Chasing the Devil: The Search for Africa's Fighting Spirit

Tim Butcher's Blood River is some of the best travel writing I've read recently, and my review of it caught his eye on Good Reads, and he reached out and suggested a couple other titles of his he thought I might enjoy. Chasing the Devil, in which he chronicles his journey, on foot, through Sierra Leone, Guinea, and Liberia, certainly did not disappoint. As with the tramp through the Congo that comprises Blood River, Butcher's West African adventure was inspired by an earlier journey, in this case that of British author Graham Greene in 1935.

What Butcher does well is to weave together the history of Greene's journey with his own hike (if a multi-week push through the jungles of three nations can be considered merely a 'hike'), along with the history, geopolitics, and especially cultural traditions of the countries through which he strides. From Chinese investment to lassa fever outbreaks, African spiritualism, to tensions between ethnic groups, Butcher covers as much ground as an author as he did on foot. And, I should add, equally competent. 

Given what he attempts to do, the sheer volume of information he seeks to impart, it would be easy for to become bogged down in the weeds. To his credit, this rarely happens, and most of the book skips along, brought to life with descriptions to the effect of "For four years the National Provisional Ruling Council junta ran Sierra Leona, although 'ran' hardly seems an appropriate description for the feuding, bloodletting, attempted coups, executions and political paralysis of this period." Not to put too fine a point on it. 

Chasing the Devil was a particular pleasure for me, as it recalled memories of my own visit to West Africa in 2019, where I experienced first hand the African rains that Butcher describes as "something extreme, aqueous bullets pummelling the ground," and so much else.

Blood River: The Terrifying Journey through the World's Most Dangerous Country

Between Spillover, Dark Star Safari, Cocktail Hour Under the Tree of Forgetfulness, and the Bad-Ass Librarians of Timbuktu, I felt I had a well-rounded sense of the dangers that might lurk around the corner of any number of African countries, from the hazards of travel to militants, terrorists, and thugs to your run-of-the-mill, mind-numbingly-terrifying, bleed-from-every-orifice-as-you-lay-dying disease. Not that I expected to encounter any of these scenarios on my own African foray, of course.

In any case, the title of Tim Butcher's travelogue says it all: a terrifying journey through [one of] the world's most dangerous countries. Is Somalia more dangerous than the DRC? Syria? Yemen? It hardly seems to matter. The man spent months traversing the bush, battling bad water, deadly mosquitoes, and the logistics of traveling through a country where nature has reclaimed all but the largest of roads. Everything - everything - is in short supply and everyone lives in near-constant fear of what or who is around the next bend - most of all the feared mai-mai fighters whose ability to vanish into the bush is as troubling as their violence and tactics.

So why, one might ask does Butcher undertake this adventure? Ostensibly, he seeks to retrace the steps of nineteenth century explorer/adventurer H.M. Stanley whose own voyage down the Congo River ultimately led to the country's nearly-century-long experience with the brutality of colonialism, first as King Leopold's personal possession and later as a Belgian colony. More tangibly, it seems that retracing Stanley's route may have been the germ of the idea, but that once seeded, Butcher could not let it go - as an international correspondent who'd covered his fair share of combat zones and front lines, this journey became one more way to test himself and his mettle, mental as well as physical. To which I say, bully for him. It's hard to imagine anyone else mad enough to entertain such a journey (I mean, even Paul Theroux stuck to the overcrowded and rattletrap "taxis" and "buses" in Dark Star Safari), but it makes for a fascinating backdrop for the history and politics that Butcher deftly incorporates.

Four stars. 

Cocktail Hour Under the Tree of Forgetfulness

Cocktail Hour Under the Tree of Forgetfulness is a balm for the reading soul. After spending the last few weeks slogging through a couple of books that I still have decided whether to finish (no titles yet, in case I do!), Alexandra Fuller's Cocktail Hour felt like coming home.

Part memoir, part biography, this book is a clear-eyed look at the lives and choices of Fuller's parents, Tim and Nicola Fuller, whose African lives began in the era of British colonialism - the Happy Valley set comes in for more than an occasional mention - span the final, bloody years of Rhodesia, and continue into the sub-Saharan Africa of the twenty-first century. It is a fascinating account of British colonialism and the choices, which Fuller seems to both understand and be unable fathom, of those like her parents who fought so desperately to hold onto their piece of Africa.

