The River of Doubt by Candice Millard

Source of book: Borrowed from the library

My relationship with Theodore Roosevelt is a bit complicated. His legacy, after all, is complicated. On a personal level, I identified a little with him from the first time I read a kids’ biography of him. We both were sickly kids who worked to become stronger through exercise and outdoor activity. Even today, I have a bit of a “damn the torpedos” approach to life. If I waited until I had no allergies to do things, for example, I’d never get out. I am not, however, reckless, which TR tended to be. 

Likewise, his public legacy is complicated. There is no doubt that he was prejudiced, particularly as a young man. His statements about Indigenous people are painfully awful. (Although, to be fair, there is evidence that he changed his mind about the worst of his beliefs as he got older - something rather the opposite from my experience with a lot of my parents’ generation, who seem to have gotten increasingly xenophobic over the last decade.) He was, alas, a product of his time, an era in which the supremacy of white people was taken for granted by most white people around the world. 

There were some good parts to his legacy, however. His distrust of big business led to the first real regulations on corporations and trusts - he is correctly considered the founder of the Progressive movement in the United States. In fact, while he was generally liked by conservatives during my childhood, as the American Right has veered strongly to the far right, he is now being disowned as a “communist” by a surprising number of people I know on the Right. These days, seeking the common good is controversial, it seems. For his time, TR was a reformer, and many of his ideas remain core parts of the progressive legacy. 

One thing that remains true about him is that those who knew and worked with him generally respected and liked him. As the book points out, in person he was a tremendously hard worker, generous with everyone, full of good humor, and self-sacrificing as a leader. And that goes for how he treated least powerful people as much as the best. The native Brazilians who did much of the hard labor during the trip this book describes were assisted by TR and his son Kermit, and TR gave away his own food, often to his own detriment. So, again, a complex, imperfect person, but someone who genuinely tried to be moral and generous. 

The River of Doubt is the story of a lesser-known escapade in Theodore Roosevelt’s life. As is better known, Roosevelt left office after a term and a half as president (he took over when William McKinley was assassinated), assuming that President Taft would continue the progressive agenda. When Taft instead started supporting corporate interests, TR was furious, founded his own political party (the Progressive Party, colloquially called the “Bull Moose” party after its founder.) This, unfortunately for TR, was a failure. He took a bullet, making a speech with the bullet still in his body (dude was a badass), but failed to win. With a split vote, Woodrow Wilson and the Democrats won the election. 

Nursing his bruised pride, TR decided to do what he usually did after a disappointment: find an adventure. What started as a tour of South America with a little moderate river exploration thrown in turned into an attempt to map an unknown and dangerous tributary of the Amazon. At age 55, no less.

The way all this came about is a bit of a shitshow of incompetence. Roosevelt was in contact with Father Zahm, a bit of an amateur naturalist who wanted to explore. Zahm enlisted Anthony Fiala, whose big claim to fame was nearly dying along with his expedition to the Arctic - in part due to Fiala’s disastrously incompetent leadership - to plan their supplies. This probably would not have been a big deal had they stuck with the original plan. A cruise of a known Amazon tributary to collect biological specimens would have been easy enough to accomplish, and the often bizarre packing decisions made by Fiala would have been merely amusing rather than life-threatening. 

Instead, the government of Brazil suggested that TR join Brazilian explorer Candido Rondon (perhaps the rare person even more badass than TR) in exploring and mapping the River of Doubt, an unknown river believed to drain to the Amazon via the Aripuana and the Madeira rivers. 

 Partway down, after the drowning of one of their number. I am not certain who the two on the left are, but from there (l-r):

Theodore Roosevelt, Candido Rondon, Kermit Roosevelt.

Even to get there required hundreds of miles of travel on land (with dirt tracks as the only road), followed by the descent of the river in dugout canoes. During the land transit, it became clear that supplies were grossly inadequate. As a result, the party was split in two, with Zahm and Fiala, among others, sent to descend a known - and much easier - river. It was left to Rondon, TR, his son Kermit, and 16 others to attempt the River of Doubt. (Now renamed the Roosevelt River.) 

