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Route Number 11: Argentina, Angels & Alcohol
On the back of a bad break-up, the beat-up tourist suddenly finds himself all alone in Argentina with only an abundance of beer for company.
With no plans, no time limit and sometimes no sense, the nameless British beatnik travels through a blur of smoky bars, sexy señoritas, lonesome backpackers, small town locals, city dwellers, magnificent mountains and awe-inspiring waterfalls, whilst being guided by the mysterious 11:11 Phenomenon.
Not only does the tourist roam around Argentina, he also finds himself unexpectedly crossing the borders to Paraguay, Chile and Brazil, where drunken adventures and spiritual insights await him.
Set in 2011, this true story reads almost like fiction. Written in a unique and distinctive style and told in a tangle of cut-up twisted timelines, Route Number 11 is a beat-driven, beer-drinking, drug-taking, chica-chasing, soul-searching, backpacking bonanza of a book which, if nothing else, will make you never want to experience the awfulness of reggaeton music.
With no plans, no time limit and sometimes no sense, the nameless British beatnik travels through a blur of smoky bars, sexy señoritas, lonesome backpackers, small town locals, city dwellers, magnificent mountains and awe-inspiring waterfalls, whilst being guided by the mysterious 11:11 Phenomenon.
Not only does the tourist roam around Argentina, he also finds himself unexpectedly crossing the borders to Paraguay, Chile and Brazil, where drunken adventures and spiritual insights await him.
Set in 2011, this true story reads almost like fiction. Written in a unique and distinctive style and told in a tangle of cut-up twisted timelines, Route Number 11 is a beat-driven, beer-drinking, drug-taking, chica-chasing, soul-searching, backpacking bonanza of a book which, if nothing else, will make you never want to experience the awfulness of reggaeton music.
267 pages, Kindle Edition
First published June 26, 2013
2 people are currently reading
720 people want to read
About the author
Harry Whitewolf
25 books282 followersHarry Whitewolf is doing his own thing.
He's the author of two true backpacking tales: Route Number 11 (about Harry's five-month drunken journey around Argentina; and across the borders to Paraguay, Chile and Brazil) and The Road To Purification (which describes his mad-as-hell pot-smoking trip around Egypt). In addition, Harry has written ten collections of distinctive poetry, including the much talked about New Beat Newbie, and the award-winning Rhyme and Rebellion.
Whitewolf also co-edited and contributed to The Anti-Austerity Anthology, a book for charity which has been featured in The Canary and on the Steve Topple and George Galloway online show.
Over the years, Harry has performed his poetry at the Portobello Festival, the Winchester literature fringe festival and numerous open mic. nights and gigs. These days however, he prefers making fun and quirky performance vids from the comfort of his smoky flat. You can find Harry's performances on his website: www.harrywhitewolf.com
He also writes and illustrates funny children's books, that grown-ups can enjoy too, under the pen name of Mr. Wolf. Check out Mr. Wolf's books and cartoon illustrations on his website: www.booksforchildren.wix.com/mrwolf
As if that weren't enough to be getting on with, Harry's poetry has appeared in four other anthologies and you can find his wacky fiction in the unique books ReejecttIIon - a number two and They're Making It Up As They Go Along, which Harry co-authored with Daniel Clausen. Whitewolf also wrote the foreword for punk-poet Andy Carrington's kick-arse book What's Wrong With The Street!
Amongst all of that, Harry somehow finds time for his day job as an article writer and illustrator.
Harry Whitewolf was born in England in 1976. He hopes to see world peace in his lifetime, and yes, Harry believes miracles are possible.
Spread the love.
He's the author of two true backpacking tales: Route Number 11 (about Harry's five-month drunken journey around Argentina; and across the borders to Paraguay, Chile and Brazil) and The Road To Purification (which describes his mad-as-hell pot-smoking trip around Egypt). In addition, Harry has written ten collections of distinctive poetry, including the much talked about New Beat Newbie, and the award-winning Rhyme and Rebellion.
Whitewolf also co-edited and contributed to The Anti-Austerity Anthology, a book for charity which has been featured in The Canary and on the Steve Topple and George Galloway online show.
Over the years, Harry has performed his poetry at the Portobello Festival, the Winchester literature fringe festival and numerous open mic. nights and gigs. These days however, he prefers making fun and quirky performance vids from the comfort of his smoky flat. You can find Harry's performances on his website: www.harrywhitewolf.com
He also writes and illustrates funny children's books, that grown-ups can enjoy too, under the pen name of Mr. Wolf. Check out Mr. Wolf's books and cartoon illustrations on his website: www.booksforchildren.wix.com/mrwolf
As if that weren't enough to be getting on with, Harry's poetry has appeared in four other anthologies and you can find his wacky fiction in the unique books ReejecttIIon - a number two and They're Making It Up As They Go Along, which Harry co-authored with Daniel Clausen. Whitewolf also wrote the foreword for punk-poet Andy Carrington's kick-arse book What's Wrong With The Street!
