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lavinia_speaks's review against another edition
adventurous
funny
informative
mysterious
medium-paced
5.0
jenmcmaynes's review against another edition
2.0
Disappointing after a very promising start. Fleming’s recounting of his trip to Brazil in 1933 to search for missing adventurer Fawcett (whom I was familiar with from The Lost City of Z) had such a droll, ironic tone that I loved it at first. But as the book continued, Fleming’s racism towards the Brazilians, massacre of wildlife for no purpose (they just shot and left the animals, not even bothering to eat them), and focus on a petty race back to civilization (against other members of his expedition with which he had a falling out), the initial charm of his language and tone wore off, and I was left reading the book of a man whom I realized I didn’t like all that much.
paul_cornelius's review against another edition
5.0
During the height of the Great Depression, 25 year-old Peter Fleming joined an expedition to the most remote parts of Brazil. The journey was officially meant to track down whatever had become of the British geographer and adventurer, Percy Fawcett, who disappeared into history while looking for a fabled "Lost City" in Brazil's wilderness. Fleming's party never got anywhere near their goal. And over the subsequent decades neither have a number of other expeditions and explorations that have searched out Fawcett's fate. His disappearance seems to be destined as a mystery unsolvable and lost to time and the ruggedness of Brazil's Matto Grosso.
For Peter Fleming, the older brother of James Bond author, Ian Fleming, it was another matter altogether (by the way, Lucy Fleming is Peter Fleming's daughter, for those who might remember the 1970s science fiction series Survivors, in which she starred). This trip, along with the publication one year later, in 1933, of Brazilian Adventure made his reputation and launched his career as a travel writer and author of historical pieces for the journal, The Spectator.
Fleming's adventures made his career burn brightly. Alas, it also burned away relatively quickly. For all his travels and adventures, he died at what seems to us today to be the young age of 64. And he is buried in a quiet churchyard in Oxfordshire. In between he travelled and wrote books about Asia, including Tibet, China, Manchuria, Russia, and what was broadly considered in the past as Tatary. But all that lay in the future for the young man of 25 whose wry, self-deprecatory retelling of his fantastic adventure into the heartland of Brazil and his encounters with Indian peoples and Brazilians of all social strata still makes for breathtaking reading.
Ultimately, Fleming's journey is not just of one to Brazil but of one through time as well. We are plunged back into the early 1930s and the era of travel by steamship and trips down tropical rivers that are only possible by canoe or steam powered launches. It was a different day, a different place, and a different time. And it all comes alive in Fleming's book.
For Peter Fleming, the older brother of James Bond author, Ian Fleming, it was another matter altogether (by the way, Lucy Fleming is Peter Fleming's daughter, for those who might remember the 1970s science fiction series Survivors, in which she starred). This trip, along with the publication one year later, in 1933, of Brazilian Adventure made his reputation and launched his career as a travel writer and author of historical pieces for the journal, The Spectator.
Fleming's adventures made his career burn brightly. Alas, it also burned away relatively quickly. For all his travels and adventures, he died at what seems to us today to be the young age of 64. And he is buried in a quiet churchyard in Oxfordshire. In between he travelled and wrote books about Asia, including Tibet, China, Manchuria, Russia, and what was broadly considered in the past as Tatary. But all that lay in the future for the young man of 25 whose wry, self-deprecatory retelling of his fantastic adventure into the heartland of Brazil and his encounters with Indian peoples and Brazilians of all social strata still makes for breathtaking reading.
Ultimately, Fleming's journey is not just of one to Brazil but of one through time as well. We are plunged back into the early 1930s and the era of travel by steamship and trips down tropical rivers that are only possible by canoe or steam powered launches. It was a different day, a different place, and a different time. And it all comes alive in Fleming's book.
cwebb's review against another edition
4.0
One of my favorite authors - I think it was Neal Stephenson - recommended this book. And it was fantastic. The adventure is not much of an adventure, but Peter Fleming is very aware of that and handles it perfectly: with a lot of humour and quite a bit of self-deprecation.
If you come across this book, pick it up and read it. You'll be delighted.
If you come across this book, pick it up and read it. You'll be delighted.
christythelibrarian's review against another edition
4.0
My favorite non-fiction genre is travel memoir, especially if things don’t go according to plan. In Brazilian Adventure, literary editor Peter Fleming (older brother of 007’s creator Ian Fleming) answers an advertisement in the London Times:
"Exploring and sporting expedition, under experienced guidance, leaving England June, to explore rivers Central Brazil, if possible ascertain fate Colonel Fawcett; abundance game, big and small; exceptional fishing; ROOM TWO MORE GUNS; highest references expected and given."
The Colonel Fawcett mentioned in the ad was an explorer who famously disappeared in Brazil along with two other men in 1925. Fleming doubts that the advertised expedition, undertaken seven years after Fawcett’s vanishing, will unearth any new information, but is compelled to apply all the same in the role of a correspondent to The Times.
The resulting trip is beset by Brazil’s political instability, weather, and logistical challenges, all of which Fleming describes in a cheery, self-deprecating style. From the first page, he punctures any romantic imaginings the reader may have about such travel.
