The Last Train to Zona Verde by Paul Theroux: How not to write about Africa

A decade after his last African travelogue, Dark Star Safari, Paul Theroux picks up where he left off. “What am I doing here?” begins to appear as a refrain. I began asking it, too: “What are you doing here, Paul? Why are you making me rehearse this done

The Last Train to Zona Verde: Overland from Cape Town to Angola
Paul Theroux
Hamish Hamilton, 368pp, £20

A decade after his last African travelogue, Dark Star Safari, which took him from Cairo to Cape Town, Paul Theroux picks up where he left off. He starts at the southern tip, intending to journey up “the left-hand side of Africa” until he finds “the end of the line, either on the road or in my mind”. He begins with a flash-forward to an experience with the !Kung people of north-east Namibia:

I then resumed kicking behind a file of small-bodied, mostly naked men and women who were quick-stepping under a sky fretted with golden fire through the dry scrub of what was once coarsely known in Afrikaans as Boesmanland (Bushmanland) – pouch-breasted women laughing among themselves, an infant with a head like a fuzzy fruit bobbing in one woman’s sling, men in leather clouts clutching spears and bows, nine of us altogether – and I was thinking, as I’d thought for years travelling the earth among humankind: the best of them are bare-assed.

This tour de force of pseudo-ethnography would have been the end of the line for this reader, had he not been a reviewer on deadline. If you stop here, though, you will not realise that Theroux retracts this scene a few pages later – we learn that it was a re-enactment staged for foreign tourists. He encounters this group again shortly after, when they have changed from animal skins back into second-hand clothes handed out by western charities: T-shirts lettered “TommyHilfiger” and “Springfield Hockey”. What visitors see is “a travesty in the precise meaning of the word . . . a dressing up in unnatural clothes”. The Ju/’hoansi misrepresent themselves “to cater to the imaginations of fantasists, of which I was one”, and the result is like taking a re-enactment at Plimoth Plantation for the reality of Massachusetts today.

The strange and troubling thing about this passage and about the book as a whole is that, even though they are contradicted at every turn, Theroux is unwilling to let go of his African fantasies. In any case, prose like that can’t easily be forgotten and he reprises the whole scene halfway through, having another anthropological go of things before heading to Angola. Here, “the twitching decrepitude of urban Africa” resumes and the book disintegrates in a welter of Afro-pessimism so intense that it out-Naipauls both Naipauls and makes even Conrad’s Marlow seem fairly chipper. “I became conscious of entering a zone of irrationality,” he writes: “the awful, poisoned, populous Africa; the Africa of cheated, despised, unaccommodated people; of seemingly unfixable blight.”

As in Dark Star Safari, Theroux has come to Africa because he wants to get away from emails, mobile phones, braying dinner-party guests, trivialities, and so on. Things start out fine: he acclimatises in luxury hotels in Cape Town, visits some townships, then gets a bus all the way to Namibia. Along the way, he registers various Southern African accents in italics – rather annoying but fair enough. “Good journey, sir” becomes “Jinny”; we hear of “dimisteek servants”, “thitty kilometres”, the “jaw-twisting Afrikaner yeauh for ‘here’ ”. All this, you sense, is just preparation. He wants to re-enter the zona verde, the green, brooding landscapes and immemorial rurality of “l’Afrique profonde”, where a narrator-hero descended from Herodotus, Haggard, Thesiger, Hemingway, Blixen, van der Post et al can commune with his subconscious and have big thoughts in an Africa uncomplicated by 21st-century African people.

As Theroux-watchers will know, his sub-Saharan travelogues read as if he had taken Binyavanga Wainaina’s sarcastic instructions on “How to Write About Africa” literally. He is, as the sharp-eyed blog Africa Is a Country remarks, “so reliable that way”. He mints generalisations and insults at such a clip that they soon begin to outstrip even the most gifted parodist. Africa “can be fierce”, we are told, but “in general . . . turns no one away”. Game animals have all but disappeared from war-torn Angola but human specimens substitute, “many of them, in their destitution, taking the place of wildlife”. He is told to avoid eye contact with hustlers at the border, which proves “strangely prescient” – “Animal behaviourists agree: stare at a chimp and he is likely to attack you.”

