In a laconic sentence, deflating all that can make travel writing imperialistic and self-aggrandizing, Mungo Park tells of a guide he hired in West Africa who, when he was told, that I had come from a great dis? tance, and through many dangers, to behold the Joliba river, naturally inquired, if there were no rivers in my own country, and whether one river was not like another (199). To which one immediately responds, as both traveler and reader, that not all rivers are alike; the ones we know at home tend to look much the same, while those we read about seem infinitely alluring. And yet this sentence, appearing a little more than halfway through Park's Travels in the Interior Districts of Africa is intended to remind us that its author is a sober, scientifically inclined traveler in search of facts that, while commonplace knowledge among the inhabitants of subSaharan Africa, had long eluded European geographers. To reduce the motives for Park's travels to a single question?does the Joliba or Niger flow in an easterly or westerly direction?strips his Travels of much that makes it so compelling: its remarkably precise description of the people, flora, and fauna he observed on his journey; its unsparing depiction ofthe most brutalized form of the slave trade; its record of sheer human perseverance in the face of disease, cultural hostility, bad luck, and most every other obstacle one can imagine. This new edition of the Travels reprints the second edition of 1799 and is most welcome for coming with an illuminating introduction and highly useful notes by Kate Ferguson Marsters. Fully informed in recent work on postcolonial theory, especially as it relates to travel writing, Marsters makes certain necessary points (in the wake of Mary Louise Pratt and others) about the ways Park's Travels can be read as an early manifestation of the imperial eye that would soon colonize and exploit all that it beheld. Yet Marsters is also alive to the sheer
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