Amongst all of that, Harry somehow finds time for his day job as an article writer and illustrator.
Harry Whitewolf was born in England in 1976. He hopes to see world peace in his lifetime, and yes, Harry believes miracles are possible.
Spread the love.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 35 reviews
October 6, 2016
A young American Ginsberg wannabe beatnik, who sleeps on the beach, engages the tourist with tall talk of mysticism and politics. Big spectacles. Big beard. Big words. Using five words for one, and for fun, each word must be five syllables too - drawing out a long lull of intellectual pompous prose.
"So, what you're basically saying," replies the tourist, "is same shit different day."
Whitewolf's magical mysterytrip tale is part travel diary, part stream of consciousness playback, and part cryptic mindfuck.
I loved the short, choppy sentences and paragraphs; they made for an addicting read - kind of like reading someone's drunken tweets, but without all those annoying hashtags.
"So, what you're basically saying," replies the tourist, "is same shit different day."
Whitewolf's magical mystery
I loved the short, choppy sentences and paragraphs; they made for an addicting read - kind of like reading someone's drunken tweets, but without all those annoying hashtags.
June 16, 2016
Speaking as someone who's done his own modest share of backpacking around the world (Ireland, Japan, etc), I can say that Whitewolf's wanderings were a joy to read about, striking a familiar chord with me on many pages. All the random people and places, getting off the beaten path, finding what's actually out there. Really experiencing the locales, as opposed to just passively viewing the surface versions passing through. I'm telling you, this author really knows how to travel, with no strict itinerary or destination in mind. I'll never understand the appeal of the five-countries-in-eight-days approach to tourism, hitting all the main attractions and really nothing else. I mean, if all I really want is a picture of the Eiffel Tower, why don't I just buy a postcard instead?
This book reads like someone's personal travel journal (which it is), but also something much more. In addition to seeking what's out there, Whitewolf seeks what's within as well. I know, that must sound awfully cliché on the surface, "middle-aged white male writer embarks upon journey of self-discovery in foreign lands", but frankly it doesn't come across that way at all. It just so happens that, following a bad breakup, this middle-aged white male writer decides to get lost in South America for half a year as a means of absolution, drinking and romping and improving his Spanish, which he thinks is bad but is assuredly far better than mine.
And, along the way, he has more than just a few deep insights and interesting observations to share. He gives us more than just an unconnected string of bemused anecdotes in this book. What makes the difference, I think, is Whitewolf's well-developed sense of self-awareness. He's aware of the fact that he's the tourist here every step of the way, and never once does he succumb to the cheap exoticism or the smug sense of entitlement that are so characteristic of much travel writing.
I too have kept similar journals of my travels, but never have I published any of them before. And with good reason. Whereas mine are probably worth digging out every once in a while for a personal trip down memory lane, Whitewolf's, while sharing some of the same structure, they actually have something to impart. There's a message here and it seems to be love.
This book reads like someone's personal travel journal (which it is), but also something much more. In addition to seeking what's out there, Whitewolf seeks what's within as well. I know, that must sound awfully cliché on the surface, "middle-aged white male writer embarks upon journey of self-discovery in foreign lands", but frankly it doesn't come across that way at all. It just so happens that, following a bad breakup, this middle-aged white male writer decides to get lost in South America for half a year as a means of absolution, drinking and romping and improving his Spanish, which he thinks is bad but is assuredly far better than mine.
And, along the way, he has more than just a few deep insights and interesting observations to share. He gives us more than just an unconnected string of bemused anecdotes in this book. What makes the difference, I think, is Whitewolf's well-developed sense of self-awareness. He's aware of the fact that he's the tourist here every step of the way, and never once does he succumb to the cheap exoticism or the smug sense of entitlement that are so characteristic of much travel writing.
I too have kept similar journals of my travels, but never have I published any of them before. And with good reason. Whereas mine are probably worth digging out every once in a while for a personal trip down memory lane, Whitewolf's, while sharing some of the same structure, they actually have something to impart. There's a message here and it seems to be love.
November 7, 2020
Boy! I really hate this author, not long into starting this book I started to see 11s everywhere, I seemed to travel to work every morning and the temperature would be 11C. Luckily for me my ignorance managed to defeat the universe and the 11s stopped appearing to me. Jason 1-0 Universe!
At first I thought the book had got screwed up as everything was out of order, I had go on Goodreads and read the blurb to find out it was supposed to be like that. I have to admit I didn't really get why things were written like that, but when I got near the end of the book it all clicked and everything made perfect since, the last chapter works surprisingly well.
Harry Whitewolf has done a great job of showing just how hard it is travelling alone, the dark depressions, the loneliness and the high of making a new friend. I've always pictured travelling as being great fun 100% of the time. He has also cleverly got you really involved with the characters, it's like you have made a new friend too.
