things furthered our knowledge massively, but that doesn't mean that I have to like it. Especially the bits with the orang-utans. A git, then. A clever git, but still a git.
Which, rather neatly, brings me to Mark Twain. In 1859 he travelled to Europe, and Can-Cans, Cats And Cities Of Ash is the story of that journey. It's funny, you know. I loved Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn when I was a kid. Who didn't? I even dug an old straw hat out of the attic, and used to wear it with my dungarees, in a vague attempt to look like Huck. I considered living in a barrel, too, but the weather in Missouri is clearly a lot nicer than it is in Gloucestershire, so the barrel thing never came to fruition (or it hasn't yet, anyway). What I'd never considered before, though, is what a complete git Mark Twain was. Famous American writer, yadda, yadda, yadda. Much lauded part of American literature, yadda, yadda, yadda. Yes, sure. Also, however, a total bastard. It's time to point out that part of his character too, I think. Ignoring the facile nature of much of the text - he was fairly young, and it was one of his earlier books, so I'll forgive him that - his quite appalling attitude to the inhabitants of some of the countries he passes through beggars belief. The arrogance of youth, perhaps? I hope so. I should hate to think that he continued to travel through life with the same attitudes that he displayed whilst travelling through Europe and the near East. It would be a sad waste of what appears to have been a not inconsiderable intellect. The least said about his attitude to animals the better, though. I use the term git advisedly. Bravo to his night-time excursion to see the ruins of Ancient Greece despite a fairly nonsensical quarantine order; though his apparent belief that the farms he passed on his way were his to do as he wanted with does him no credit. Other than that, this is a book I could well do without. Yes dear, you did create some literary icons, and the world's children will forever be grateful for the creation of Huckleberry Finn. But you're still a git. And your travel book's crap.
So that's that, then. Update complete. Next up is Isabella's Bird's 1873 jaunt Adventures In The Rocky Mountains, but I haven't finished that one yet. So far it's well written, descriptive and entertaining; but if she makes one more dig at the "Indians" I'll clobber her. Though not literally, obviously. I'm guessing she'd be pretty hard to reach.
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