Not quite. Rory Stewart’s first book, «The Places in Between,» recounts his journey across Afghanistan in January 2002. Even in mild weather in an Abrams tank, such a trip would be mane-whitening. But Stewart goes in the middle of winter, crossing through some territory still shakily held by the Taliban — and entirely on foot. There are some Medusa-slayingly gutsy travel writers out there — Redmond O’Hanlon, Jeffrey Tayler, Robert Young Pelton — but Stewart makes them look like Hilton sisters. Paul Theroux once described a certain kind of travel book as having mainly «human sacrifice» allure, and how close Stewart comes to being killed on his journey won’t be disclosed here. He is, however, sternly warned before he begins his walk. «You are the first tourist in Afghanistan,» observes an Afghan from the country’s recently resurrected Security Service. «It is mid-winter,» he adds. «There are three meters of snow on the high passes, there are wolves, and this is a war. You will die, I can guarantee.» For perhaps the first time in the history of travel writing, a secret-police goon emerges as the voice of sobriety and reason.
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