I really enjoyed this and am looking forward to his new books coming out soon.
Blog Review is HERE> https://felcherman.wordpress.com/2018...
At first I thought the book had got screwed up as everything was out of order, I had go on Goodreads and read the blurb to find out it was supposed to be like that. I have to admit I didn't really get why things were written like that, but when I got near the end of the book it all clicked and everything made perfect since, the last chapter works surprisingly well.
Harry Whitewolf has done a great job of showing just how hard it is travelling alone, the dark depressions, the loneliness and the high of making a new friend. I've always pictured travelling as being great fun 100% of the time. He has also cleverly got you really involved with the characters, it's like you have made a new friend too.
I really enjoyed this and am looking forward to his new books coming out soon.
Blog Review is HERE> https://felcherman.wordpress.com/2018...
July 15, 2015
This is a review of a book. This book has been named (look at title). South America and distractions, damage taken and the words not enough. I don’t know if I could ever believe the way the tourist does, from the bottom of the rock with the mome raths and crysalids, to the elevations that the waters wash and the winds squall across the face of the path. Its a path well trod with footprints fathoms deep, they fit every foot like the sleep of a glove. I wrote a review that made sense before this, I may put that one on the Amazon but it didn’t seem right. I tried, once, long ago, to have faith. I read The Orion Mystery, Chariots of the Gods?, The Book of the Dead.
Once there was a cloud out at sea at night. I live by the sea. It was a colossal cloud out on its own, looming suspended but thick as anything. It lit up from inside with flashes of lightning, all self-contained like a plasma ball. Then something came out and sailed majestically away from it. It was something black against the lesser black of the night sky. I looked at sister and she looked at me. I said something about wanting it to come nearer, I can’t remember the words just the impulse. As I said this it changed course and headed to us and over us. It was a black triangle and silent, a void processioning over the sky. Do I care that I don’t know what that was? That maybe it was some sort of military prototype out for a jolly, spinning from a weird cloud?
This book invites the reader to have another look at how they attribute meaning. So much means so very little but so little means so very much. The tourist tells his story with generosity, a conversational agreement that never oversteps its bounds. Whatever your views on fate, however your own stars line up or go supernova on you it seems sometimes the best you can do is try to see things differently, attempt to shake up those habitual behaviours that lead us ever astray. Here the tourist graciously lets us in to sit perched on his shoulder like an invisible Jiminy Cricket without the conscience bit, bearing witness to his inner world; a place of some turmoils, good humours and randy plays.
If you are struggling, if you are human and curious about those strange other humans then this safe passage is for you.
Once there was a cloud out at sea at night. I live by the sea. It was a colossal cloud out on its own, looming suspended but thick as anything. It lit up from inside with flashes of lightning, all self-contained like a plasma ball. Then something came out and sailed majestically away from it. It was something black against the lesser black of the night sky. I looked at sister and she looked at me. I said something about wanting it to come nearer, I can’t remember the words just the impulse. As I said this it changed course and headed to us and over us. It was a black triangle and silent, a void processioning over the sky. Do I care that I don’t know what that was? That maybe it was some sort of military prototype out for a jolly, spinning from a weird cloud?
This book invites the reader to have another look at how they attribute meaning. So much means so very little but so little means so very much. The tourist tells his story with generosity, a conversational agreement that never oversteps its bounds. Whatever your views on fate, however your own stars line up or go supernova on you it seems sometimes the best you can do is try to see things differently, attempt to shake up those habitual behaviours that lead us ever astray. Here the tourist graciously lets us in to sit perched on his shoulder like an invisible Jiminy Cricket without the conscience bit, bearing witness to his inner world; a place of some turmoils, good humours and randy plays.
If you are struggling, if you are human and curious about those strange other humans then this safe passage is for you.
September 8, 2020
This book is part travelogue and part personal philosophy and it’s a cracking good read. The author spends a lot of time talking about spirituality which, as somebody who isn’t the slightest bit religious/spiritual, I’d normally find this sort of thing off putting. In this case, however, I didn’t find it the slightest bit unpalatable and I think it’s because the writer is such a pleasant person to spend time with (albeit between the pages of a book).
I found the author’s journey a relatable one despite our personal differences of outlook and very much enjoyed this trip through foreign parts, which is nice as it’s the closest thing I’ll be getting to a trip abroad for the foreseeable future. Bring on book two!
I found the author’s journey a relatable one despite our personal differences of outlook and very much enjoyed this trip through foreign parts, which is nice as it’s the closest thing I’ll be getting to a trip abroad for the foreseeable future. Bring on book two!
June 29, 2016
I loved this book for its total uniqueness and style. Here, Harry has managed to draw the reader into the novel so you feel everything the (unnamed) tourist feels - loneliness/belonging, excitement/disappointment. Anyone who has travelled alone will certainly relate, anyone who hasn't will want to.