After a few days, it became obvious that the dugouts were far from ideal, and would not be able to safely traverse rapids. Thus, portages were made necessary. This slowed everything down, and left the party badly short on food. It was by a combination of luck and grit that they made it out at all. By the end, one man had drowned, one had been murdered (and the murderer abandoned to the jungle), everyone except Rondon was gravely ill with malaria, dysentery, or something else, and TR was near death with both malaria and an infected leg. 

One could say, I suppose, that the expedition was a “success” in the sense that they made it out with most of them alive, and the river mapped. On the other, it was a disaster, and but for some really good luck (and the fact that the native peoples decided to leave them alone), it would have been deadly for all involved. 

For Roosevelt, it was particularly catastrophic in the long run. In an era before antibiotics, he never fully recovered from his illness, and was dead in less than five years later. Kermit, too, seemed haunted by the experience and the early death of his father, and struggled with depression and alcoholism for years afterward, before committing suicide during deployment in World War II. 

[Side note here: this is Kermit Sr. The legacy of Kermit Jr. is problematic for rather different reasons. He was the “mastermind” behind the CIA-engineered coup that destroyed moderate democracy in Iran. That’s a mistake that we are still paying for today.]  

In a weird twist of fate, Roosevelt returned from his trip to accusations that he had faked the whole thing - from respected naturalists and explorers, no less. So, barely able to walk and speak, the still ill TR made a series of presentations on the trip. These did serve to restore his reputation, but probably contributed to further ill health. 

Later, in 1927, George Miller Dyott settled things for good, when he made the trip himself and confirmed that Roosevelt and Rondon’s descriptions of plants, animals, and geographic features were indeed accurate. In 1992, a third expedition further confirmed the accuracy - and shot all but one of the rapids using modern equipment. 

This is the second book I have read by Candice Millard. (The first was The Destiny ofthe Republic, about the assassination of President Garfield - also a good read.) I like Millard’s writing. She avoids hagiography, presenting the complexities of the politics and culture of the time. Both books draw heavily from primary sources, but are written in a compelling prose style that makes them hard to put down. In both books, she presents the less heroic episodes in the lives of her subjects, which makes for an interesting look at complex figures. 

I figured I would end with a mention of the speech that Roosevelt gave after being shot, because it is phenomenal. You can read the whole thing here. In it, he lays out the case for progressivism. 

“Our creed is one that bids to be just to all, to feel sympathy for all, and to strive for an understanding of the needs of all. Our purpose is to smite down wrong.”

Roosevelt correctly notes that when the poor suffer, society is at risk. At risk of violent revolution, at a minimum. And this needed to be prevented now, by enacting legislation that addressed inequality and oppressive employment practices. 

“Now, friends, what we who are in this movement are endeavoring to do is to forestall any such movement by making this a movement for justice now - a movement in which we ask all just men of generous hearts to join with the men who feel in their souls that lift upward which bids them refuse to be satisfied themselves while their countrymen and countrywomen suffer from avoidable misery.”

The speech is pro-union. It is pro-regulation. It vehemently opposes child labor and long work hours for the most vulnerable (he specifically mentions 16-hour days for female industrial workers.) It calls for a uniform Federal policy to prevent states having a “race to the bottom” in terms of regulation. It addresses policy without making personal attacks. 

And it would be considered flaming Communist propaganda by today’s GOP. 

Times have changed. The GOP of Eisenhower is in many ways to the left of the Democratic party today. And the GOP is...not conservative at all. It is radically reactionary, viciously social darwinist, and on the payroll of the plutocrats. Historian Heather Cox Richardson lays it out pretty well here. And now we get to 2020, and we are literally hearing that the hoi polloi should be willing to sacrifice millions of their lives to keep the stock market high. Roosevelt was right: unless significant changes are made, this will not end well. 

