If this sequel—["The Old Patagonian Express"] must be called that—is not so delightful as "The Great Railway Bazaar," the fault is as much geography's as Theroux's. Europe and Asia are a richer venue for this sort of thing than Latin America, which by contrast lacks character, deep literary and historical associations, and variety. For anyone experienced with Europe, it is desperately boring. Squalor in Mexico is identical to squalor in El Salvador; the ghastly Mexican town Papaloapán is too much like the horrible Costa Rican town Limón, 600 miles farther south. Illiteracy here is like illiteracy there. As Theroux proceeds, things do get worse, but not dramatically worse: "Since leaving the United States," he writes, "I had not seen a dog that wasn't lame, or a woman who wasn't carrying something…." He seems aware that his sequel isn't quite up to the original, alluding to poor Jack Kerouac, fat and 50, trying to re-experience "On the Road" by hitchhiking West many years later. "Times had changed. The lugubrious man reached New Jersey; there he stood for hours in the rain, trying to thumb a ride, until at last he gave up and took a bus home."
Paul Theroux does not give up, although often he is brought close to despair. (p. 1)
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