Chasing the Sea

The New Yorker

The title of this erratic but enthralling travelogue refers to the attempts of fishermen in Central Asia to pursue the receding waters of the Aral Sea, which has shrunk, since 1960, to less than a third of its original size. In 2001, the author, a self-described “adventure journalist” and failed Peace Corps volunteer, arrives in Uzbekistan to investigate this ecological disaster. Bissell doesn’t so much chase the sea as meander toward it, and nine-tenths of the book concerns his detours—to Samarkand, Bukhara, and the guerrilla-infested mountains of Kyrgyzstan—and his run-ins with suspicious local police forces. Bissell shines as a raconteur, if not as an analyst, and his ebullient narrative harks back to the travel classics of the nineteenth century, when the journey was an end in itself.

The Washington Post

Bissell is a born raconteur, but he is also a prodigious scholar, uncoiling the tangled history, ancient and modern, of this crossroads society in bright, taut cords...And he is such an ambidextrous writer that his mini-treatise on Anglo-Russian statecraft is as readable as the dish on his college sweetheart. Bissell may have been a flop as a Peace Corps volunteer...But his failure has still provided some benefit to humanity—at least to the part of humanity that enjoys a great read.—Steve Hendrix

Publishers Weekly

Bissell's first journey to the former Soviet republic of Uzbekistan as a Peace Corps volunteer in 1996 was cut short by heartache and illness. Memories of that failure dog his return in 2001 to write about the rapidly deteriorating ecosystem of the Aral Sea. Once the size of Lake Michigan, the sea has already lost most of its water and will likely disappear by the middle of the next decade, leaving thousands of square kilometers of salty desert. Journalist Bissell examines that story, but also ponders broader questions about Uzbekistan and its people. Hooking up with Rustam, a young interpreter, he sets off on a road trip across the country. The format of the ensuing travelogue-cum-history lesson resembles that of itinerant political commentators like Robert Kaplan, right down to the repulsively exotic cuisine (e.g., boiled lamb's head) and digressionary mini-essays on the history of European imperialism in Central Asia. But Bissell rails against the way other authors "pinion entire cultures based upon how [their] morning has gone," aiming for a more accurate and balanced portrayal. An ongoing dialogue with Rustam over the region's history and culture, and the extent to which both were shaped by the Soviets, adds a personal dimension. The account doesn't flinch from portraying the region's corruption-crooked cops appear regularly on the scene-but despite the frequent bouts of despair, for both the region and himself, Bissell refuses to give up on the Uzbeks entirely. The humor and poignancy in this blend of memoir, reportage and history mark the author as a front-runner in the next generation of travel writers. (Sept. 23) Forecast: Bissell, who was born in 1974, has worked as an editor at Henry Holt, has written for Harper's, McSweeney's, Esquire and Salon, and will have a piece in the next issue of Heidi Julavits's much-chatted-about new magazine, The Believer. His first book will undoubtedly garner attention from literary outlets and set the tone for an ambitious book-writing career. Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.

Library Journal

After an aborted stint with the Peace Corps in mid-1990 Uzbekistan, Bissell felt compelled to return and investigate the ecological catastrophe surrounding the Aral Sea. With energetic Uzbek guide Rustam, the journey turned into a real escapade. Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.

Kirkus Reviews

A literate, elegiac account of travels in the outback of Uzbekistan, tracing the origins and consequences of one of the world's most devastating ecological disasters. Debut author Bissell's wanderings in Central Asia begin in an ancient outpost of civilization: the old stone city of Tashkent, to which the author had first come in the mid-1990s as a Peace Corps volunteer but had abruptly fled in the midst of an odd personal crisis ("My reasons for leaving were emotional and complicated. In other words, I lost my mind"). But, deeply affected by the place and its people, Bissell braved a return to document the death of the Aral Sea, now little more than a salty puddle between two great deserts. What caused its demise is complicated, too, but much can be explained by the Soviet-era reliance on cotton and rice cultivation and on damming every free-flowing river in sight. And the sea is well and truly dead, Bissell writes by way of conclusion: "The sea was not coming back, nothing would improve . . . until, one day, the Aral Sea would be spoken of in the doomed, sepulchral tones of Gomorrah, Pompeii, or one of The Tempest's 'still-vexed Bermudas.' " But Bissell offers much more than a chronicle of ecocide; he delivers a travelogue as well, with a lively portrait of a part of the world that few Americans (but, oddly enough, planeloads of Germans) come to visit. Along the way, with nods to classical English and Russian literature and to pop culture, he explores the history of a nation now struggling to overcome a legacy of totalitarian rule-and in the bargain delivers a stinging critique of contemporary clash-of-civilizations writer Robert Kaplan's account of Uzbekistan, marked by "an almostperverse freedom to pinion entire cultures based upon how his morning has gone." First-rate in every regard: to be put alongside such classics on the region as Through Khiva to Golden Samarkand and The Road to Oxiana.