Being highlighted to the spiritual belief of 'signs', I was interested in the whole 11:11 phenomenon in which this novel is based. I felt I started seeing the same kind of signs myself (spooky enough a recent training run where my first 3 miles I clocked a constant pace of 11m11/mile ...... Coincidence?). The recurrence of 'just one more night' I found amusing.
The writing is easy flowing, and I had no problem with the time shifts - we all have that melancholic place we drift to in our quiet times.
I thoroughly enjoyed this and look forward to reading more from this talented author.
Being highlighted to the spiritual belief of 'signs', I was interested in the whole 11:11 phenomenon in which this novel is based. I felt I started seeing the same kind of signs myself (spooky enough a recent training run where my first 3 miles I clocked a constant pace of 11m11/mile ...... Coincidence?). The recurrence of 'just one more night' I found amusing.
The writing is easy flowing, and I had no problem with the time shifts - we all have that melancholic place we drift to in our quiet times.
I thoroughly enjoyed this and look forward to reading more from this talented author.
July 5, 2016
I started reading “Route 11” at a time when I needed a good travel book. What is Route 11 -- part Gonzo journalism, part spiritual quest, stream of consciousness. Beatnik writing? Perhaps. The book jumps from scene to scene -- not quite poetry, but not stable enough to be prose. The book attempts to be what travel is. Random. Sometimes surprising. Sometimes loose threads that never meet. Disappointments, sure. But also, unexpected discoveries.
The book stretches like one big zipper down the middle of the page with sections that are vague, yet vivid. Passages like these: “Three whole non-stop weeks of Devil City dancing and drinking. A blurry bubble of time without boundaries.”
A cast of wild characters -- believable in their unbelievability.
I suppose it’s not a travel book unless you’re drunk, decadent, and constantly stumbling into interesting characters. Though, I do sometimes wonder if there could be a good travel book written about taking a package tour and just seeing the usual sites.
Sex, drugs, drink, girls, party, repeat...things happen... you’re young. Things don’t make sense. You’re young. You try to figure things out -- things don’t make sense.
I’m pissed now and trying to read this book. Somehow, I think if I were in Busan like I was supposed to be that I might see chapters of the book scribbled onto a bathroom wall while I try to piss. It’s not that the book is crap-- it’s not! It’s fantastic!-- it’s just that it’s that kind of book -- it’s the kind book that works on a pdf or scribbled on a bathroom stall door.
The book makes me think I should read “On the Road” someday soon. I did read “Angel Strings” (https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...), and I keep having one night stands with these vagrant books that turn out to be great in bed.
So the book is also about getting over your ex and falling in love overseas as a means to getting over your ex. Truth be told, going overseas is probably the best thing you can do to help get over a girl.
So you lose your soulmate, find a dude named Sean who is an endless beer-drinker, skirt-chaser, party-upon-party-upon-party type of guy who somehow gets you into trouble so deep you temporarily forget about the girl.
At certain points in the book, an important questions is brought up -- can Hedonism be a kind of spiritual path?
The estrangement the author feels at times comes out clear and intense -- he can’t speak Spanish; he is alone; he has been dumped. He feels at the very bottom and yet he is an enchanting foreign land -- the best bottom there could be.
The book stretches like one big zipper down the middle of the page with sections that are vague, yet vivid. Passages like these: “Three whole non-stop weeks of Devil City dancing and drinking. A blurry bubble of time without boundaries.”
A cast of wild characters -- believable in their unbelievability.
I suppose it’s not a travel book unless you’re drunk, decadent, and constantly stumbling into interesting characters. Though, I do sometimes wonder if there could be a good travel book written about taking a package tour and just seeing the usual sites.
Sex, drugs, drink, girls, party, repeat...things happen... you’re young. Things don’t make sense. You’re young. You try to figure things out -- things don’t make sense.
I’m pissed now and trying to read this book. Somehow, I think if I were in Busan like I was supposed to be that I might see chapters of the book scribbled onto a bathroom wall while I try to piss. It’s not that the book is crap-- it’s not! It’s fantastic!-- it’s just that it’s that kind of book -- it’s the kind book that works on a pdf or scribbled on a bathroom stall door.
The book makes me think I should read “On the Road” someday soon. I did read “Angel Strings” (https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...), and I keep having one night stands with these vagrant books that turn out to be great in bed.
So the book is also about getting over your ex and falling in love overseas as a means to getting over your ex. Truth be told, going overseas is probably the best thing you can do to help get over a girl.
So you lose your soulmate, find a dude named Sean who is an endless beer-drinker, skirt-chaser, party-upon-party-upon-party type of guy who somehow gets you into trouble so deep you temporarily forget about the girl.
At certain points in the book, an important questions is brought up -- can Hedonism be a kind of spiritual path?
