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Dark Star Safari: Overland from Cairo to Capetown Paperback – April 5, 2004
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A rattletrap bus, dugout canoe, cattle truck, armed convoy, ferry, and train. In the course of his epic and enlightening journey, wittily observant and endearingly irascible Paul Theroux endures danger, delay, and dismaying circumstances. Gauging the state of affairs, he talks to Africans, aid workers, missionaries, and tourists. What results is an insightful meditation on the history, politics, and beauty of Africa and its people.
- Print length496 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherMariner Books
- Publication dateApril 5, 2004
- Dimensions5.5 x 1.11 x 8.25 inches
- ISBN-100618446877
- ISBN-13978-0618446872
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Editorial Reviews
Review
Engagingly written, sharply observed; another winner from Theroux.
Kirkus Reviews, Starred
His encounters with the natives, aid workers and occasional tourists make for rollicking entertainment, even as they offer a sobering look at the social and political chaos in which much of Africa finds itself.
Publishers Weekly
No mere tale of travel mishaps....Safari is Swahili for journey, and Theroux's is truly fantastic. Library Journal Starred
Few recent books provide such a litany of Africa's ills, even as they make one fall in love with the continent.
The Washington Post
Theroux, one suspects, could be a headache to travel with; resourceful, courageous and indefatigable, as well as crusty, opinionated and contradictory. But listening to him recount his adventures... is another matter. He can make you forget to eat, this man.
The San Francisco Chronicle
Reading Theroux may make you cancel your plane tickets and settle in at home instead for a great read. The sometime novelist is at his most masterful with DARK STAR SAFARI. (A) Entertainment Weekly
Armchair travelers will wish the book went on twice as long -- and that is something, considering that the book runs more than 400 pages. This is a masterwork by a master writer.
Minneapolis Star-Tribune
Paul Theroux. Travel. Africa. You need a better reason to read?
The San Diego Union-Tribune
The next best thing to going to Africa is to read (compulsively) this account by Paul Theroux of his overland expedition from Cairo to Capetown.
Boston Herald
[Theroux] is at his writerly best when conveying the beauty and wonder of Africa.
The Miami Herald
A gritty lesson in history, politics, aid relief and tourism; a middle-aged man's meditation on life and travel; and, above all, a masterpiece of observations that makes sense of senseless chaos and staggering wonder. Readers will be glad Therous made the trip.
Town and Country
DARK STAR SAFARI reveals the mystery of Africa, a continent of incredible disparity and resilience.
Playboy
This new travelogue ... is perhaps his most captivating work of perigrination since The Great Railway Bazaar.
The Chicago Sun-Times
Theroux is the thinking man's travel writer; in a seemingly casual, wandering fashion, he delivers a complete portrait of a continent's people, politics and economy. Bookpage
Part of "Dark Star Safari" is pure entertainment; travelogue in a grand, epic style. But Theroux also offers a sobering, contemporary look at the social and political morass in which much of Africa is mired.
Sacramento Bee
If you have even the slightest interest in Africa, travel, good writing, the modern world, the future, cities, nature, human society, love, courage--well, life in general--you are going to have to be called to the dinner table six times before you put this book down. The Chicago Tribune
I know and have traveled in Africa, so I can proclaim with admiration that Theroux, the disheveled, often grumpy, sometimes euphoric sojourner who shares his latest adventures in Dark Star Safari, is an intrepid traveler worthy of the reputation that precedes him. The Houston Chronicle
opinionated but informed, and highly readable.
Star Ledger
A marvel of observation.... Theroux is near faultless in his expression of material about Africa, a continent where he taught 40 years ago, and which he clearly loves.
Buffalo News
You won't find this trip advertised in travel brochures, but it's well worth taking vicariously.
Atlanta Journal Constitution
Neither a sensationalistic reveler in the pain of others, nor a hopeless romantic, Theroux chronicles a journey through an Africa full of decay and beauty, fear and joy, misery and perseverance. Denver Rocky Mountain News
Dark Star Safari is by turns hilarious and harrowing. It is an exploration of change, both in Africa -- its ruined —
About the Author
PAUL THEROUX is the author of many highly acclaimed books. His novels include The Bad Angel Brothers, The Lower River, Jungle Lovers, and The Mosquito Coast, and his renowned travel books include Ghost Train to the Eastern Star and Dark Star Safari. He lives in Hawaii and on Cape Cod.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
To skip ahead, I am writing this a year later, just back from Africa, having taken my long safari and been reminded that all travel is a lesson in self-preservation. I was mistaken in so much — delayed, shot at, howled at, and robbed. No massacres or earthquakes, but terrific heat and the roads were terrible, the trains were derelict, forget the telephones. Exasperated white farmers said, “It all went tits-up!” Africa is materially more decrepit than it was when I first knew it — hungrier, poorer, less educated, more pessimistic, more corrupt, and you can’t tell the politicians from the witch doctors. Africans, less esteemed than ever, seemed to me the most lied-to people on earth — manipulated by their governments, burned by foreign experts, befooled by charities, and cheated at every turn. To be an African leader was to be a thief, but evangelists stole people’s innocence, and self- serving aid agencies gave them false hope, which seemed worse. In reply, Africans dragged their feet or tried to emigrate, they begged, they pleaded, they demanded money and gifts with a rude, weird sense of entitlement. Not that Africa is one place. It is an assortment of motley republics and seedy chiefdoms. I got sick, I got stranded, but I was never bored. In fact, my trip was a delight and a revelation. Such a paragraph needs some explanation — at least a book. This book perhaps.
