This is not Geoff Dyer's best book. In fact, it's his worst, but Dyer's less good books are so much better than most other writer's best books that it deserves five stars anyway.
This only appears to be 'Geoff Dyer writes a travel book about some exotic places'. In fact, as fans of the man's work are aware, each book he writes is a chapter in a sort of ongoing autobiography. The problem with this one is that it's the most nakedly autobiographical one, travel books being what they are. The Travel Writer persona is not a mask that suits Dyer. His book on WW1, or his sort-of critical study of DH Lawrence, are more absorbing because they're about Dyer identifying with his subjects. Here, he has only himself as tourist to identify with. It also appears that he wasn't having the best time during his travels; there are strong hints at some sort of serious breakdown. This means that his customary stimulating interest in the outside world is somewhat muted - it's one of the most introspective travel books ever written.
Fortunately for us all he seems to have rallied, because he went on to write one of his best and richest books, 'The Ongoing Moment', a superb meditation on photography. In the meantime, savour this book for its melancholy, its troubled nostalgia, its longing to be somewhere else, and not least for its hilarious account of the author attempting to change out of his wet trousers in the toilet of a cafe in Amsterdam while very, very stoned - possibly the funniest two pages of English literature I have ever read.