The Stories of Eva Luna by Isabel Allende

Source of book: Borrowed from the library

I don’t entirely remember how this book got on my list, but I suspect it was off of a “Latinx Book List” of some sort. I make a concerted effort to read diversely, and that includes seeking out books outside the white, male, Anglo-American, and straight world. Not that there is anything specifically wrong with old dead white guys - and goodness knows, as a lover of classic literature, I read plenty of them as well - but a variety of voices is necessary, particularly if one reads to expand one’s universe. Part of this diversity involves reading books which were not originally written in English. If you count live theater and poetry, this is my 10th book this year that is in translation. 

Since I don’t remember exactly where I got the recommendation, I am also unsure exactly why this book, of Allende’s books. It is a collection of short stories told, Scheherazade style, by a character in one of her other books. That said, it stands alone just fine, as far as I can tell. Perhaps it would be enriched by knowledge of the title character, but the stories are enjoyable on their own.

There are a total of 23 stories, plus a brief prologue. For the most part, they are stories about women and sex. Well, that fails to cover it, somehow. Perhaps they are about the relationship between women, female desire, sexuality, power, violence, class, and society. All of the above, wrapped up together. The setting is an unnamed South American country (or countries - the settings seem pretty varied), likely based on Chile, where Allende was raised, or Peru, where she was born. Or both. The politics are unfortunately recognizable, although these too vary. The autocratic dictator, born out of a revolution, figures prominently. And also colonialist rulers, corrupt bureaucrats, bandit kings, and more. The time frames are rarely actually stated, but the specifics of life indicate that the stories may well span the entire 20th Century. 

The women certainly form the center of all the stories. Men may be main characters, but they turn out to orbit around the women. The men may have the power, but women find ways to survive, to assert their humanity even as it is being dismissed. 

The woman who “sells words” as talismans, essentially, who falls in love with the rebel leader, El Mulato, and draws him with “Two Words,” the title of the story. The woman, who, having given birth to two gravely disabled children with her husband, has two healthy children as the result of an affair she keeps secret until the very end of her life. The wife of a foreign diplomat who runs off with the dictator, then disappears from society (and him) in his abandoned vacation villa. The creative prostitute who saves a small fortune servicing (well, mostly manipulating) the workers on a remote plantation, then retires and abscondes with the first man who proves to be her equal. There are darker stories too, about a deaf child stolen from his parents by fraud - and their quest to find him. The women seduced and abandoned. The holocaust survivor who tries in vain to save a young girl trapped in a lahar. In all of these, Allende skillfully evokes the emotions of the characters, the time and place of the setting, and the visceral feel of the narrative. 

I was particularly struck by the way Allende writes female desire. Here in Western culture of the last few hundred years, we have this idea in our consciousness that females either don’t desire sex for its own sake, or only in the context of “committment” (meaning marriage), or that they trade it for “committment,” meaning a promise to financially support her. (Which is different from prostitution solely in the length of the contract…) This wasn’t always so. Previously, it was believed that females were sexually insatiable, and that men were the rational ones. Exactly why this changed is not entirely clear, although there are a few theories floating around which might be at least partial explanations. However it happened, the expectation currently is that women have the responsibility to preserve their “purity,” and police the boundaries of a romantic relationship. Males, meanwhile, are expected to push those boundaries. And if they succeed, it is generally considered the woman’s fault. (That’s your quick summary of the purity culture I was raised in, although my dad at least made it clear that women could and did enjoy sex - my sex ed was vastly better than average.) Oh, don’t forget that applied to white women. Women of color were assumed to be seductresses, sexually insatiable, which is why a white man could rape them with impunity…

Allende, on the other hand, treats female sexuality much the same as our culture treats that of men. Women are fully sexual in these stories, often from a young age. They make their choices (some good, others questionable), and live with the consequences. (The men often avoid the consequences for a while - just like in real life - but are often bitten in the butt later.) I would also say that this book is another point in favor of my belief that women, on average, tend to write better sex scenes than men. My theory on this is that because of the combination of toxic masculinity in our culture, and the fact that human reproduction doesn’t require female pleasure, men are not as observant of the details and emotions which make a scene actually sexy, rather than just...awkward. Just a theory. 

