Bill Bryson’s In A Sunburned Country

In A Sunburned Country by Bill Bryson
Broadway pp352

As his publisher, Random House, is fond of saying: “Every time Bill Bryson walks out the door memorable travel literature threatens to break out”.

Bryson is a decent travel writer but a better humorist; several times through Bryson’s In a Sunburned Country I was moved to laugh out loud. Once, on the commuter train into Toronto on my way to work, a woman was so stirred by my sustained smile she inquired after what book I was reading. Bryson’s at this best when relating a wry anecdote—that’s when his timing and pacing suit him well and he’s as entertaining as hell.

It doesn’t hurt that Australia plays the not-so-straight man to Bryson’s flippant turns of phrase. Remarkably friendly inhabitants, enigmatic aboriginals, extreme weather and peculiar and lethal wildlife all serve as excellent subjects for Bryson’s quick wit.

Bill Bryson is the anti–Paul Theroux. Like Theroux, he’s the kind of writer that makes you feel like you’re riding shotgun, and manages to evoke a real sense of your inclusion in the scene, drawing out the colours, scents and sounds of a particular location. Unlike Theroux, however, he’s not nearly as self-indulgent. And that’s a good thing.

Beautiful Syndey Harbour. Photo by Michael McDonough.

Bryson, for example, would never dare to write an account of his eavesdropping on a group of tourists as they discuss one of his classic books. What Bryson can do, however, is turn a 500 km solo ride through barren outback into a side-splitting affair as he relates the banter of commentators discussing a cricket match, a sport he likens to watching a slow-motion tea party.

The only criticism I can level is that the book is rather devoid of Australians. Sure, it’s full of Australia, but where are the people with names and narratives of their own? If we were to believe Bryson’s account of Australia, the continent is mainly peopled with bored service staff who work for mediocre but somewhat overpriced hotels.

The end result is that Bryson does a great job about relating his travels trough Australia. Ultimately, however, this is more a book about Bryson than by Bryson. It is only secondly a book about a vast and wonderful continent. Sadly, there was great opportunity in this book to discover a deeper, more compelling narrative, but it’s an opportunity lost to an otherwise gifted writer.

Unfortunately—and ultimately—Bryson falls victim to the same criticisms I direct at Theroux. I want my travel writers to be vivid characters with strong identities, but I want them to realize that they have a job to do—serving as a surrogate traveller, and letting us travel by proxy.

That being said, this book is well-paced, entertaining, and chock full of interesting trivia about the continent. Laugh-out loud moments abound, and I would recommend the book. I found myself wishing, however, that the narrative aspired to something more or served a greater purpose.

I’ll take what I can get, though!

1. Paul Theroux’s Riding The Iron Rooster
2. A Map for Saturday
3. From Small Beginnings Come Great Things