Book review: 'The Liquid Refuses To Ignite'

The Liquid  Refuses To Ignite
Dave Besseling
Hachette
336 pages
Rs395

Hunter S. Thompson wrote Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas back in 1971 and the novel haunts Dave Besseling’s The Liquid Refuses to Ignite. Like Thompson, Besseling is (or at least has been) a journalist.

Just as the germ of Fear and Loathing... was an article for Rolling Stone, the beginnings of The Liquid... lie in articles Besseling was commissioned to write by Rolling Stone. Like Thompson, Besseling appears to be well-versed in intoxication techniques and while Raoul Duke had his attorney, Dr Gonzo, for a travel companion, Besseling has Dr Heagney.

No wonder, then, that a blurb proclaims Besseling “a true spiritual heir to Hunter S. Thompson”. Except it takes more than a nose full of cocaine and a head full of hallucinations to channel the original Gonzo.

The Liquid... follows Besseling on his travels from Varanasi to Tokyo, Amsterdam, Prague, Kathmandu, Chiang Mai, Luang Prabang, Paris, Manali and Kashmir before ending in Nepal. To anyone who has travelled in Asia (particularly as a backpacker), Besseling’s stops might as well have signposts that read “Druggie Trail”. This wouldn’t be a problem if The Liquid... had taken a leaf out Fear and Loathing... and presented something more substantial than the narrator’s intake of narcotics.

Particularly since the book falls into the non-fiction category, it is perhaps not unreasonable to expect some socio-cultural insight and/or reportage from The Liquid... Unfortunately, the only leaf Besseling seems to have taken from Thompson is marijuana. Unlike Raoul Duke, Besseling registers little more than his very personal experiences, most of which are reflective of Besseling’s state of mind and levels of sobriety.

Writing about Tokyo, for example, the aspects of Japanese society that Besseling chooses to briefly discuss are the changing attitudes towards tattoos and the culture of dating foreigners. Most of the chapter is about a thoroughly stoned Besseling club-hopping and ending up in a bathtub in a love hotel with his Japanese girlfriend.

Similarly, even though Besseling was in Thailand during the coup d’etat of 2006, the chapter recounting that trip is about the materialism of Buddhist monks and bar-hopping in Chiang Mai.

It’s one of the many examples of Besseling being, in his own words, “on the periphery of a strife I supposedly want to experience.”

In India, Besseling makes some observations but they are mostly banal, like the fact that Indians stare at foreigners. Occasionally, they are mildly amusing, like his classification of how men grab and scratch their crotches in public.

It’s easy to imagine Besseling regaling a crowd at Delhi’s Foreign Correspondent’s Club or getting numerous hits on a blog with his stories.

He’s often funny and his experiences are entertaining enough in small doses. However, 336 pages about how an unknown Canadian tourist did drugs, cemented his cynicism about Buddhism and abandoned aspirations of being an artist and turned to writing begs a number of questions. First, what does he have against

Buddhism, which is the target of Besseling’s mockery throughout The Liquid...? Is it because the religion is an easier target than, say, Hinduism and Islam?

Second, why should a reader care about Besseling’s life experiences and epiphany (particularly when the latter is anti-climactic)?  Neither is Besseling charismatic enough nor are his experiences novel, which is why, along with the liquid of the title, the reader’s interest in Besseling’s travels also refuses to ignite.