The messiness of life, love, and relationships is on full display in these stories. Whether tragic, humorous, poignant, or horrifying, Allende’s stories let their characters be complex, human, and unpredictable. 

I think this book was a good introduction to Isabel Allende, and I intend to read more of her books in the future. 

Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Source of book: Borrowed from the library.

This book probably fits better into the “Books I Should Have Read in College” category, rather than the “Books I Should Have Read in High School” one. And yes, this is the first Marquez I have read, I am pretty sure. I’ll have to read One Hundred Years of Solitude in the future. 

Love in the Time of Cholera was the last of Marquez’s three best known novels, published in 1985, nearly 20 years after One Hundred Years of Solitude. Born in Colombia, Marquez was one of the greatest Latin American authors of the 20th Century. Although Marquez is best known for his use of Magical Realism, this book is just realistic, with no magical elements. Unless you count coincidence, which is the stock in trade of the romantic story from time immemorial.

The story is that of a love triangle which lasts for over 50 years. Florentino Ariza starts off as a young and awkward man who falls in love with the beautiful Fermina Daza, the daughter of a former mule-driver who has become rich - through illicit trade, as it turns out later. She seems to return his love, but her father wants a wealthy man for her. After she is taken away for a while to forget him, she doesn’t. But when they reunite, she realizes that it is just infatuation, not love. Then, she is courted by Dr. Juvenal Urbino, a doctor who will go on to do great things toward the eradication of cholera, and become famous. Even at the outset, he is rich and somewhat famous, and it appears to be the perfect match. They marry and have children, and have what appears to be a happy and solid relationship until his death. Florentino, meanwhile, has never married, and courts her after she is widowed.

This book is both well written and impossibly melodramatic. I mean, I am kinda sorta romantic and all, and I love emotional poetry. I play violin, for heaven’s sake! But this was a bit much at times.

The meaning of the book has been debated. Many see in it a tribute to the endurance of true love. Others seem unhealthy obsession. Perhaps both are true. Florentino is a bit of an icky character who gets worse as the book goes on. Initially, you have to root for him, the underdog, to get the girl. And, in some ways, his single minded focus on getting Fermina someday, inevitably, is admirable. But he isn’t exactly faithful in the way most of us might understand it. He never marries, but he does sleep with too many women to count, and even keeps a little black book like Don Juan. Some of these affairs are actually understandable. He is seduced by a widow, who has no intention of marrying again, so the two have an understanding that they are not committed but just passing time with each other as friends and lovers. Many of his lovers are like that: consensual affairs between unattached adults with no misunderstandings about intentions. Others, though, are more problematic. The married women, for example. Although, in the society the story is set in, the men are pretty much all sleeping around on their wives anyway, and the marriages were arranged, so a wink and a nod about what happened as long as nobody got caught. But, a bit more icky.

The worst, though, came near the end, when the 70ish Florentino seduces a 14 year old girl - his ward. At this point, it is pretty clear just how selfish Florentino is, and how little he really cares for the feelings and needs of others. Even his obsession with Fermina is all about him, not her, and her lack of reciprocal feelings are an obstacle for him to overcome, not an indication that he should give her her space. This whole episode is sordid, and makes you want to take a shower afterward.

