I would like to preface this with saying: I did not buy this book. I originally brought a political non-fiction to the cafe where I was reading after class, but realised the class took all that energy out of me, so I grabbed a book with the most girlypop cover inside the cafe's library shelf. The book was also super short so I knew I could finish it in the 2h I had waiting for a friend to finish her paper.
To say the book sucked is putting it lightly.
It reads like a middle-aged straight white man's exoticized fantasy f solo traveling to less developed countries. The fetishisation of poverty is something the author thinks he is self-aware of, but continues the book with stating he disliked Africa's developed and industrial cities, describing them as ugly, and adding he thinks Africa is the most beautiful when it is "rural" and natural.
He also includes a conversation with a monk in which he argues for the value of money by answering the guy "Money, my friend, is what lets me travel to all these places" as a mic-drop moment, after the monk states money in America is the root of their suffering (??).
The book ends with a French woman he encounters in Ethiopia, who wants to go home because she's "Tired of the racism, tired of being the white woman in Africa", which perfectly encapsulates the author, who ironically makes fun of ignorant tourists with nose rings who come to India for spiritual enlightenment. He, who is much more noble, comes to marvel at the poverty and dead bodies.