About book Full Tilt: Ireland To India With A Bicycle (1987)
This book begins as matter-of-factly as it ends: with Dervla Murphy announcing that—since it was her childhood ambition to ride a bicycle from her home in Ireland, to India—January of 1963 seemed as good a time as any to cross that item off her “To Do” list.And so off she goes—totally alone—with nothing like the kit that a long-distance cyclist might carry now, on a bicycle that many of us would not consider sturdy enough for a jaunt to the Post Office and back.The career of Travel Writer is an unusual one: since so much of it involves “ruining”. After all, the headline “The Ten Unspoiled Beaches of Anywhere” means that those beaches won’t be unspoiled too much longer. The job, most of the time, is giving directions to the Garden of Eden so a sweaty mob can hurry on down to Paradise and destroy it.The travel writers I tend to prefer are those who “board in dread”: believing that staying home would be so much better than going away. Paul Theroux is the classic example of this Reluctant Tourist: in book after book seeming to suggest that seeing distant places is fundamentally torture, mixed with episodes of simple misery.So, of course, I enjoyed this example of an amazing traveler, seeing amazing sights, having amazing adventures, because—much of the time—she’s enduring amazing hardship with the kind of “well...you know...shit happens” style of pluck and gumption that gets almost comical after reading awhile.To begin with, one of the elements that makes this book so thought-provoking is the fact (and it is a Fact) that—a little over forty years later—this journey could not be replicated...by anyone.The most optimistic, forceful, and pious Muslim woman could never ride a bicycle, unveiled and unaccompanied, along this route: Ireland, across Europe, to Tehran—all the way across Iran—all the way across Afghanistan—across the northern reach of Pakistan—and into India.The politics in the region have changed so much, and so many new battlefields have opened new wounds that now a woman just attempting the transit could expect no happy ending—and could only hope that her very dire end would be private. Not uploaded to social media so that her family, her friends, and people who knew her as a child would not be appalled by her blood-drenched end.In the happier (and certainly more innocent) world of 1963, Dervla Murphy has her troubles. Food is frequently scarce—and monotonous when abundant. Drinkable water is often a problem. Roads appear, here and there, but much of her route is unimproved. The people are dirty and smelly, and sometimes she’s sleeping on the floor in a corner. The route takes her through glaciers, and days when the metal of bicycle is too hot to touch.But all of it is just “foreign”—none of it is “lethal”—and, again and again, she demonstrates a rare gift of meeting people more than halfway: inspiring them to assist her, to collect simple gifts, and attract the kind of good will that allows her to continue.This book is, in a sense, one person’s “moon landing”. With a working bicycle, a few changes of clothes, and a few pounds of English money in her pocket, Dervla Murphy makes a journey that no one might ever duplicate in its logistical details—and absolutely no one will ever make again in its sense of visiting parts of the world before they became famous as military and ideological battlefields.Our traveler, in this case, just rode through—hoping for the best. On a lot of days, “the best” didn’t happen. But what often did happen was “very good”.Highly recommended for anyone who admires a story of high adventure presented without photographs, with some pert comments, and a modest kind of shrug. This book begins as matter-of-factly as it ends: with Dervla Murphy announcing that—since it was her childhood ambition to ride a bicycle from her home in Ireland, to India—January of 1963 seemed as good a time as any to cross that item off her “To Do” list.And so off she goes—totally alone—with nothing like the kit that a long-distance cyclist might carry now, on a bicycle that many of us would not consider sturdy enough for a jaunt to the Post Office and back.The career of Travel Writer is an unusual one: since so much of it involves “ruining”. After all, the headline “The Ten Unspoiled Beaches of Anywhere” means that those beaches won’t be unspoiled too much longer. The job, most of the time, is giving directions to the Garden of Eden so a sweaty mob can hurry on down to Paradise and destroy it.The travel writers I tend to prefer are those who “board in dread”: believing that staying home would be so much better than going away. Paul Theroux is the classic example of this Reluctant Tourist: in book after book seeming to suggest that seeing distant places is fundamentally torture, mixed with episodes of simple misery.So, of course, I enjoyed this example of an amazing traveler, seeing amazing sights, having amazing adventures, because—much of the time—she’s enduring amazing hardship with the kind of “well...you know...shit happens” style of pluck and gumption that gets almost comical after reading awhile.To begin with, one of the elements that makes this book so thought-provoking is the fact (and it is a Fact) that—a little over forty years later—this journey could not be replicated...by anyone.The most optimistic, forceful, and pious Muslim woman could never ride a bicycle, unveiled and unaccompanied, along this route: Ireland, across Europe, to Tehran—all the way across Iran—all the way across Afghanistan—across the northern reach of Pakistan—and into India.The politics in the region have changed so much, and so many new battlefields have opened new wounds that now a woman just attempting the transit could expect no happy ending—and could only hope that her very dire end would be private. Not uploaded to social media so that her family, her friends, and people who knew her as a child would not be appalled by her blood-drenched end.In the happier (and certainly more innocent) world of 1963, Dervla Murphy has her troubles. Food is frequently scarce—and monotonous when abundant. Drinkable water is often a problem. Roads appear, here and there, but much of her route is unimproved. The people are dirty and smelly, and sometimes she’s sleeping on the floor in a corner. The route takes her through glaciers, and days when the metal of bicycle is too hot to touch.But all of it is just “foreign”—none of it is “lethal”—and, again and again, she demonstrates a rare gift of meeting people more than halfway: inspiring them to assist her, to collect simple gifts, and attract the kind of good will that allows her to continue.This book is, in a sense, one person’s “moon landing”. With a working bicycle, a few changes of clothes, and a few pounds of English money in her pocket, Dervla Murphy makes a journey that no one might ever duplicate in its logistical details—and absolutely no one will ever make again in its sense of visiting parts of the world before they became famous as military and ideological battlefields.Our traveler, in this case, just rode through—hoping for the best. On a lot of days, “the best” didn’t happen. But what often did happen was “very good”.Highly recommended for anyone who admires a story of high adventure presented without photographs, with some pert comments, and a modest kind of shrug.