Notwithstanding the above, I was struck by just how well Marquez writes about sex. In general, I believe less is more, and that the harder the author tries to be graphic (“realistic”), the less sexy the scene is. If anything, the best use of graphic sex is to write the most unsexy, awkward scenes. But Marquez actually manages to be (sort of) graphic and sexy at the same time. I mean, this isn’t porn, of course, but body parts are named. Marquez knows when to disclose detail, and when to elide, when to turn away and let the imagination take over, and when to give a delicious detail that gives a bit of a thrill.

The best character in the book, in my opinion, is Dr. Juvenal Urbino. He is the foil to Florentino. Where Florentino is all emotion and smoldering fire, Urbino is ice and steel. He is rationality to Florentino’s emotion. While Florentino represents the past - even his work eventually running a riverboat company is anachronistic by the end of the book - Urbino is modernity. Modern medicine. Modern, globalistic, rational, and focused. He lives a regimented life, hewing to routine, and getting things done. The city and the nation rightfully owe him a debt. But as a result, even his wooing of Fermina is mechanical. He is just a tiny bit short of humanity.

But because Marquez is a good writer, even this script is oversimple. Just as Florentino’s affairs have a mechanistic feel to them after time, Urbino has a human side. One of the best scenes in the book is on his and Fermina’s honeymoon, when he half-clinically, half-romantic-in-a-gentle-way introduces Fermina to the male body and sex. It is a delightful bit of work, and Urbino comes off as a rather nice guy, patient and kind, even as he worries that her inhibitions may prove too much to overcome. Urbino also shows his humanity in his discomfort with his mortality. (This is a common theme in the book, actually.) He also ends up having a single affair, and suffers significant embarrassment when he is discovered. To some degree, I identify with Urbino. I have more of a passionate nature, I would say, but I like order, routine, and focus on goals. If I had his wealth and talent, I would tend his direction.

The portrayal of the marriage between Urbino and Fermina is subtle as well. Their marriage has its ups and downs, its good and bad, its moments of love and moments of conflict. While it is hard to say the marriage is truly great - it isn’t really a grand passion - but it isn’t bad either. They both treat each other well most of the time, even if Urbino is as patriarchal and sexist as any man in Columbia in the early 20th Century. (Marquez is well aware of the gender issues - he writes them as they were, even as he notes the unfairness.) It is a thoroughly realistic marriage. And while such a marriage would not be my first choice, it wouldn’t be my last either. It’s a functional, moderately happy marriage, but without much in the way of passion.

The other part of the book that is truly thoughtful and elevates the story above the fluffy romance it could have been is the fact that the main characters (and a few minor ones) are all fully aware of and haunted by their mortality. Florentino believes in his heart that he will outlive Urbino and be able to get Fermina in the end. But he worries he won’t, that he will die first, and his life (from his perspective) will have been wasted. Fermina finds that she is discontent because of what she has failed to attain and believes she never will. She craves passion, but as she ages, she believes it has passed her by. (And her children are all too eager to opine that romance for older people is vulgar and disgusting - something many still believe, sadly.) Urbino is continually haunted by the thought of his death. As a doctor, he knows all too well the signs of aging and decline, and he has already by his accidental death (in an amusing and unlikely fall) seen the early signs of dementia in his own brain. This is just the surface, as there are references throughout to aging and death and the effects these have on the characters.

Just a few lines stood out as worth quoting. About one married woman Florentino sleeps with:

[She] seemed to belong to the wasp family, not only because of her high buttocks and meager bosom, but because of everything about her: her hair like copper wire, her freckles, her round, animated eyes that were farther apart than normal, and her melodious voice that she used only for saying intelligent and amusing things.

It is shocking that, without warning, this woman is brutally murdered by her husband a few pages later.

On the issue of cholera, which is used both as part of the narrative and as a metaphor (cholera is etymologically related to “choler”: red blood and the humor of passion), the author notes that Urbino’s father falls victim to the epidemic while Urbino is in Europe in medical school - and that one quarter of the population of the city dies. We forget just how much we have benefited from modern sanitation sometimes.

