Horwitz is an unlikely prospect for an Australian adventurer. A transplanted Yank [Washington, DC to Sydney], urban [New York City to, again, Sydney] and Jewish [rather anomalous in the Outback]. These conditions might fatally impair the less adventurous, but Horwitz can "boldly go" [as he did in a later book] and so he does. With singular dedication, he even starts his trek heading West from Sydney past Dubbo to the Alice. With no direct Sydney to Alice route, the journey is circuitous, a fine introduction to the later expedition. Here, Horwitz encounters people and displays his talent at recording them. The limited number of roads implies limited options and few rides. It's a closed world and he becomes "the crazy Yank we heard about back in Nevertire."

Constricted view doesn't inhibit Horwitz' abilities. He has an advantage over many travel writers - he's a journalist first and a traveller after. A perceptive eye and a talented pen record his reaction to the land of Australia. And the people he encounters who become the focus of his attention. He's good with people, drawing them out - fulfilling the image of the chatty Yank, entertaining, but somehow provocative. The drivers, pub keepers and drinkers respond to his novelty. He records them with lively asides, keeping your interest with every page. 'Surely, these can't be real people,' you may think. No worries - Horwitz has captured them intimately, intruding only lightly as they respond to his queries.

A poignant chapter, describing his search for a Jewish family in Broome with whom to celebrate Passover, is the highlight of the book. Noting the town's multiracial population, he observes: "Australians . . . seem uncomfortable when the subject of Judaism is raised." He attributes the feeling purely to ignorance, not prejudice, a welcome change from attitudes toward the "Abos." Horowitz, although claiming atheism, remains drawn to the family assemblage of the seder. Alone in Broome, he discovers a new level of solitude - in this polyglot community, Jews are rarer than jewels. He pores over the telephone directory which only displays "an Anglo-Saxon litany of Browns, Harrisons and Smiths." A solution beckons in the guise of a local priest. "It is a common sort of misconception. If there's no rabbi about, well, try a priest. One religious ratbag's as good as another." The solution, however, lies elsewhere. The situation amply portrays Horwitz' humanity, absolving him of any stigma of the detached, unfeeling journalist. His roots are a significant element in his life, one that gently, but insistently, haunts him. This book can haunt you, as it does me.