Finished....oh thank goodness! I'm so glad that I'm done this book. The only thing that kept me pushing through was the fact that I was reading it for a class. I thought that Dervla's adventures were interesting, and that she was incredibly eager to get into the craziest situations, but I'm not a fan of her form of storytelling...at all. I understand it's in diary form, but I would have much preferred the focus to be on the environment, the different things that she describes as being beautiful, so basically the things she sees. We get the most extraneous details on her meals, and on the people she stays with. The food part would have been good if she'd just described the crazy dishes, but for the most part she eats eggs, which honestly, really isn't interesting...I can eat eggs, too. She describes how everything stinks, but when she sees something beautiful she says it's beautiful and doesn't really elaborate, at least not as much as I would have liked. If I'm going to endure reading through a book where I'm told everything she eats, I would at the very least like to have the amazing things she's seen described...as those are the actual details that I'd want to hear about. Also, I didn't really like Dervla. I know I don't know her, and I feel like I'm kind of being mean by saying that. However, I'm talking about her as the narrator, and as this is her travel "diary" I'm taking most of what she says at face value, and some of her comments I found to be incredibly judgmental, or I felt like they seriously underplayed certain situations. In fact, she seemed more sympathetic with the starving animals than she did with the starving people half of the time, and when she gives her food to a starving man she actually says she wishes she hadn't given it to him because then she didn't have food. So she missed one meal, and this man is starving, yet she still wishes she hadn't shared. This wouldn't be so bad if she hadn't been getting basically everything free in her travels. In most of the countries she travels through they don't let their guests pay for anything, so she gets free food, free shelter, free bicycle repairs...and even free cigarettes, but she can't share one measly meal with a starving man without regret...I'm sorry, but that's just awful. There were also some comments that just seriously rubbed me the wrong way. It's probably a good thing people don't share their every thought in every day life because when you're being honest as Dervla seemed to be in this book...you say some things that really don't make you look good. So, I didn't like this book. In fact, my prof said he didn't even like this book...at least not the first time he read it, but personally, I won't be giving it another chance. While Dervla is an amazing traveler, and I'm sure she's the life of the party, I don't think she's all that great at writing about it. If you really like travel writing, and don't mind maybe reading a book a few times you'll probably like this way more than I did, but for me...it was definitely a miss.
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I just finished this book, and am really torn about it.On the one hand, Murphy is clearly to be admired for her take-no-prisoners approach to bike touring. She does more with less than most of us could possibly dream of. I would have been a worried mess in a lot of the situations she describes. She does an excellent job of describing the scenery and environment she passes through using simple but evocative imagery.On the other hand, I find many of her attitudes to be annoying, if not downright loathsome. She complains that the Iranians suffer from "hundreds of years of inbreeding." Later, she wonders why anyone would bother trying to institute literacy in Kashmir when, in her opinion, nobody has ever shown it to be useful to the poor and ignorant. She is freely given the vast majority of her food, lodging, transportation ( when she's not riding ) and then complains that she regretted missing a meal when she gave some eggs to a man who was literally starving. She has some sort of "noble savage" fetish where she constantly complains of how western society is ruining the countries she's passing through by their insistence on building hospitals, roads, railways, and so on. She engages in bizarre double-think where she praises the practice of purdah because she thinks it makes the women happy to know their place, and yet never seems to realize that if she were in that position she would never be allowed to engage in the travel she's clearly enjoying. And so on.She describes the book as being essentially a lightly-edited diary, and as such, it's really quite well done. She clearly pulls no punches in describing her thoughts and feelings. And that's really the crux of the problem, I really, really dislike her as a person. Honestly, the only reason I continued with the book was to see what sort of ridiculous or oblivious social observation she would come up with next, and she never failed to disappoint in that regard.My approach to travelogues is to imagine that I'm alongside the author as they go on their adventures. As such, it requires a certain amount of empathy and affection for them. In this case, I feel as if I would have thrown up my hands in disgust and gone on alone as soon as we left Europe.
