Customer Reviews

Happy Isles of Oceania

5 star:		(25)
4 star:		(16)
3 star:		(9)
2 star:		(7)
1 star:		(10)

 

 

Mr Theroux did it the hard way in a collapsible kayak but his own emotional turmoil alienated him from the beauty through which he struggled. His description of the physical environment was, at times, piercingly accurate but his perception of it appeared to be distorted by chronic loneliness and a dismal lack of self esteem; indeed most references to the humans he tried to avoid were severely skewed toward the sinister. I have lived and worked in many of the places he visited yet never experienced the kind of desperation he exudes. The culture of the South Pacific is highly developed and far more complex than the "paradise" European Artists and glossy brochures would leave you to believe - it's attractiveness is as much social as visual, but a deeper understanding is required . Mr Theroux's tortured emotions have spilled onto the page to the detriment of journalistic accuracy. Some may think this adds to the charm of his story; to me it represents a vaguely cathartic voyage through personal misery rather than an intelligent portrayal of a part of our world that is simply sublime. The prose is polished by skill but this is most definitely not the South Pacific of a relaxed and rational mind

I've read all of Theroux's non-fiction and love it, but it is certainly true that his books are colored by his moods, usually dark. This is the darkest yet, and still an interesting read. I enjoyed comparing his experiences to mine in places I have visited. (I had a better time than he did in those places.) He is certainly braver than I am, travelling alone in dangerous areas, which gives more depth to his tales, but you have to wonder if all that difficulty was necessary? I'm also amazed at how little personal information he gives about the facts of his life, yet he is very generous in sharing his gloom and depression.

I find Paul Theroux's travel books to be a delight to read, and Happy Isles of Oceania is one of my favorites. Reeling from a split with his wife, PT begins his journey on a book tour in NZ and Australia, and then travels around much of Oceania. He kayaks and camps on most of the islands, and makes many discoveries about the various people and cultures. Most notable is the natives' consistent use of the ocean as a toilet and a garbage dump. He hikes in NZ's southern alps; explores the Aussie bush; attends the unusual Yam-festival in the Trobriands; meets the King of Tonga; insults a politician from NZ; plays Robinson Crusoe for a week; contracts a disease; gets stung by jellyfish; makes friends; drinks kava; wonders what drew Robert Louis Stevenson to Samoa and Paul Gaugain to Tahiti; and visits a Hawaiian island that few are allowed on. If you like PT's other travel books, you'll love this one. If you haven't read any, this is a great one to start with.

Before reading this book, I read through some of the reviews on here. Needless to say, I had the preconceived notion that this book was going to be the diatribe of a misanthropic, bitter wanderer. Although there are some moments where Theroux gets carried away with unkind portraits - his descriptions of Tongans and Samoans, for example - he is not the monster that many of the reviews here paint him as. Not everybody can be happy all the time, and that's more or less how he tells the story.

If you have never read Paul Theroux, then perhaps you will be a bit shocked at his raw cynicism. I, for one, am a big fan. This is the blood and guts of world travel. Nobody can be completely open to a new culture or worldview, and certain things are bound to be annoying. The entire adventure of his literary tour in Australia, for example, points out the nagging, dragging questions of people unfamiliar with his work yet trying to conduct journalistic interviews. It isn't until he is rumbling over the outback that he meets a rural Australian who knows and admires his work - rather unexpectedly, at that. Also, one must remember that Theroux puts it right on the table that he is going through some serious issues in his life - a rough marriage break up, health issues, and feelings of alienation - and is removing himself from the mundane to paddle away his problems.

I, for one, feel like this is one of Theroux's finest books. It is devoid of a real theme and lets you paddle alongside Theroux and his emotional travails. I've traveled a bit in Melanesia, and I find his descriptions to be quite apt. Trouble is everywhere in paradise. Murky, trashed lagoons and quarreling kin networks. Bugs, nagging children, and hustlers. But also, there is the hospitality, the betel nut, the amazing conversations, the unique and unexpected characters and, of course, the bleeding sunsets and turquoise, coral-studded seas.

Mean spirited and critical, Theroux's account of his voyage around the pacific suggests he would have done better to stay at home. Polynesians are broadly depicted as lumbering, shiftless pickpockets with Theroux choosing to include a quite shameful story about a stolen travellers cheque which he countersigns for a Samoan woman. I taught at a college in Tonga in the early nineties and have visited most of the places Theroux covers, including Western Samoa. I only ever found the most gracious and noble people who went well out of their way to be of assistance with everything and whose fundamental decency I still recall. This anti-Jap, anti-Wog romp masquerading as a travel journal will be offensive to many people. Theroux's racism is subtle and it is all the more dislikeable for its subtlety. I came away from The Happy isles Of Oceania with a fresh view on Theroux as well a sudden, irrational impulse to take a shower. This clever, unpleasant book is not a literary island I intend to visit again.