As I was saying, in those old undramatic days of my school- teaching in the bundu, folks lived their lives on bush paths at the ends of unpaved roads of red clay, in villages of grass-roofed huts. They had a new national flag to replace the Union Jack, they had just gotten the vote, some had bikes, many talked about buying their first pair of shoes. They were hopeful and so was I, a teacher living near a settlement of mud huts among dusty trees and parched fields. The children shrieked at play; the women, bent double — most with infants slung on their backs — hoed patches of corn and beans; and the men sat in the shade stupefying themselves on chibuku, the local beer, or kachasu, the local gin. That was taken for the natural order in Africa: frolicking children, laboring women, idle men.
Now and then there was trouble: someone transfixed by a spear, drunken brawls, political violence, goon squads wearing the ruling-party T- shirt and raising hell. But in general the Africa I knew was sunlit and lovely, a soft green emptiness of low, flat-topped trees and dense bush, bird squawks, giggling kids, red roads, cracked and crusty brown cliffs that looked newly baked, blue remembered hills, striped and spotted animals and ones with yellow fur and fangs, and every hue of human being, from pink- faced planters in knee socks and shorts to brown Indians to Africans with black gleaming faces, and some people so dark they were purple. The predominant sound of the African bush was not the trumpeting of elephants nor the roar of lions but the coo-cooing of the turtledove.
After I left Africa, there was an eruption of news about things going wrong, acts of God, acts of tyrants, tribal warfare and plagues, floods and starvation, bad-tempered political commissars, and little teenage soldiers who were hacking people. “Long sleeves?” they teased, cutting off hands; “short sleeves” meant lopping the whole arm. One million people died, mostly Tutsis, in the Rwanda massacres of 1994. The red African roads remained, but they were now crowded with ragged, bundle-burdened, fleeing refugees.
Journalists pursued them. Goaded by their editors to feed a public hungering for proof of savagery on earth, reporters stood near starving Africans in their last shaking fuddle and intoned on the TV news for people gobbling snacks on their sofas and watching in horror. “And these people” — tight close-up of a death rattle — “these are the lucky ones.” You always think, Who says so? Had something fundamental changed since I was there? I wanted to find out. My plan was to go from Cairo to Cape Town, top to bottom, and to see everything in between.
Now African news was as awful as the rumors. The place was said to be dessperate, unspeakable, violent, plague-ridden, starving, hopeless, dying on its feet. And these are the lucky ones. I thought, since I hhhhhad plenty of time and nothing pressing, that I might connect the dots, crossing borders and seeing the hinterland rather than flitting from capital to capital, being greeted by unctuous tour guides. I had no desire to see game parks, though I supposed at some point I would. The word “safari,” in Swahili, means “journey”; it has nothing to do with animals. Someone “on safari” is just away and unobtainable and out of touch.
Out of touch in Africa was where I wanted to be. The wish to disappear sends many travelers away. If you are thoroughly sick of being kept waiting at home or at work, travel is perfect: let other people wait for a change. Travel is a sort of revenge for having been put on hold, having to leave messages on answering machines, not knowing your party’s extension, being kept waiting all your working life — the homebound writer’s irritants.Being kept waiting is the human condition.
I thought, Let other people explain where I am. I imagined the dialogue: “When will Paul be back?” “We don’t know.” “Where is he?” “We’re not sure.” “Can we get in touch with him?” “No.” Travel in the African bush can also be a sort of revenge on cellular phones and fax machines, on telephones and the daily paper, on the creepier aspects of globalization that allow anyone who chooses to get his insinuating hands on you. I desired to be unobtainable. Kurtz, sick as he is, attempts to escape from Marlow’s riverboat, crawling on all fours like an animal, trying to flee into the jungle. I understood that.