It is also a daughter's ode to her mother, all the more poignant for the tragedies and madness that have dotted the landscape of Nicola Fuller's life. Few lines have struck me with more power than Alexandra Fuller's observation that "the pathos and the gift of life is that we cannot know which will be our defining heartbreak, or our most victorious joy."

Initially, I was expecting Cocktail Hour to unfold along the lines of The Last Resort, probably, foolishly, because both are set in Zimbabwe, which is not exactly a hotbed of travel writing or memoirs or literature these days. The books are quite different - Fuller's Cocktail Hour is much heavier than the often-laugh-out-loud The Last Resort - but it is a satisfying read in every respect.

Four stars.

A Man of the People

One of my reading goals this year was to read more broadly, particularly fiction. (Turner House, Native Roots, and Salt Houses are other examples of work that may or may not have jumped to the top of my reading list without this impetus.) In any case, that was one of my motivations for reading Chinua Achebe's A Man of the People, set in 1960s Nigeria in the immediate post-independence years.

The protagonists in the story are M.A. Nanga, a former school teacher and current Minister of Culture (and the self-styled Man of the People), and Odili, Nanga's former student and a current school teacher. Idealistic Odili is more than a little disillusioned with the state of affairs in Nigeria, an attitude which sets him on a collision course with his former teacher and mentor, Nanga. Ultimately, Odili decides to run for Nanga's seat, a decision that sets in motion the events that will lead to revolution.

Published on the eve of Nigeria's first coup in 1966, there's more than a hint of real events in Achebe's drama. That said, I had a hard time really getting into A Man of the People. One of the biggest reasons for this is the dialogue, much of which is written in pidgin. (This is not a slight - characters are regularly referred to as speaking pidgin in the book.) While I was always able to get the gist of the conversation, frequently I wasn't able to get anymore than the gist, and I often felt like I was working really hard just to get the gist.

Two stars.

Circling the Sun

I likely would have read this sooner, had I not just finished West with the Night - Beryl Markham's memoirs - when Circling the Sun - Paula McLain's fictional account of Markham - appeared on my radar.

A bit of background first. McLain's The Paris Wife was one of the best books I read in 2011. I loved McLain's writing in general and her treatment of Hadley Richardson in particular. I may have had a similar reaction to McLain's treatment of Markham, too, had I not already read the latter's own memoir.

The writing is certainly there. McLain writes beautiful prose and, as with The Paris Wife, I found myself often stopping to admire her way with words. "I have fought for independence here, and freedom, too. More and more I find they're not at all the same thing," McLain has Markham say at one juncture. Simultaneously obvious and subtle, this sentiment stopped me in my reading tracks to ruminate how concisely McLain captured this thought.

Likewise, when I read in the narrative, "The beautiful rich who hoisted themselves up on vast parcels of land...They had their own rules, or none at all - which could happen when you had too much money and too much time." I again felt compelled to read and re-read and re-read again McLain's lovely prose. (And also to recall the multiple books featuring the well born behaving behaving badly. See White Mischief or My Life as a Mountbatten or Lady Catherine, the Earl, and the Real Downton Abbey should you need any convincing.)

Ultimately, though, I felt that McLain gave Markham short shrift. Markham's life was one of firsts for women, from horse trainer to bush pilot, yet McLain chose to focus on Markham's personal life - failed marriages and extramarital scandals not least of all - which left me with a diminished sense of who Markham was and what she accomplished. And so, even though I don't find particular faults with the book itself, and enjoy and admire McLain's writing, I came away disappointed, feeling that I had read but a very partial account of Markham's life and times.

Two-and-a-half stars. (Caveat: see above. Anyone who hasn't read West with the Night will most likely - and fairly - find this rating overly harsh.)