Indeed, the most significant obstacle turns out to be the expedition leader himself, Major Pingle (not his real name), who – after a falling-out with Fleming’s party – proceeds to try and sabotage Fleming’s passage out of interior Brazil.
Not only was Fleming’s tale the type of book I generally enjoy, but I absolutely loved his witty writing style. Fleming is sharp but not mean with his wit; he plays quite fair in his descriptions of all the people he encounters, including the nefarious Major Pingle. This light tone is paired with an impressive verbosity. With a lesser writer, Fleming’s prolonged asides and anecdotes would have dragged, but I happily pressed on through his more complicated passages because he was so unfailingly clever and funny. One of my early favorites – a description of approaching Rio by sea:
"The water front, still some way ahead of us, flaunted a solitary skyscraper. All sky-scrapers look foolish and unnatural when isolated from their kind. It is only in the mass, huddled and strenuously craning, that they achieve a sort of quaint crude dignity. Alone, cut off from their native background of competition and emergency, they appear gauche and rather forlorn. With this one it was particularly so. Ridiculously at variance with all that we could see, hopelessly irrelevant to all that we imagined, it had the pathos of a boor. It domineered without conviction, the totem of another tribe. It knew itself for a mistake, an oversight, an intrusion. It was like a bag of tools left behind, when the curtain rises, on a stage set for romance.
Later I was told that during the last revolution they threw a full-sized billiard table out of a window on its fourteenth floor. Then I forgave it. Where that sort of thing can happen to them, there is a place for sky-scrapers."
The book was published in 1933, so there were a few cringe-worthy “of its time” moments; I was particularly appalled by the huge amount of animals killed for sport during the trip. The expedition literally left a trail of dead alligators in its wake. Fleming’s descriptions of Brazilians and the interior tribes are not entirely free of ignorance, but these passages are not in “white man’s burden” territory either. The amusement he derives from his adventures in a foreign land is, more often than not, at his own expense.
At times, Fleming’s cultural allusions were too British or too early 20th century for me to grasp, but the feeling of immersion in that time and place was well worth any minor confusion. The book has the dry and humorous sensibility of the great comedy films of its era. I’ve already added some of Fleming’s other books to my to-read list.
"Exploring and sporting expedition, under experienced guidance, leaving England June, to explore rivers Central Brazil, if possible ascertain fate Colonel Fawcett; abundance game, big and small; exceptional fishing; ROOM TWO MORE GUNS; highest references expected and given."
The Colonel Fawcett mentioned in the ad was an explorer who famously disappeared in Brazil along with two other men in 1925. Fleming doubts that the advertised expedition, undertaken seven years after Fawcett’s vanishing, will unearth any new information, but is compelled to apply all the same in the role of a correspondent to The Times.
The resulting trip is beset by Brazil’s political instability, weather, and logistical challenges, all of which Fleming describes in a cheery, self-deprecating style. From the first page, he punctures any romantic imaginings the reader may have about such travel.
Indeed, the most significant obstacle turns out to be the expedition leader himself, Major Pingle (not his real name), who – after a falling-out with Fleming’s party – proceeds to try and sabotage Fleming’s passage out of interior Brazil.
Not only was Fleming’s tale the type of book I generally enjoy, but I absolutely loved his witty writing style. Fleming is sharp but not mean with his wit; he plays quite fair in his descriptions of all the people he encounters, including the nefarious Major Pingle. This light tone is paired with an impressive verbosity. With a lesser writer, Fleming’s prolonged asides and anecdotes would have dragged, but I happily pressed on through his more complicated passages because he was so unfailingly clever and funny. One of my early favorites – a description of approaching Rio by sea:
"The water front, still some way ahead of us, flaunted a solitary skyscraper. All sky-scrapers look foolish and unnatural when isolated from their kind. It is only in the mass, huddled and strenuously craning, that they achieve a sort of quaint crude dignity. Alone, cut off from their native background of competition and emergency, they appear gauche and rather forlorn. With this one it was particularly so. Ridiculously at variance with all that we could see, hopelessly irrelevant to all that we imagined, it had the pathos of a boor. It domineered without conviction, the totem of another tribe. It knew itself for a mistake, an oversight, an intrusion. It was like a bag of tools left behind, when the curtain rises, on a stage set for romance.
Later I was told that during the last revolution they threw a full-sized billiard table out of a window on its fourteenth floor. Then I forgave it. Where that sort of thing can happen to them, there is a place for sky-scrapers."
The book was published in 1933, so there were a few cringe-worthy “of its time” moments; I was particularly appalled by the huge amount of animals killed for sport during the trip. The expedition literally left a trail of dead alligators in its wake. Fleming’s descriptions of Brazilians and the interior tribes are not entirely free of ignorance, but these passages are not in “white man’s burden” territory either. The amusement he derives from his adventures in a foreign land is, more often than not, at his own expense.
At times, Fleming’s cultural allusions were too British or too early 20th century for me to grasp, but the feeling of immersion in that time and place was well worth any minor confusion. The book has the dry and humorous sensibility of the great comedy films of its era. I’ve already added some of Fleming’s other books to my to-read list.
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