I was going to Africa for the best reason — in a spirit of discovery; and for the pettiest — simply to disappear, to light out, with a suggestion of I dare you to try and find me.
Home had become a routine, and routines make time pass quickly. I was a sitting duck in my predictable routine: people knew when to call me; they knew when I would be at my desk. I was in such regular touch it was like having a job, a mode of life I hated. I was sick of being called up and importuned, asked for favors, hit up for money. You stick around too long and people begin to impose their own deadlines on you. “I need this by the twenty-fifth” or “Please read this by Friday” or “Try to finish this over the weekend” or “Let’s have a conference call on Wednesday.” Call me, fax me, e-mail me. You can get me anytime on my cell phone, here’s the number.
Being available at any time in the totally accessible world seemed to me pure horror. It made me want to find a place that was not accessible at all: no phones, no fax machines, not even mail delivery, the wonderful old world of being out of touch. In other words, gone away.
All I had to do was remove myself. I loved not having to ask permission, and in fact in my domestic life things had begun to get a little predictable, too — Mr. Paul at home every evening when Mrs. Paul came home from work. “I made spaghetti sauce . . . I seared some tuna . . . I’m scrubbing some potatoes . . .”The writer in his apron, perspiring over his béchamel sauce, always within earshot of the telephone. You have to pick it up because it is ringing in your ear.
I wanted to drop out. People said, “Get a cell phone, use FedEx, sign up for Hotmail, stop in at Internet cafés, visit my Web site . . .” I said no thanks. The whole point of my leaving was to escape this stuff, to be out of touch. The greatest justification for travel is not self- improvement but rather performing a vanishing act, disappearing without a trace. As Huck put it, lighting out for the territory.
Africa is one of the last great places on earth a person can vanish into. I wanted that. Let them wait. I have been kept waiting far too many times for far too long.
I am outta here, I told myself. The next Web site I visit will be that of the poisonous Central African bird-eating spider.
A morbid aspect of my departure for Africa was that people began offering condolences. Say you’re leaving for a dangerous place. Your friends call sympathetically, as though you’ve caught a serious illness that might prove fatal. Yet I found these messages unexpectedly stimulating, a heartening preview of what my own demise would be like. Lots of tears! Lots of mourners! But also, undoubtedly, many people boasting solemnly, “I told him not to do it. I was one of the last people to talk to him.” I had gotten to Lower Egypt, and was heading south, in my usual traveling mood: hoping for the picturesque, expecting misery, braced for the appalling. Happiness was unthinkable, for although happiness is desirable, it is a banal subject for travel. Therefore, Africa seemed perfect for a long journey.
Copyright © 2003 by Paul Theroux. Reprinted by permission of Houghton Mifflin Company.
Product details
- Publisher : Mariner Books; Reprint edition (April 5, 2004)
- Language : English
- Paperback : 496 pages
- ISBN-10 : 0618446877
- ISBN-13 : 978-0618446872
- Item Weight : 14.4 ounces
- Dimensions : 5.5 x 1.11 x 8.25 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #209,815 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #95 in General Africa Travel Books
- #299 in Travel Writing Reference
- #605 in Travelogues & Travel Essays
- Customer Reviews:
About the author

Paul Theroux was born and educated in the United States. After graduating from university in 1963, he travelled first to Italy and then to Africa, where he worked as a Peace Corps teacher at a bush school in Malawi, and as a lecturer at Makerere University in Uganda. In 1968 he joined the University of Singapore and taught in the Department of English for three years. Throughout this time he was publishing short stories and journalism, and wrote a number of novels. Among these were Fong and the Indians, Girls at Play and Jungle Lovers, all of which appear in one volume, On the Edge of the Great Rift (Penguin, 1996).
In the early 1970s Paul Theroux moved with his wife and two children to Dorset, where he wrote Saint Jack, and then on to London. He was a resident in Britain for a total of seventeen years. In this time he wrote a dozen volumes of highly praised fiction and a number of successful travel books, from which a selection of writings were taken to compile his book Travelling the World (Penguin, 1992). Paul Theroux has now returned to the United States, but he continues to travel widely.
Paul Theroux's many books include Picture Palace, which won the 1978 Whitbread Literary Award; The Mosquito Coast, which was the 1981 Yorkshire Post Novel of the Year and joint winner of the James Tait Black Memorial Prize, and was also made into a feature film; Riding the Iron Rooster, which won the 1988 Thomas Cook Travel Book Award; The Pillars of Hercules, shortlisted for the 1996 Thomas Cook Travel Book Award; My Other Life: A Novel, Kowloon Tong, Sir Vidia's Shadow, Fresh-air Fiend and Hotel Honolulu. Blindness is his latest novel. Most of his books are published by Penguin.