The Boy Who Harnessed the Wind: Creating Currents of Electricity and Hope

The Boy Who Harnessed the Wind is, in its simplest description, a memoir of author William Kamkwamba's early life as a poor (poor!) boy in rural Malawi, his hunger for knowledge, and his experiments to build an entire windmill for his home. This is all the more impressive as he faces famine, scavenges for the parts, and is forced to leave school because his family can no longer pay the fees. This book could just as easily have been titled, Improvisation 101.

Beyond the memoir aspects, The Boy Who Harnessed the Wind is a fascinating look at life in Africa, written by an African (and in that sense is a wonderful contrast with Dark Star Safari). Kamkwamba succinctly relates the realities of life in Africa to his (presumably mostly Western readers) with candid and clear language, such as his passage describing a life without light. "Once the sun goes down, and if there's no moon, everyone stops what they're doing, brushes their teeth, and goes to sleep. ... Who goes to bed at seven in the evening? Well, I can tell you, most of Africa."

Beyond the voyeuristic pleasure of peering deeper into another culture, Kamkwamba's story is also incredibly inspirational. He built a windmill. Using a relatively ancient, English-language text designed for individuals with both fluency in English and advanced education, neither of which he possessed. And he did this because he hoped to expand upon his invention in order that his family could have water on their farm (rather than a two-hour walk from it), not so that he might become rich or famous, or make his life vastly different, but so that they would not starve in the next famine.  As in literally perish of hunger, something he knows too much about.

Kamkwamba also minces no words in describing the situation in his country, and to a certain extent, in Africa more broadly. He understands the scope and scale of the corruption, he knows how this directly impacts him, and he is determined to simply do what he can to bring positive change to his very small piece of his country. In this sense, he reminded me of Abdel Kader Haidara, whose story is recounted in The Bad-Ass Librarians of Timbuktu).

The Boy Who Harnessed the Wind ends on a hopeful note, with Kamkwamba in South Africa at an academy with other equally gifted and visionary young Africans. One can but hope that together they will achieve Kamkwamba's goals of bringing Africa out of the darkness.

West With the Night

Born in 1902, Beryl Markham was a woman ahead of her time. A champion racehorse trainer, author, and bush pilot, Markham was the first female pilot in Kenya and flew solo across the Atlantic during the early years of the aviation age. She is also a fine author, as evidenced by this memoir, in which she writes what must be one of my all-time favorite lines. Writing of an encounter with low-level Italian bureaucrats in the years immediately preceding World War II, Markham writes that there is "no hell like uncertainty, and no greater menace to society than an Italian with three liras worth of authority." I'll have to remember that the next time I'm bemoaning a peon on a power trip.

West with the Night offers not only a glimpse into Markham's own remarkable life (if Gertrude Bell was the Desert Queen, perhaps Markham is the queen of the savanna), but also into British colonialism. Unlike White Mischief, which focuses almost entirely on the British experience in Kenya, West with the Night includes extensive memories of Markham living the "authentic" Kenyan experience, including being "moderately eaten by [a] large lion." Although I was most interested in Beryl the bush pilot, Beryl the bush hunter is also a fascinating study, particularly as this phase of life preceded the former by many years - making Markham but a girl when she would join native tribesman on boar hunts!

Markham may have been ahead of her time in some respects, but in her regard for native populations, she was very much a woman of her time and place. The early pages, in particular, reek of colonialism; Markham's description of the various Kenyan people are jarring, and the depth of British imperialism is something to behold. To say it is a long way from West with the Night to The Last Resort is to rather understate things.

The Last Resort: A Memoir of Mischief and Mayhem on a Family Farm in Africa

Truth is stranger than fiction. There is no other explanation for The Last Resort, Douglas Rogers's chronicle of his parents trials and tribulations in Zimbabwe during the first decade of the current century. Zimbabwe's troubles are well known, of course: the country's name nearly synonymous with hyperinflation and bad government. As Rogers describes, it is common for the price of goods to double in the time it takes to complete a transaction.

The Last Resort is far more personal than the consumer price index. Lyn and Rosalind Rogers are struggling to hold on to the farm, which is not really a farm, but a former backpackers lodge, singularly unsuited for farming. This is the sole reason that Lyn and Ros are among a handful of white Zimbabweans who are allowed to remain on their land, even if they may not, possibly, technically no longer own it. (Rogers devotes quite a bit of ink to his parents' quest to settle this question once and for all.)