The idea of touring Oceania by kayak is an interesting one, but I was VERY DISAPPOINTED with Theroux’s book. I’m assuming Theroux was trying to be ironic by calling Oceania "happy," because the book reads like a 500-page complaint form. I don’t believe this is a genuine attempt at giving any insight into the people or places of the Pacific.

He complains about islanders who don’t smile at him on the street, or who react to him with caution or suspicion. Rather than asking himself WHY they react this way (gee, maybe it’s because he’s a single, white, male STRANGER walking into their village…), rather than trying to understand, he simply labels them unfriendly, "fat," "stupid," "lazy," "clumsy" (his words). When he doesn’t find the young, nubile females he was hoping for, he insults the friendly women he does find, calling them "hooting fatties" with "fat, booby faces." On island after island, he ridicules people’s physical appearance and makes assumptions about their intelligence based on that. Is that what a travel writer does? A professional writer? Heck, is that what a mature adult does?

When every other tourist is like Mr. Theroux, is it any wonder that islanders are so reserved or distrustful? When your home has been overrun and your culture wrung-out by Europeans and Asians for centuries, is it such a surprise that islanders might tend to look at them with a wary eye? He expresses near-hatred of Japanese for coming to the Pacific and "taking over"...but forgets that Euros/Americans have been doing the same thing for hundreds of years. The level of contempt he seems to express toward everyone he encounters is remarkable, yet he continually boo-hoos about how lonely he is...is it any wonder?

If you’re looking for a detailed list of strip joints in Honolulu, this is the book for you - he seems to have visited every single one and describes their "specialties." If you want a book about Oceania, look elsewhere.

Theroux is a great travel writer--I don't hesitate to say it. When I read his books, I feel as though I'm there with him, and I want to go myself to experience the places he visits more fully. In this book he travels all over the Pacific, including some incredibly out-of-the-way places, and has some remarkable experiences. The problem with his books is that I'm there WITH HIM. Theroux is snobbish, argumentative, sometimes racist or close to it, sometimes downright mean-spirited. I want to comment especially on his four-page diatribe against poor Thor Heyerdahl, which dropped my opinion of Theroux several notches. Who really cares if many of Heyerdahl's theories have been proven wrong? The Kon-Tiki Expedition is still one of the greatest travel books ever, at least as great as anything by Theroux, and obviously written by a person who is much easier to get along with. I had the strong feeling that Theroux was jealous of Heyerdahl because he's never done anything as courageous as sailing halfway across the Pacific on a balsa-wood raft.

I read this book a couple of years ago and am still galled by Theroux' writings. Although I have visited many of the islands of the South Pacific, I will contain my comments to Fiji alone.

I have visited many, many times and lived in Fiji for over five years with my family (my mother lived there for almost 20 years). What is written about Fiji is almost fiction. I don't know how Theroux interpreted the islanders as threatening. Their smiles could light up the world.

I've been married to a Fijian (man) for over 20 years now and Theroux' take on the people couldn't be further from the truth.

Finally, his section on the two coups that occurred is so far from the truth as to be fiction. He must only have spoken with the Indian faction to get such a one-sided slant. My mother was there during the coup and there was no threat or danger to anyone. In fact, very little "uprising" to say the least.

I've been waiting for a forum to vent my anger over the Fiji section of the book and I thank you for the space.

The title 'The Happy Isles of Oceania' can only be ironic. In this book of Theroux's travels around Australasia and the islands of the Pacific, happiness is one emotion that is noticeable by its absence. The opening chapter on New Zealand, in which its inhabitants are variously described as frightful, scruffy and dirty, sets the tone for the rest of the book. According to Theroux, every Pacific island is inhabited by a lazy, mendacious, tardy, thieving and lying populace devoid of culture and manners. Fellow travellers to these islands do not escape the wrath of Theroux's pen as they are collectively dismissed as fat, ignorant, oafish and rude. Yet for all his criticisms of other people for being rude, racist, indifferent and obdurate, the clear impression from reading the book is that Theroux is the worst offender of the lot. Even though the book is over 700 pages long, little interest is paid to the description of his destinations in terms of the natural habitat and the flora and fauna; which I imagine is one of the obvious attractions of the Pacific. Instead the book concentrates almost solely on the author's brooding following a separation from his wife and on his utter disdain for all he meets. Sadly, my lasting impression was not one of beautiful sandy beaches, blue lagoons or vibrant coral reefs, but of a sad and bitter old man who would do well to paddle to a deserted island and not return.

Good grief, if I wanted a tale filled with hours of tooth-gnashing hatred and bitter invective I can just go to work. It's certainly not the sort of atmosphere I enjoy when reading a travelogue to try and escape my workaday existence.

I understand that the South Pacific is not the ideal place, but it is depressing to read Theroux' constant struggle to express any sense of joy in his travels or the people he meets along the way.

For an alternative, more light-hearted, still realistic take on the South Pacific with far less spleen, I highly recommend Tony Horowitz' "Blue Latitudes".