There is a problem: China has arrived, modernity is here to stay and Africa is now the fastest-urbanising continent in the world. There are “rappers and cellphoners” everywhere. Theroux is down on “rap”, which he hears blaring from Gugulethu to Luanda; he sniffs at the popularity of baseball caps in a continent where baseball is unknown. Fortunately, not all of American hip-hop culture has emigrated intact: “A skateboard,” we are told, “is unusable on an African road.”

As it turns its nose up at pop culture, telecommunications and the urban tout court, one can watch this travelogue painting itself into a very tight corner. In Angola, the bus breaks down in a tiny village where there is an “Efundula” initiation ceremony of young maidens in progress. There is an almost audible sigh of relief, as the book can indulge once more in ethnographic elaboration: “The cliché for them was nubile. And nubile was exactly what they were.”

But then it is back on the road, back to the squalor. All the while, as Theroux will learn, his credit card is being skimmed back in Namibia. The bank statement reads like a list of all the things the text would like to wish away, a return of the repressed in the form of Southern Africa’s tawdry brand names and franchises: $4,000 at OK Bazaars in Windhoek, almost as much at Edgars Furniture; booze at Shoprite; “lots of sunglasses from the Sunglass Hut, numerous computers, a used car, tinted windows, new alloy wheels, $800 worth of new shoes, and many supermarket bills”. It is a tremendous irony that while Theroux is deliberately offline on bad roads in Angola, pursuing “the dark star of my anxious dreams”, he is being fleeced by hi-tech identity fraud.

He knocks around Luanda for a while, trying but failing to get invited to speak to the Angolan Writers’ Union. They don’t see the point of it, he is told by a fixer: “They didn’t think there was anything you could tell them that they didn’t already know.” In turn, he judges the work of Angolan writers such as Pepetela, Arnaldo Santos and Sousa Jamba to be “like many African novels . . . sententious and lacking in humour”.

The attacks by Boko Haram in Nigeria and a coup in Mali put paid to the onward journey, which is just as well, because all West African cities are alike – “a perfect fright”. To write about them properly, one would need (and I did wonder how this made it past the editor) “the temperament of a proctologist”.

The rhetoric is so offensive and plain bizarre to anyone making her or his life in “Africa” that I had no option but to pretend that we were in a different genre, to keep imagining the book as a comic novel with a deliberately unlikeable narrator. I found myself often putting it down and googling clips from the documentaries made by Theroux’s more light-hearted son Louis as an antidote.

In the shift from Theroux Jr’s early, wacky documentaries about far-right separatists to the more textured accounts of private security in Johannesburg, we see the evolution of a subtle, supple documentary intelligence. He becomes less intrusive and controlling, more likeable; no longer content to rest on easy ironies and prepared to let others have the last word. Southern Africa has been good for Louis Theroux’s approach; but the opposite is true for his father’s prose style and here it reaches the end of the line – in the literary, if not the geographical sense.

Indeed, the man who (he quotes himself) once wrote, “Ever since childhood, I have seldom heard a train go by and not wished I was on it” comes to an extraordinary decision: not this time. The last train to Malanje is Chinese-made, modern and well lit but no can do. Not here, not now.

Perhaps it is too easy to poke fun at this kind of a travelogue from an ironic, postcolonial perch, particularly when an author is getting on. As John Jeremiah Sullivan writes in his wonderful essay “Mister Lytle”, you must not argue with the ageing reactionary, but hold in mind a picture of the younger man at the height of his powers – in this case, the “fresh-air fiend” having lots of sex in Malawi or canoeing around the Pacific; not the senior citizen with a backpack being hustled at a bus stop in Lubango. “What am I doing here?” begins to appear as a refrain, à la Rimbaud and Bruce Chatwin. I began asking it, too (aloud): “What are you doing here, Paul? Why are you making me rehearse this done-to-death critique of stereotypical versions of Africa?”

Clearly, it styles itself as some kind of hard truth-telling, one that is not afraid to fly in the face of all bien-pensant, politically correct discourse about the continent – something that goes along with his long-term critique of aid agencies, meddling foreign do-gooders and what he calls “the virtue industry”. This produces some interesting moments early on, as Theroux keeps grilling a local Cape Town guide, Archie, about why a cultural centre in Gugulethu is surrounded by litter or when he finds it hard to stomach the model of reconciliation put forward by the parents of the murdered American exchange student Amy Biehl, who went on to employ their daughter’s killers. He baits his next tour guide, Phaks, until the latter admits that he could never accept the murder of his daughter in this way: “ ‘No, no. I can’t. Never, never.’ Nayvah, nayvah.”