The Drifters once graced the pages of Lonely Planet. Now, it is the local hotspot for pimps and prostitutes, illegal diamond dealers, and the occasional government minister. At one point, the Rogers have a rather successful side business in dagga, which is no more legal than it sounds. And then there are the power cuts, fuel and food shortages, and police roadblocks. All of this Douglas Rogers tells with humor and dogged good grace, while simultaneously infusing The Last Resort with a heavy dose of Rhodesian-Zimbabwean history and politics.

This is Dark Star Safari on steroids, only those living it are doing so out of necessity, not choice. My only complaint - and this is hardly a complaint - is that the book was published in 2010. What has happened since then? I found a short interview from 2012 that provides a bit of an update, but nothing since then. (Rogers's own website last appears to have been updated at least three years ago.) Alas. Hopefully the radio silence is the bi-product of writing another book; Rogers is highly enjoyable and I would eagerly look forward to his next work.

White Mischief: The Murder of Lord Erroll

In the midst of World War II, Lord Erroll was murdered in Kenya. His circle of wealthy aristocratic friends closed ranks - and as a notorious womanizer (among other character flaws) - there was no shortage of suspects who might have wanted Erroll dead. Still, police closed in pretty quickly on Sir Jock Delves Broughton, whose young wife was Erroll's latest conquest. In fact, she planned to run off with him. He was arrested, tried, and ultimately found not guilty - yet the question lingered, did he do it and, if not, then who did?

In somewhat the same way as Donnie Eichar became interested and then obsessed in the mystery of who or what killed a party of Russian hikers in the 1950s, so James Fox became obsessed by who killed Lord Erroll in 1941. He worked on the case from 1969 to 1984, when he published White Mischief, and there is no reason to believe he has got it wrong.

More interesting than the death of Lord Erroll is the colonial life in Kenya. The overwhelming majority of the expats succumbed to the "Three A's": alcohol, altitude, and adultery. It is a life not unlike the one described by Lady Pamela Hicks in, My Life As a Mountbatten, in which she recounts her parents' lovers who lived with the family at various times, or the very unhappy Porchey and Catherine Carnarvon. (In fact, Porchey makes an appearance or two in White Mischief, and years later Fox visits Highclere Castle to learn what the Carnarvons make of it all. It's a bit surreal to read descriptions of the rooms I've come to know so well from the set of Downton Abbey!)

Ultimately, my verdict is that White Mischief is interesting for its examination of the colonial ruling class in Kenya, particularly in the midst of a world war. Fox does the field of journalism proud in his dogged pursuit of the aged and far-flung protagonists as he pieces this back together decades after the fact. Still, I wouldn't put this in the must-read category.

Dark Star Safari: Overland from Cairo to Capetown

Paul Theroux might just be a little crazy. I suspected as much when he paddled around the Pacific, but his voyage from Egypt to South Africa by way of such stable and well-governed states as Sudan and Zimbabwe convinced me. In fairness, Theroux meandered through Africa circa 2000, when most of these countries were relatively safer than they are today. Still, he was shot at, robbed, and shaken down - this last so many times that I lost count.

The overriding emotion of Dark Star Safari is disappointment veering into disillusionment. Time-and-again Theroux - who spent years in Africa in the 60s - is shocked to discover the sorry state of affairs in each of the country he visits. Roads are non-existent, poverty is of the barefoot variety, and corruption is rampant. The root cause of Africa's problems, Theroux believes, is aid. The international aid community has allowed Africa to become helpless - why fill potholes when you can wait for someone else to do it for you? Perhaps more surprising is that many Africans agree with him. I know little about Africa and less about aid, but the arguments Theroux puts forward are certainly convincing.

Dark Star Safari is the third Theroux non-fiction I've read (after Paddling the Pacific and Riding the Iron Rooster) and I am hard pressed to rank them. He conceives of interesting voyages, certainly, but there is often something self-righteous about the tone, the author too present, his actions too consciously recorded, that I find off-putting. I've added his newest release (Deep South, which came out just last month) to my reading list, but not as a high priority on the list.

2.5 stars.