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Theroux set out to take an overland journey from Cairo to Capetown, and to write about it. In doing so he manages, in slightly less than 500 pages, to encapsulate the sad story of the last 40+ years of African history. In many ways, this is a sad, even tragic book. Theroux remembers when Africa was full of hope. Newly freed from the ravages and exploitation of colonialism, Africa was full of optimism. Determined to free themselves from dependence on the west, most newly independent countries opted for socialism and were very cozy with the Soviet Union and Maoist China. This, according to Theroux, was what led to their downfall. Central planning led to one party dictatorships throughout the continent, and in turn to incompetence and corruption, and in some cases, tyranny and mass murder. Theroux's journey documents many of the aftereffects of these events.
Most of the people Theroux meets on his journey are ordinary people who have no idea who he is. However, Theroux is not remiss to use his stature as a world famous writer to gain access to literary gatherings, to public officials, some of whom are old friends from his Peace Corps days, and on one occasion to the U.S. embassy. Good for him; the book is better as a result. It was difficult not to seethe with rage at the pompous African official who mocks the Indian merchants who were kicked out of the country for going through their stores with a calculator tallying the value of each item in the store. Theroux explains that this is simply taking inventory, a basic tool necessary to the efficient running of a business. The official scoffs at this, saying that Africans just aren't cut out for that sort of thing, something Theroux bluntly characterizes as "bullshit." As a result of this type of thinking, the merchant shops which used to appear in nearly every village in Africa, and which were intended to be run by Africans after the Indians were forced to leave, now lie vacant.
This is a theme that Theroux pursues relentlessly: the unwillingness of Africans to learn the skills and to put in the effort needed to remedy their dire situation. He places the blame for this not only on the governments, but also on aid organizations, NGOs, and missionaries, all of whom engage in handouts, resulting in the Africans' failure to help themselves. Theroux seems personally stressed by this as well. At one point he snaps at a man who asks him for money just after Theroux has been very ill, asking the man why he should give him money. Aren't you a man, he says, can't you take care of himself? He also paints a harrowing picture of the takeover of white-owned farms by government sanctioned squatters in Zimbabwe, with the expected result that the farms become much less productive than they were before, with the squatters expecting the farmers to do everything from giving them seeds to helping them plant to threshing the grain.
I don't wish to give the impression that Theroux's portrayal of present day Africa is totally negative. He meets many individuals, black and white, of whom he paints a positive picture. There are an African father and son who help him travel by canoe across a national boundary. There is even a nun for whom Theroux seems to have a very high regard. And he esteems Nadine Gordimer. But most of his portraits are scathing.
In spite of my praise and high regard for the book, I did not give it 5 stars because I think Theroux fails to mention anything at all about indigenous African society, by which I mean society at the tribal level. I think Theroux knows very well that African societies function very well at this level. The blunt truth is that the mess that Africa finds itself in today is the direct result of colonialism, and that the western forms of government that Africans seem unable to get to function well are artificial forms imposed on their indigenous cultures. This does not excuse present day Africans from their responsibility to learn to cope with the situation as it is, but Theroux lets the west off the hook far too easily. He also fails to mention that there is a kind of rough justice involved in the African squatters taking over the white-owned farms, because in most cases the ancestors of the present day farmers themselves stole the land from Africans. But the positives of this book far outweigh the negatives. Highly recommended for anyone interested in contemporary Africa.
Top reviews from other countries
Some interesting attitudes about Africa which many would not feel it's PC to relate, but they do ring true (1) the white 4x4 brigade ie overpaid NGO workers such as in the UN, that are completely detached from the communities they purpotedly work for and in reality live a colonial lifestyle (2) the attitude of a S African guy that felt justfied when stealing someone else's land, but felt it was wrong for someone to steal theirs (for example, in Malawi there is a general anti white feeling in many people due to colonialism, but a lack of acceptance that native Malawians were killed and outbred and current Malawians come from S Africa and the Congo ie people just create stories that benefit them and don't necessarily search for logic or truth (3) Malawi is a begging nation. Seriously, I've been on an old bicycle and a begger will run up to me rather than a black guy driving a new 4x4 asking for money. It's a nation that thinks the rest of the world is obliged to support it, doesn't believe poverty exists elsewhere, and doesn't look towards the rich and politicians in its own country to help.
In 2018 I did my own travels across Africa (Cairo to Cape) and, of course, I'm a little older. I'm reading it again and I see it in a whole new light. Age and wisdom and perhaps I've shed some of my youthful optimism. Brilliantly well written and very observant.