Then the itinerary heads north towards the wide-open vistas of Bushmanland, a space that is a veritable Bermuda Triangle for travelogues: hundreds have disappeared there into the quicksands of romanticism, wishfulfilment and mysticism.

Working at an African university where everyone goes out of their way to avoid dropping ethnocentric and “essentialist” clangers, I find it rather fascinating to a see a writer letting it all hang out like this. Thousands of seminar hours are devoted to interrogating problematic representations of “indigenous knowledge systems” and the “First Peoples”; and then here comes Uncle Paul, like a bull in a china shop, knocking around Tsumkwe for a while before climbing back in the Land Rover and heading off to an elephant- back safari.

A prose that might once have been described as (at best) “mercurial” has crossed a line into being the disconnected notes that a grumpy old man writes up each evening in his hotel. Finally, Theroux claims that he is not an Afro-pessimist, just a pessimist. Yet there is a lost opportunity here, for what could have been a pointed examination of Angola’s misspent oil wealth becomes so subsumed in an almighty fug of peevishness and a lingering rancour over the credit fraud that it becomes very difficult to know what is what.

Bankrupt in more ways than one, then, this is a book I would recommend only as a teaching aid or to someone interested in tracking the final sub-Conradian wreckage of a genre, rusting away like the hulks of tanks that so fascinate the narrator along the roads in Angola. It is imbued not just with the narrator’s old age but the senescence of an entire genre.

He does manage to fit in one more train journey, though, as an epilogue. On his last day, now back in Cape Town, having meditated a little and taken his gout pills, he bundles up the clothes that he has worn during the trip and gives them away (unlaundered?). As a resident of the city centre in Cape Town, I can affirm that this is easily done just by putting them in a box and leaving them on a street corner – they disappear within the hour, fetched away by one of the many homeless people who live on the streets. Theroux, however, takes a train to Khayelitsha, some 40 kilometres away, stops a woman at random and hands them to her. She isn’t surprised, he tells us, and accepts them gratefully, saying, “These will fit my husband”: “With a kindly smile she advised me to be careful in the township, to keep my hand on my wallet, and to leave as quickly as possible.”

Hedley Twidle is a lecturer at the University of Cape Town and the winner of the 2012 Bodley Head and Financial Times Essay Prize

"In place of wildlife": Theroux focuses on an anthropological view of Southern Africa that he finds more compelling than the region's modern life. Photograph: Ilan Godfrey.

This article first appeared in the 27 May 2013 issue of the New Statesman, You were the future once

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Britain's diversity crisis starts with its writers. Here's why

What happens on the casting couch draws the headline, but the problem starts on the page, says James Graham. 

I’m a playwright and screenwriter, which – pertinent to the issues we’ll be discussing in this enquiry – still feels weird to say. I get embarrassed, still, saying that, in a taxi or hairdressers. I don’t know why I still carry that insecurity about saying I’m a writer, but I do, because it sounds like I’m lying, even in my own head.

Obviously I’m completely biased, and probably overstating the influence and importance of my own profession, but I think so many of the problems surrounding lack of representation in the performing arts start with writers.

If we aren’t encouraging and generating writers from certain communities, classes or backgrounds to tell their stories, to write those roles, then there’s not going to be a demand for actors from those communities to play them. For casting agents or drama schools to prioritise getting diverse actors on stage. We need to create those plays and TV dramas –like the ones that I grew up with. I didn’t have any access to much theatre until I was fifteen, but I did have Boys From the Black Stuff, and I did have Cracker, and I did have Band of Gold. I think the loss of those regional producing bodies – Central, Granada – now all completely centralised into London, means that we just tell less of those stories. I remember a TV show called Boon – anyone? – which was set in Nottingham, and I would see on the TV streets I’d walked down, and think, Oh my God, that actor is walking down a street I’ve walked down. That sounds like it’s insignificant. If you’re from a town that is deprived, that feels ignored, it isn’t.

I was very lucky that at my school (which was, at the time, the largest comprehensive school in the country), from the headmaster down to the drama teachers, everyone just believed that working class kids should do plays. Be in plays, read plays, perform plays to the community. Both inside the curriculum of the school day, and outside it – drama teachers dedicating their time to staying behind. Our head of drama identified a group of us who clearly had a passion for it. We weren’t likely thesps. One lad’s entire family were made unemployed when the pit closed. Many lived on the big council estate. My parents and step-parents worked respectively in warehouses, the local council, or as the local window cleaner (incidentally, my first real job. Which I was terrible at).