After Urbino returns, he not only works to reform the sanitation systems of the city, he is instrumental in establishing a local opera. While the patrons had to bring their own chairs at first, it eventually became an institution. The success led, as the author notes, to a plethora of kids named after famous characters.

But it never reached the extremes Dr. Urbino had hoped for, which was to see Italianizers and Wagnerians confronting each other with sticks and canes during the intermissions.

I just about died laughing at that one.

Finally, there is a line right near the beginning (which starts with the week of Urbino’s death, before going back and telling the story from the beginning) which talks about Dr. Urbino’s tendency to use medications on himself for the symptoms of old age, while lecturing his patients for wanting to do the same.

He arose at the crack of dawn, when he began to take his secret medicines: potassium bromide to raise his spirits, salicylates for the ache in his bones when it rained, ergosterol drops for vertigo, belladonna for sound sleep. He took something every hour, always in secret, because in his long life as a doctor and teacher he had always opposed prescribing palliatives for old age: it was easier for him to bear other people’s pains than his own.

Isn’t that the truth?

The book I read is the classic translation by Edith Grossman. It reads well, and flows, so I have no complaints.

Despite its melodramatic nature, this book is deeper and more intriguing than the plot itself would indicate. The ending is unsatisfying, but for the same reason that life itself is unsatisfying. What might have been is an unanswered question, and the roads we take by definition foreclose others. Nothing will ever be perfect or as we dream it. But what it is, what it becomes, and what we make it, are interesting too, and the inexorable march of time and change overcome us all in the end.

Turn Right at Machu Picchu by Mark Adams

Source of book: Borrowed from the library. This was recommended by a friend of a friend, and it just sounded interesting.

Mark Adams is a travel writer/editor for a number of magazines, but fulfilled the cushy side of that job description. Prior to the events described in this book, he had never actually backpacked, or even hiked seriously. He decided, however, to retrace the steps of Hiram Bingham to Machu Picchu.

Who? Where? I admit that while I was passingly familiar with Machu Picchu (pronounced MAH-choo PEEK-choo), the picturesque Inca ruins in Peru; I had no idea who Hiram Bingham was. How I managed to miss his story is a mystery, since I have devoured the accounts of various adventurers over the years. It turns out that one reason is that Bingham was a pretty incompetent writer. His original account was full of odd details about supplies, and tended to get bogged down in the mundane. A later book seemed to have had details altered to tell a better story. Perhaps his later fame and career in Congress caused later generations to consider him overrated. In any case, his story is interesting, and forms a key part of this book.

Picture of Machu Picchu from The National Geographic

In format, the book alternates between an account of Bingham’s explorations and the story of the author’s expeditions. I thought this was done rather effectively, although the short length of the chapters seemed odd at first. I suspect this was due in part to my tendency to read books with longer chapters. Adams synchronizes the stories so that the same locations are described in sequence.

Bingham is considered to be a forerunner of the character of Indiana Jones. The author traces the idea, but does not oversell the connection. In fact, while the book is described for sales purposes with this connection in mind, Adams downplays this aspect in the book, choosing to focus on the actual facts of Bingham’s life, which is fascinating even without the connection. See the note below for more on the real and fictional sources for Indiana Jones.

Some things I really enjoyed about this book. First, the description of Peruvian politics made me laugh. While too long here to quote, it contained the gem regarding Alan Garcia, who left office in disgrace, but later ran on the platform, essentially, of “I was an idiot last time,” and then won!

Adams’ descriptive language is fun. He describes one ruin as follows: “At the summit stood the remains of an Inca structure with jagged ten-foot walls like those at Sacsahuaman. A variety of plants sprouted from every crevice, making it look like the Lost Chia Pet of the Incas.”

I also found interesting the description of peccaries, a rather cute type of wild pig, which is nonetheless extraordinarily dangerous because of its tendency to attack. They look pretty harmless at the zoo.

