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"A fascinating insight into what we're all about on the highways and byways along the outback track." --The Telegraph (Sydney)
Swept off to live in Sydney by his Australian bride, American writer Tony Horwitz longs to explore the exotic reaches of his adopted land. So one day, armed only with a backpack and fantasies of the open road, he hitchhikes off into the awesome emptiness of Australia's outback.
What follows is a hilarious, hair-raising ride into the hot red center of a continent so desolate that civilization dwindles to a gas pump and a pub. While the outback's terrain is inhospitable, its scattered inhabitants are anything but. Horwitz entrusts himself to Aborigines, opal diggers, jackeroos, card sharks, and sunstruck wanderers who measure distance in the number of beers consumed en route. Along the way, Horwitz discovers that the outback is as treacherous as it is colorful. Bug-bitten, sunblasted, dust-choked, and bloodied by a near-fatal accident, Horwitz endures seven thousand miles of the world's most forbidding real estate, and some very bizarre personal encounters, as he winds his way to Queensland, Alice Springs, Perth, Darwin--and a hundred bush pubs in between.
Horwitz, the Pulitzer Prize-winning author of two national bestsellers, Confederates in the Attic and Baghdad Without a Map, is the ideal tour guide for anyone who has ever dreamed of a genuine Australian adventure.
"Lively, fast-paced and amusing . . . a consistently interesting and entertaining account." --Kirkus Reviews
"Ironical, perceptive and subtle . . . will have readers getting out their maps and itching to follow Horwitz's tracks. . . . The internal journey is his finest achievement; he allows the reader into his heart, to go travelling with him there, sharing his adventures of the spirit." --Sunday Times (London)
Even aimless journeys have a purpose I suppose. Read the first page
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Front Cover | Copyright | Table of Contents | Excerpt | Back Cover
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Customer Reviews
Horwitz is an unlikely prospect for an Australian adventurer. A transplanted Yank [Washington, DC to Sydney], urban [New York City to, again, Sydney] and Jewish [a bit anomalous in the Outback]. These conditions might fatally impair the less adventurous, but Horwitz can "boldly go" [as he did in a later book] and so he does. With singular dedication, he even starts his trek heading West from Sydney past Dubbo to the Alice. With no direct Sydney to Alice route, the journey is circuitous, a fine introduction to the later expedition. Here, Horwitz encounters people and displays his talent at recording them. The limited number of roads implies limited options and few rides. It's a closed world and he becomes "the crazy Yank we heard about back in Nevertire."
Constricted view doesn't inhibit Horwitz' abilities. He has an advantage over many travel writers - he's a journalist first and a traveller after. A perceptive eye and a talented pen record his reaction to the land of Australia. And the people he encounters, which become the focus of his attention. He's good with people, drawing them out - fulfilling the image of the chatty Yank, entertaining, but somehow provocative. The drivers, pub keepers and drinkers respond to his novelty. He records them with lively asides, keeping your interest with every page. 'Surely, these can't be real people,' you may think. No worries - Horwitz has captured them intimately, intruding only lightly as they respond to his queries.
A poignant chapter, describing his search for a Jewish family in Broome with whom to celebrate Passover, is the highlight of the book. Noting the town's multiracial population, he observes: "Australians . . . seem uncomfortable when the subject of Judaism is raised." He attributes the feeling purely to ignorance, not prejudice, a welcome change from attitudes toward the "Abos." Horowitz, although claiming atheism, remains drawn to the family gathering of the seder. Alone in Broome, he discovers a new level of solitude - in this polyglot community, Jews are rarer than jewels. He pores over the telephone directory which only displays "an Anglo-Saxon litany of Browns, Harrisons and Smiths." A solution beckons in the guise of a local priest. "It is a common sort of misconception. If there's no rabbi about, well, try a priest. One religious ratbag's as good as another." The solution, however, lies elsewhere. The situation amply portrays Horwitz' humanity, absolving him of any stigma of the detached, unfeeling journalist. His roots are a significant element in his life, one that gently, but insistently, haunts him. This book can haunt you, as it does me.
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