Our drama teacher was encouraged and determined enough to launch the first ever Drama A-Level in our school. Based on that, about 10 or 12 of us got the confidence – or arrogance – to take our own show to the Edinburgh Festival. We were 16 or 17, and the first people in our community to ever go to visit the festival. We did a play up there, and after that, a psychological unlocking happened, where I thought: maybe I could do a degree in drama (it was the first time I had ever thought to do so) at university (the first in my family to go. Well, joint-first. My twin sister went on the same day, but I walked into my digs first).

I enrolled in drama at Hull University. A high proportion of my peers were middle class. A higher proportion from London or the South East. They talked often about institutions I had never heard of. They were talking about the National Theatre: I didn’t know we had a national theatre that my parents had been paying tax for that I had never been to. Many had performed with the (again, apparently) ‘National’ Youth Theatre, also in London. Paul Roseby, also on this panel, has made such leaps forward in getting the NYT producing in regional venues, and making auditions possible for people across the UK, but unfortunately, at the time, that wasn’t the case for me – and I was the ideal candidate to be in the National Youth Theatre.

I started writing because I had the confidence after I read texts by people like Jim Cartwright, Alan Bennett, John Godber, Alan Ayckbourn: Northern writers, working class writers that made me think it wasn’t just something that other people do.

After returning home, and working at local theatres, I moved down to London. I had to. The major new writing producers are there. All the TV companies are there. The agents are there. I was lucky to find support in a pub fringe theatre – though the economics meant there was no money to commission, so I wrote plays for free for about four years, that would get produced, and reviewed in the national press, while I worked various jobs in the day and slept for a time on a mate's floor. The first person to ever pay to commission me to write a play was Paul Roseby of the National Youth Theatre. I’m now very lucky to be earning a living doing something I love. In a way, compared to actors, or directors, it’s easier for writers who don’t come from a background that can sustain them, financially, in those early years. Your hours can be more flexible. Yes, it was annoying to miss rehearsals because I had a shift in a call centre, but it was still possible to do it. If you’re an actor or director, you’re fully committed. And if you’re doing that for nothing, there starts to be cut-off point for those from backgrounds who can’t.

I’m sure that local and regional theatres are the key to drawing in talent from less privileged backgrounds. But the range of national arts journalism that cover work outside London has been so significantly reduced. In our little echo chamber a few weeks ago, we theatre types talked about Lyn Gardner at the Guardian. Her coverage has been cut, which is very directly going to affect her ability to cover theatre shows outside of London – and so the self-fulfilling cycle of artists leaving their communities to work exclusively in London takes another, inevitable, turn.

I am culpable in this cycle. I have never done a play at the Nottingham Playhouse, my local producing house growing up – why? Because I’ve never submitted one, because I know that it will get less national press attention. So I just open it in London instead. That’s terrible of me. And I should just bite the bullet and say it doesn’t matter about the attention it gets, I should just go and do a story for my community. And if I, and others, started doing that more, maybe they will come.

I also want to blame myself for not contributing back to the state schools that I come from. I really really enjoy going to do writing workshops with kids in schools, but I would say 90 per cent of those that I get invited to are private schools, or boarding schools, or in the South of England. Either because they’re the ones that ask me, because they’re the ones who come and see my shows in London and see me afterwards backstage, or because they have the confidence to email my agent, or they have the budget to pay for my train ticket. Either way, I should do more. It would have helped the younger me so much to meet a real person, from my background, doing what I wanted to do.

I don’t know how to facilitate that. I take inspiration from Act for Change, creating a grassroots organisation. I know that there is a wealth of industry professionals like me who would, if there was a joined-up structure in place that got us out there into less privileged communities, we would on a regular basis go to schools who don’t get to meet industry professionals and don’t unlock that cultural and psychological block that working class kids have that says, that is not for me, that is something that other people do, I would dedicate so much of my time to it. That’s just one idea of hopefully better ones from other people that might come out of this enquiry.

James Graham is a playwright and screenwriter. This piece is adapted from evidence given by James Graham at an inquiry, Acting Up – Breaking the Class Ceiling in the Performing Arts, looking into the problem of a lack of diversity and a class divide in acting in the UK, led by MPs Gloria De Piero and Tracy Brabin.