I am a hiker, although not on the scale that Adams’ guide, John Leivers is. If anyone looks and acts like Indiana Jones, it would be Leivers – except Leivers has an even drier sense of humor. I loved the descriptions of the hiking in this book because I know firsthand how daunting the elevation changes are. The most I have ever climbed in a day is 3600 vertical feet. The highest I have hiked is about 12,000 feet. Not only did the author crest multiple passes at 14,000 feet, but he covered a vertical mile up and then down again in a day. My legs hurt just reading about it. Admittedly, they had mules to carry the heavy stuff, but still!

I concur with John Leivers’ philosophy here: “There’s a general law in life. The mind and body only get stronger when they’re traumatized.”

Leivers’ dry humor is also on display when at Machu Picchu itself. A group of hippie tourists approach a rock that was likely important in the Inca religion.

“Watch this,” John said. “Their guide’s going to tell them to hold their hands out to feel the cosmic energy emanating from the rock.”

Several hands reached out toward the Intihuatana. After a second or two, the mystics turned toward each other excitedly.

“I feel warmth,” said one.

“Me too,” said another.

“It’s a rock that sits in the sun all day,” John said, loud enough to be heard in Cusco. “Of course it feels warm.”

The author describes John’s philosophy in the form of a mathematical equation. (R+S) x E = H. Ruins, plus Solitude, times Exertion, equals Happiness. If one substitutes a good view or a beautiful lake for ruins, I completely concur. Although ruins would be cool too.

Finally, I loved the description of the Inca Trail itself, which the two hike on a later trip. The trail was clearly not designed to be either the shortest or the easiest route to Machu Picchu. The author believes it was designed to be the most dramatic and scenic route. 

There’s a school of thought that the Inca Trail had been plotted like a good adventure yarn, with twists and turns, rising and falling action, and foreshadowing of the big climax: Machu Picchu. It’s a suspenseful tale broken up by surprises. 

 Would I like to hike this trail? A thousand times yes!                       

This captures the true soul of the adventure of exploration, whether that of the great age of discovery, or the simple hike taken in the wilderness. The point is not to reach the destination in the quickest and easiest way possible. The joy is in the journey, and what lies ahead.

The Road goes ever on and on

Down from the door where it began.

Now far ahead the Road has gone,

And I must follow, if I can,

Pursuing it with eager feet,

Until it joins some larger way

Where many paths and errands meet.

And whither then? I cannot say.

J. R. R. Tolkien, from The Fellowship of the Ring

Note on Indiana Jones: There are some clear parallels between Hiram Bingham III and Indiana Jones, of course. Both are professors at Ivy League universities, who moonlight as explorers in their spare time. Both were instrumental in the preservation of important artifacts, and both were remarkable in their tenacity and abilities. The book traces the link through a mostly forgotten movie, Secret of the Incas, which clearly drew inspiration from Bingham’s life, and equally clearly inspired the Indiana Jones movies. 

  

There were other sources, however. Bingham’s explorations took place in 1911 through 1915. However, over a century earlier, Mungo Park set the gold standard for kick-butt explorers with his exploration of the African interior. While Bingham was certainly competent, Park had to contend with far greater danger. His physical and mental powers were legendary, but they were not enough to keep him from dying while attempting at later expedition.

In the middle part of the Nineteenth Century, David Livingstone and others continued the exploratory tradition, which became cemented in popular consciousness. In 1885, H. Rider Haggard wrote King Solomon’s Mines, the first of a series of adventure books that I consider to be the true literary source for Indiana Jones. The character of Allan Quatermain is strikingly similar, of course. All those great booby traps? Haggard dreamed many of them up. Who could forget the scene in The Last Crusade after the character drinks the wrong chalice? Haggard envisioned the rapid aging in a slightly different context, but the scene is remarkably similar.

Of course, if one wished to go even further back, one could find a parallel with Odysseus and Gilgamesh. The development of this archetype has fascinated me, and finding one more link as a result of this book was fun.