—Rich Mulvey
Sellise reisi tegemiseks peab olema ikka heas mõttes hullumeelne. Hull ei ole mitte rattaga rännata, vaid hull on see, et sa alustad rattasõitu keset paganama külma talve... Aga muidu - tehke järgi, kes tahab! Samas, ma kardan, et kuna tema tegi oma reisi 1963.aastal ja sellest ajast on aega rohkelt mööda läinud, siis samasugune marsruut üksikule naisele ei ole vast enam ohutu. Tema kogemused olid muidugi pigem ülivõrdes (eriti Afganistan ja Pakistan) aga konfliktid, mis on antud piirkondasid lõhestanud, on tõenäoliselt need suurepärased lahked inimesed, keda Dervla oma rännakul kohtas, veelgi kaugemale maanurkadesse pagendanud.Muidu oli kerge unustada, et ta rattamatk (käikudeta ratas, muide) oli enam kui 50 aastat tagasi, aga kui ma lugesin seda, kuidas ta käis Afganistanis vaatamas liivakalju sisse raiutud Buddha kuju, mis Talibani poolt 2001. aastal õhku lasti, siis oli terav meeldetuletus, kuidas maailm muutunud on...Üle pika aja märkisin mõned laused ka ära, et nende juurde tagasi tulla:"Kuid mitte keegi ei paista teadvat, kas Bamianist edasi on maantee lumevaba või mitte." - Ausalt öeldes on millegipärast jube keeruline harjuda mõttega, et Afanistan, Iraan ja Pakistan peavad ka tegelema olukorraga, kus neil on liiga palju lund. Muidugi on seal ka jube palav (ma EI lähe sinna kunagi sellel ajal, millal Dervla seal oli) aga tõenäoliselt tänu meediast kajastatavale pildile ja sellele, et mäed unustatakse sujuvalt ära, ei mõtlegi sellele, et seal ka lund on..."/.../ent kahtlustan kangesti, et kommunisid on lahendusele lähemal, kui lääs; kommunistidel on hoopis avaram ettekujutus rahvuslikke temperamentide erinevusest, nagu väga selgelt ilmnes tänases vestluses kahe siinse venelasega. Nemad tahavad kommunistliku elulaadi kehtestades minimaalselt kahjustada rahvaste aluskombeid /.../ - See oli vist ainus koht terves raamatu mis pani mind kulme kergitama ja küsima, et oot, mida ta kommunismi alla tõmmatud riikidest teabki? Nõukogude Eestis vast see rahvaste aluskommete minimaalne kehtestamine läks küll kaarega mööda... Aga noh, raudne eesriie võis mõlemapoolne olla ja ega kõigeteadmist ei saagi oodata.Nagu näha, on mul selle raamatu kohta palju mõtteid ja palju kirjutada. Üheltpoolt pani see igatsema maailma, kus tõesti on nii turvaline (ma ei ütle, et hetkel ei oleks, aga ma usun, et hetkel on seda turvalist teed keerulisem leida) ja teiseltpoolt mõtlema sellele, et olid tollal head-vead ja on ka nüüd... Vist on ka minu õnn, et mind ei tõmba antud piirkonna maadesse seljakotiga rändama. Ma süüdistan selles peamiselt seda, et seal on hoolimata lume ja liustike (on neid veel alles või on need ainult mälestused Dervla raamatust?) olemasolust ka põrgulikult palav. Ning mina ja palavus... Me oleme teretuttavad.
—Ene Sepp
This really is an amazing book. Definitely in the 'can't put it down but I need a break!' category. Cycling from Ireland to Delhi, India, Dervla Murphy has extraordinary adventures, faces life-threatening hardships, including heat stroke, starvation, weather-related calamities. But has this intensely rich experience of getting to know - really getting to know and love - people from the countries she traveled through. I found this book incredibly humbling and eye-opening, especially in light of current relations our country has with these same countries, and prejudices that are so rampant against Islam and Muslims. Here truly is a tale from the other side of that misunderstanding divide. The most striking thing to me was a point she made and also just showed again and again was the interdependence of people in harsh conditions - this hospitality in the rough, life-on-the-edge places. It made me realize how dependent she was for survival on the people in the countries she was visiting. The only way to survive a trip like this was immersion. You can't just be in your European (etc) bubble on a bicycle in places like this or you'll die. You have to let pretty much everything go except your humanity and be a part of these countries. I think it's a question of visiting vs becoming part of those worlds. You can't really visit and survive. Two odd things were a bit bothersome, but hey, it was her journal and she can write what she wanted! She could be a bit snarky about people she didn't click so well with, like the Persians and at the end Hindus. As well as effusive with ones she did - the Afghans could do no wrong! It was pretty much mutual love actually. She could be a bit 'black and white' I thought, and in this later day (my world) of political correctness, that was a bit uncomfortable. At the end of the book (which involved very little time in India) she hadn't really given India a chance yet, so was still snarking as she did at first with Pakistan. The other odd thing was that the journal entries just ended! But I think her immediately following adventures are picked up in another book on Nepal.
—Lisa