The estrangement the author feels at times comes out clear and intense -- he can’t speak Spanish; he is alone; he has been dumped. He feels at the very bottom and yet he is an enchanting foreign land -- the best bottom there could be.
March 20, 2015
This book was provided me with not even the implication I should share my reefer (just as well- been all out since forever!) I reckon a review would suffice though.
Señor Whitewolf has penned a demented Gonzo diary-turned-Kerouaquian-SOC via Ginsberg, Burroughs, Bukowski, even Oulipo! But this lyrically-prosed Eat Prey/Fuck of Pynchonian paranoia (which follows a map across Chile, Argentina, Brazil and Paraguay that looks like it was sketched out for the travelers by a plum-drunk wasp staggering across a beer mat) is no cut-up work of quirky postmodern gimmickry: there is heart; there is levity; there is life; there is death; this is a thing drafted and re-drafted to capture a well-orchestrated carelessness, a meticulous ramble, a uniform voice- drunk or no.
Humour, self-deprecation and colour grace this ramble, which masterfully captures the sultry heat, sauce and sex of South America. Whitewolf and his cohorts missed the meeting about hedonism and the path to pleasure and its inherent emptiness- either that, or they were there, but they sat up the back of the presentation giggling and chewing on mescaline buttons- not the crowd you want to hang out with if you like abstinence of any sort, or waking up knowing where you are, how much is in your wallet, who that is beside you or why!
The length works well as these brief chapters are packed with the punch of short stories, the supply of which will certainly leave you high, especially if ingested all at once.
Heralding the greats is great, Whitewolf. Yes, you have proven you can! And in your later works (Egyptian sequel The Road To Purification: Hustlers, Hassles & Hash, and upcoming collection of beat poetry) I expect to see you poke your be-bearded, dreadlocked noggin out from behind their veil more and more as if lured out by bronze-skinned Brazilian beauties.
Holy cerveza! Holy Norwegia! Everywhere is holy! Cheers for the Goodread, Holy Wolf!! For fans of sunny travel escapism/ envy, Terrence McKenna-style druggy batshitness, South American barfly tales and any manner of literary debauchery.
Y-yeah… okay you’re welcome I mean… n-no problem- is that your dick on my thigh??
Rating: 4*
Señor Whitewolf has penned a demented Gonzo diary-turned-Kerouaquian-SOC via Ginsberg, Burroughs, Bukowski, even Oulipo! But this lyrically-prosed Eat Prey/Fuck of Pynchonian paranoia (which follows a map across Chile, Argentina, Brazil and Paraguay that looks like it was sketched out for the travelers by a plum-drunk wasp staggering across a beer mat) is no cut-up work of quirky postmodern gimmickry: there is heart; there is levity; there is life; there is death; this is a thing drafted and re-drafted to capture a well-orchestrated carelessness, a meticulous ramble, a uniform voice- drunk or no.
Humour, self-deprecation and colour grace this ramble, which masterfully captures the sultry heat, sauce and sex of South America. Whitewolf and his cohorts missed the meeting about hedonism and the path to pleasure and its inherent emptiness- either that, or they were there, but they sat up the back of the presentation giggling and chewing on mescaline buttons- not the crowd you want to hang out with if you like abstinence of any sort, or waking up knowing where you are, how much is in your wallet, who that is beside you or why!
The length works well as these brief chapters are packed with the punch of short stories, the supply of which will certainly leave you high, especially if ingested all at once.
Heralding the greats is great, Whitewolf. Yes, you have proven you can! And in your later works (Egyptian sequel The Road To Purification: Hustlers, Hassles & Hash, and upcoming collection of beat poetry) I expect to see you poke your be-bearded, dreadlocked noggin out from behind their veil more and more as if lured out by bronze-skinned Brazilian beauties.
Holy cerveza! Holy Norwegia! Everywhere is holy! Cheers for the Goodread, Holy Wolf!! For fans of sunny travel escapism/ envy, Terrence McKenna-style druggy batshitness, South American barfly tales and any manner of literary debauchery.
Y-yeah… okay you’re welcome I mean… n-no problem- is that your dick on my thigh??
Rating: 4*
January 14, 2016
Why do we travel, the ones of us who do? Each of us for our own reasons. Boredom, expansion, new vistas etc. In Route 11, the travelling is a spiritual quest to cleanse oneself from the past and deliver the Tourist into his new fate. All he needs is acute senses and sharpened perspective to recognise the signs.
For a reader like me who is better suited in the bosom of British Humanist Association I can't relate to the particular signs that the universe sends to the Tourist. But I can wholeheartedly relate to Mr Whitewolf's very good writing and his beautiful sensitivity spread honestly and fearlessly through the pages. The author doesn't worry that the unfiltered emotion and trust will crumble his style, because he is rightfully confident of his writing abilities.
