by Paul Theroux
I'd tried to read Paul Theroux before and failed to get him. It bugged me--how could I, an avid devourer of travelogues and travel journals, not enjoy America's premier travel writer?
Don't know. But I sure enjoyed this one. He must have a magic gift for getting people to talk, because he managed to overcome language and reticence to get
some amazing stories out of people. I was amazed to find out that Mexican/Spanish is not the native language of a large number of people in the backcountry of Mexico. They pretty much all speak it, to a certain extent, but "at home" they speak Nahuatl, Chol, Totonaco, Mazateco, Mixteco, Zapoteco, Otomi, Tzotzil, Tzeltal, and Maya. There were people he couldn't communicate with very well, despite his immersion in a Spanish language class during the course of the book.
It's a great book and I can't begin to explain the many things that make me recommend it to anyone who is willing to set prejudices aside and explore. But one thing that nagged at me--since I wasn't familiar with the author's history or personality, and since he seemed to try to keep his personality out of the narrative as much as possible, sometimes his reactions to things bugged me.
For example, when he was taking a Spanish language course, the instructor would quiz the students with questions like what they did that day, what is their favorite meal, who is their favorite author. It was simply a way to learn conversation and explore the different tenses of Spanish verbs. But after a while, Mr. Theroux started feeling defensive, uneasy. Like he was being violated. Like his answers were precious beans, not to be shared carelessly with other students who were half his age and couldn't possibly understand his secrets.
What the heck? If he found it so hard to answer the question, "What's your favorite book?" accurately, why not just make up something? It was only a training class, for heavens sakes, not the Spanish Inquisition. His reaction to this situation made me think of Colin Fletcher, another writer who was equally defensive and prickly about his personal life. Why do they react that way? Do I do it, too?
Maybe I do--in certain circumstances with certain people, I have. And so that's the rub, isn't it? If you're going to travel and write about the people you meet, how do you get their stories out of them without acting like an inquisitor? Do you have to hang out and get drunk together, or join in the making of empanadas for a party? Do you just keep asking questions until you luck onto a person who is full of grievances he needs to share?
Mr. Theroux seems to have mastered all of these strategies. Makes me want to read another of his books...and I will.
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