In a compelling and disturbing scene in the first chapter, while being mugged in a men's room in a Goa bus station, the narrator steps in a squishy pile of human excrement. Good writing and you wanted to go wash your feet right away. Problem is, the narrator then immediately goes out to lunch at an upscale restaurant with his girlfriend and neither she nor anybody else comments on the smell, which, in the intense Indian heat, had to have been horrible. Problem: the writer goofed on the continuity. He just forgot he had excrement on his feet. Later, the narrator opens his eyes underwater, in the Indian Ocean, while inspecting the hull of a boat, and reports in detail on what he sees. Problem: you can't see details when you open your eyes in a clear swimming pool, let alone salt water. As a result of instances like these the entire supposedly true adventure falls suspect, and when you are reading a travel narrative, what good is it if it didn't happen? My theory: the guy wrote a novel basely loosely on his travel experiences that wasn't good enough to sell -- too many coincidences and conveniences, a lot of description and no real character develpment -- so he pawned it off as a memoir. Nice try. To be fair, some of the place descriptions were as vivid as the best travel writing.