The author seems to be extremely knowing of the beatnik mode which has some blood ties with its contemporary noir, strictly aesthetic blood ties, that is. His writing is fluent in beatnik langue and fluid, as the Tourist drinks, smokes, flirts from location to location. Every city and town translates into more bars, more beautiful girls, more cigarettes lonely hotel rooms and...friendship. The Tourist is anthropocentric and feels that the universe will take care of him by providing meaningful relationships.
Whilst going on with the reading I was re-naming the Tourist in my head. The Drifter and The Wandering Wound most prominently. His trauma is that he can't let go of his lost love but his determination is for his psyche to move on. But the beautiful girls are elusive sirens, almost there but never quite making it into the promised affair. And the Tourist keeps moving from town to city to town, searching.
As I said before I'm not spiritual at all. But I recognize the fact that theories and phenomena occur to other people. At times I felt that the author was too apologetic and defensive presenting his 11:11 experience and that somehow interrupted the flow of his emotional directness and innocence, (which humbled someone like me who feels more secure writing cynical points of view).
Apart from that I really enjoyed this book, I felt close to the character, a massively likable guy and hoped that in his fictional or semi-fictional state, turn of events would bring him piece and gratification.
And I 'll certainly look out for the next offering of the author with the poetic pseudonym.
For a reader like me who is better suited in the bosom of British Humanist Association I can't relate to the particular signs that the universe sends to the Tourist. But I can wholeheartedly relate to Mr Whitewolf's very good writing and his beautiful sensitivity spread honestly and fearlessly through the pages. The author doesn't worry that the unfiltered emotion and trust will crumble his style, because he is rightfully confident of his writing abilities.
The author seems to be extremely knowing of the beatnik mode which has some blood ties with its contemporary noir, strictly aesthetic blood ties, that is. His writing is fluent in beatnik langue and fluid, as the Tourist drinks, smokes, flirts from location to location. Every city and town translates into more bars, more beautiful girls, more cigarettes lonely hotel rooms and...friendship. The Tourist is anthropocentric and feels that the universe will take care of him by providing meaningful relationships.
Whilst going on with the reading I was re-naming the Tourist in my head. The Drifter and The Wandering Wound most prominently. His trauma is that he can't let go of his lost love but his determination is for his psyche to move on. But the beautiful girls are elusive sirens, almost there but never quite making it into the promised affair. And the Tourist keeps moving from town to city to town, searching.
As I said before I'm not spiritual at all. But I recognize the fact that theories and phenomena occur to other people. At times I felt that the author was too apologetic and defensive presenting his 11:11 experience and that somehow interrupted the flow of his emotional directness and innocence, (which humbled someone like me who feels more secure writing cynical points of view).
Apart from that I really enjoyed this book, I felt close to the character, a massively likable guy and hoped that in his fictional or semi-fictional state, turn of events would bring him piece and gratification.
And I 'll certainly look out for the next offering of the author with the poetic pseudonym.
May 9, 2019
I read Fear and loathing in Los Vegas when I was in my early 20’s and thought quite correctly that I would never again read a rich mixture of poetry, prose and sheer chaos – until now! Like the unknown stranger in Camus’s Outsider, (he even mentions this book on page 42) our protagonist is known only as ‘the tourist’. But underneath the altered states induced by a mixture of alcohol, foreign culture and geography there is the deeper mission of self discovery that makes this type of work a ‘must read’. Whitewolf has the rare ability to reveal emotional states of mind in a way that we can both identify and empathise with. From the book:
“Leaving behind the chaos and shock of the last nine months that had engulfed him, consumed him, blackened him, beaten him and eaten him up. His face is now looking a little less like it's made of stone.”
Books about spirituality are usually classified in the ‘Mind, Body and Soul’ category. This work by Whitewolf takes us on a journey that explores all three. The tourist is on a search for inner gnosis happiness, (maybe love), adventure and personal fulfilment. He also wants to know ‘why’. The tourist chooses to see a divine and universal consciousness that will not only reveal itself through various forms of synchronicity but it will also guide him to the light. Whitewolf gives us a vision of this (through the words of the tourist) in a way that is inclusive and non judgemental. Again from the book:
“If everything is One and we are all God experiencing itself subjectively, then of course there are signs in everything. We were all once the ocean of God, with awareness of who we were. Now we've become more and more isolated and individual. We're now droplets of that ocean, forgetting we were once a part of it. Most forget and see themselves just as the chosen droplet form they've taken: God becoming manifest in the physical form. But if we remember who we really are and where we've come from, then we can gain balance between the manifest and unmanifest- where individual, subjective truth and eternal, all encompassing truth come to meet.”
