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The Pillars of Hercules (Paul Theroux, 1995)

Check Amazon.co.uk for this book.

ISBN 0-1402-4533-2

Following on from his somewhat maudlin and indulgent Happy Isles of Oceania, Theroux returns to something of his old form with this epic account of his travels throughout the Mediterranean. To me it shares many of the qualities of Riding the Iron Rooster: It is a long work, and if parts of the book seem lengthy and wearisome, then perhaps that is just the reflection of a long and tiring journey, far from home.

He begins his narrative with a wonderful set piece – moronic tourist teasing an ape on the Rock of Gibraltar, concluding "Yes, the apes are better mannered than the tourists" – then moves on, bringing us with him, like conspirators, or guests, as he sets out eastwards along the north coast of the Med.

‘What I liked best about Nice that night was the heavy rain. Nice was smack against the sea, and so the many lights from the apartment houses and the old world street lamps created a Whistlerish effect of glowing bulbs and reflections, like one of his wet nocturnes. Yes, that was possible in New Jersey, too.’ – p. 99

I’ve never been much of a Greenpeace supporter but, like any New Zealander, I bitterly resented the French taking it upon themselves to blow up the first Rainbow Warrior in Auckland Harbour, killing photographer Fernando Pereira. But, I hear the apologist saying, surely it was the French government – not the French people – who perpetrated this barbaric act. Oh, really? I think not. French foreign policy has exhibited the same arrogant self-interest for decades. When government policy endures so long – as in Austria, as in the Balkans, as in Iraq, as in Nigeria – it can only be with the complicity of the people. Evidently Theroux and I are in some agreement, here, at least with respect to the French. He has this to say:

‘Walking past a police station, I decided to go in and bluntly inquire about crime in Marseilles…. [O]n cue – a policeman said, "Arabs, Arabs, Arabs … They are the cause of all the trouble…"

‘The French are entirely frank in expressing their racism. I wondered whether this lack of delicacy, indeed stupidity, was an absence of inhibition or simply arrogance. Their public offensiveness ranged from smoking in restaurants to testing nuclear bombs in the Pacific. Perhaps they did not know that the world had moved on, or perhaps they just did not care; or, more likely, they delighted in being obnoxious.’ – pp. 94-95

Aye, aye, Captain Mafart. Oh, yes, Virginia: of course I know I am generalising also.

* * *

Alain Mafart and Dominique Prieur – just two of a much larger team of French secret service agents – were caught and pleaded guilty to charges of manslaughter and wilful damage in the High Court at Auckland. Their guilty plea ensured that the findings of the police investigation would never be made public. Our sanctimonious but ultimately spineless prime minister of the day, David Lange, agreed to release the prisoners into French custody in return for a NZ$13 million ‘apology’ from the French. The agents spent less than two years in custody at the French military base on Hao Atoll.

The next morning he meets, and devotes a page or two to, some Greenpeace crew from the Rainbow Warrior – omitting to mention the fate of the ship which earlier bore that name (side panel).

About half way through his trip, the "chattering tourists that reminded me of the rock apes on the slopes of Gibraltar" finally became too much for him, so he went home to "tend my garden" before returning to Nice and joining a cruise.  "I had never been on a cruise before, or seen people like this" (p. 190). Theroux’s claim that this was his first cruise is odd: we have his book Sailing Through China (1984) in which he narrates a boat cruise down the Changjiang with an idiosyncratic group of wealthy Americans to contradict that. But perhaps rivers don’t count.

* * * * *

Theroux seemingly spends much of his time agonising over the condition of the long distance writer; this is a representative example of at least half a dozen soliloquies along the same lines:

‘Perhaps there is a sort of travellers’ guilt, from being self-contained, self-indulgent, and passing from one scene to another, brilliant or miserable makes no difference. Did the traveller, doing no observable work, freely moving among settled serious people, get a pang of conscience? I told myself that my writing – this effort of observation – absolved me from any guilt; but of course that was just a feeble excuse.’ – p. 121

Who’s he trying to convince, I wonder?

It is a general characteristic of Theroux’s travel writing that he takes any opportunity, even if he has to force it into the text, to make a point of denying any interest in the kind of things which might attract you or me to a place. Ruins, cathedrals, scenery: he would have us believe he has not a bar of it. So it is good to catch him sneaking off to see the sights in Corsica:

‘In slippery mud and pouring rain I made my way through the cold forest to the simple settlement of stones. … The megalithic ruins of Corsica [are] wonders of Mediterranean prehistory. Dolmens, menhirs, and statue-menhirs – the most ancient of them probably four thousand years old.’ – p. 142-3

… or Syria:

‘Wishing to see the great Crusader castle known variously as the Krac des Chevaliers and Qal’at al-Hisn, I made a deal with a taxi driver named Abdallah…. The Krac was the epitome of that sort of dream castle, with ramparts and dungeons and symmetrical fortifications, and a chapel and stately watchtowers.’ – p. 429

All in all, a welcome return to form.

Recommendation: Recommended.

Look and Feel: My edition is the usual matt-finish paperback. No photographs.

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