Route Number 11: Argentina, Angels & Alcohol for me reads more as poetry than structured prose. Harry is concerned with the use of words to convey feelings, thoughts, and ideas rather than plot and character development. A night spent in a dingy hotel room is summarised beautifully in poetic fashion: “T.V. Beer. T.V. Beer. Loneliness. Fear.” This form of writing makes each page a new adventure outside the confines of linear time and location. Like his poetry, this book is not for those people who want their characters and themes neatly packaged into a conforming generic narrative. Just as quickly as the book dives into its quest for universal gnosis, we are reminded of the tourist’s very real personal ‘human’ pains and aspirations. As someone who usually prefers the rationality of Freud over the spirituality of Jung, this book has made me revisit some of my own conceptions of reality and spirituality. That’s exactly what great writing should do.
“Leaving behind the chaos and shock of the last nine months that had engulfed him, consumed him, blackened him, beaten him and eaten him up. His face is now looking a little less like it's made of stone.”
Books about spirituality are usually classified in the ‘Mind, Body and Soul’ category. This work by Whitewolf takes us on a journey that explores all three. The tourist is on a search for inner gnosis happiness, (maybe love), adventure and personal fulfilment. He also wants to know ‘why’. The tourist chooses to see a divine and universal consciousness that will not only reveal itself through various forms of synchronicity but it will also guide him to the light. Whitewolf gives us a vision of this (through the words of the tourist) in a way that is inclusive and non judgemental. Again from the book:
“If everything is One and we are all God experiencing itself subjectively, then of course there are signs in everything. We were all once the ocean of God, with awareness of who we were. Now we've become more and more isolated and individual. We're now droplets of that ocean, forgetting we were once a part of it. Most forget and see themselves just as the chosen droplet form they've taken: God becoming manifest in the physical form. But if we remember who we really are and where we've come from, then we can gain balance between the manifest and unmanifest- where individual, subjective truth and eternal, all encompassing truth come to meet.”
Route Number 11: Argentina, Angels & Alcohol for me reads more as poetry than structured prose. Harry is concerned with the use of words to convey feelings, thoughts, and ideas rather than plot and character development. A night spent in a dingy hotel room is summarised beautifully in poetic fashion: “T.V. Beer. T.V. Beer. Loneliness. Fear.” This form of writing makes each page a new adventure outside the confines of linear time and location. Like his poetry, this book is not for those people who want their characters and themes neatly packaged into a conforming generic narrative. Just as quickly as the book dives into its quest for universal gnosis, we are reminded of the tourist’s very real personal ‘human’ pains and aspirations. As someone who usually prefers the rationality of Freud over the spirituality of Jung, this book has made me revisit some of my own conceptions of reality and spirituality. That’s exactly what great writing should do.
January 18, 2015
Did you ever find yourself looking for a book which not only takes you on a journey through places you either were lucky enough once to visit or somewhere you had always dreamed of going to, but also through the inner journey of the author, as it unfolds in his mind, the various ups-and-downs of his mental state, whether inebriated or this side of sober? If the answer is ‘yes’, then Harry Whitewolf’s first novel, Route Number 11: Argentina, Angels & Alcohol is definitely right up your paradise alley.
Quite simply, this is Kerouac for the 21st Century ladies & gentlemen. Just like Sal Paradise (Jack Kerouac’s non-de-plume) in the 20th Century American classic On the Road itself, ‘the tourist’ as the author likes to call himself, sets out on a long journey unsure from the outset of his actual goal. Although we are pretty sure it’s not a pot of leprechaun gold at the end of the rainbow. In fact, that is partly the main point – the journey itself IS the goal. And any journey we embark on is a small mirror of the larger journey of life that we all have to travel. And just like Jack and Neal did in On the Road, the tourist, in this modern-day travelogue, comes to not only learn more about Argentina, Paraguay and other parts of South America, but more about himself – especially what has been eating him in the past and what is pushing him onwards imploringly and relentlessly.
What I loved about this book in particular is THE FEELING that is magically distilled within its pages. And it is no easy task to broach ‘subjects of the heart’ seriously and earnestly in today’s world of deeply-embedded cynicism. I’m talking about topics like heartbreak and getting over someone and “the ache of loneliness that cuts the throat out of the night” (to use a reference from my forthcoming first novel which seems also funnily enough appropriate to quote here). In this tour-de-force, Whitewolf has succeeded in distilling into one book all of the angst and acheing loneliness, heartbreak and painful hangovers (which are part of the healing process itself) and most importantly the INVINCIBLE DETERMINATION to “keep on keeping on” as Bob Dylan once put it. Incidentally, this reviewer was going through a very hard time in his life at almost exactly the same stage as Whitewolf and so it resonated very deeply with me on both an emotional and chronologically nostalgic level.
So what did Jack and Neal discover at the end of the road? At the end of the American dream? Nothing. Because they had already discovered it on the way there. And they were looking for it on the road. But all along they were carrying it deep inside of them. They discovered something new about themselves on the journey whose initial mission was just simply “to go” and go somewhere. Similarly, ‘the tourist’ in Route Number 11 discovers more about himself which is an essential ingredient towards letting himself heal (because some of us don’t give ourselves a chance to heal) and every time he meets a new friend on the road in Argentina or shares a pint with another fellow tourist, you as the reader find yourself silently cheering for him saying “good for you mate. You deserve to enjoy yourself. You deserve to find happiness. Keep going! You’ll get there”. And it is that wonderful feeling of brotherhood and brotherly love that people together on a journey share that Whitewolf so magically captures and imparts on the reader over the course of the novel.
Regarding the style of the book, I like how things are written out of conventional chronological order like a drunken jigsaw puzzle, which the reader has to put back together in his mind - like when you wake up with a screaming hangover trying to put back the pieces of the night before. I've been through that myself so many times. The non-chronological progression of the novel beautifully reflects and allows the reader to experience some of the torpor and confusion of his mind as he goes through catharsis. It reminded me in some ways of Burroughs’ and Gysin’s cut-up technique but the prose sentences themselves are left intact. Another marvelous thing about this book is the jazz poetry snippets that are inserted here and there in each chapter. Some of this poetry reminded me of Kerouac’s more playful and experimental moments in Mexico City Blues, Book of Blues and Pomes All Sizes.
This is a gutsy, sincere, compassionate, exciting and addictive read which I couldn’t put down. Harry Whitewolf is amongst the best modern-day writers I have read in a while. Of that I have no doubt. He is a writer of incredible promise and talent.
Before Kerouac died one of the last things he was reported to have said was “after me, the deluge”. Well, come to think of it, Mr. Whitewolf himself just might be riding on the crest of that deluge wave of great subsequent writers that Kerouac had in mind.
Quite simply, this is Kerouac for the 21st Century ladies & gentlemen. Just like Sal Paradise (Jack Kerouac’s non-de-plume) in the 20th Century American classic On the Road itself, ‘the tourist’ as the author likes to call himself, sets out on a long journey unsure from the outset of his actual goal. Although we are pretty sure it’s not a pot of leprechaun gold at the end of the rainbow. In fact, that is partly the main point – the journey itself IS the goal. And any journey we embark on is a small mirror of the larger journey of life that we all have to travel. And just like Jack and Neal did in On the Road, the tourist, in this modern-day travelogue, comes to not only learn more about Argentina, Paraguay and other parts of South America, but more about himself – especially what has been eating him in the past and what is pushing him onwards imploringly and relentlessly.
What I loved about this book in particular is THE FEELING that is magically distilled within its pages. And it is no easy task to broach ‘subjects of the heart’ seriously and earnestly in today’s world of deeply-embedded cynicism. I’m talking about topics like heartbreak and getting over someone and “the ache of loneliness that cuts the throat out of the night” (to use a reference from my forthcoming first novel which seems also funnily enough appropriate to quote here). In this tour-de-force, Whitewolf has succeeded in distilling into one book all of the angst and acheing loneliness, heartbreak and painful hangovers (which are part of the healing process itself) and most importantly the INVINCIBLE DETERMINATION to “keep on keeping on” as Bob Dylan once put it. Incidentally, this reviewer was going through a very hard time in his life at almost exactly the same stage as Whitewolf and so it resonated very deeply with me on both an emotional and chronologically nostalgic level.
So what did Jack and Neal discover at the end of the road? At the end of the American dream? Nothing. Because they had already discovered it on the way there. And they were looking for it on the road. But all along they were carrying it deep inside of them. They discovered something new about themselves on the journey whose initial mission was just simply “to go” and go somewhere. Similarly, ‘the tourist’ in Route Number 11 discovers more about himself which is an essential ingredient towards letting himself heal (because some of us don’t give ourselves a chance to heal) and every time he meets a new friend on the road in Argentina or shares a pint with another fellow tourist, you as the reader find yourself silently cheering for him saying “good for you mate. You deserve to enjoy yourself. You deserve to find happiness. Keep going! You’ll get there”. And it is that wonderful feeling of brotherhood and brotherly love that people together on a journey share that Whitewolf so magically captures and imparts on the reader over the course of the novel.
Regarding the style of the book, I like how things are written out of conventional chronological order like a drunken jigsaw puzzle, which the reader has to put back together in his mind - like when you wake up with a screaming hangover trying to put back the pieces of the night before. I've been through that myself so many times. The non-chronological progression of the novel beautifully reflects and allows the reader to experience some of the torpor and confusion of his mind as he goes through catharsis. It reminded me in some ways of Burroughs’ and Gysin’s cut-up technique but the prose sentences themselves are left intact. Another marvelous thing about this book is the jazz poetry snippets that are inserted here and there in each chapter. Some of this poetry reminded me of Kerouac’s more playful and experimental moments in Mexico City Blues, Book of Blues and Pomes All Sizes.
This is a gutsy, sincere, compassionate, exciting and addictive read which I couldn’t put down. Harry Whitewolf is amongst the best modern-day writers I have read in a while. Of that I have no doubt. He is a writer of incredible promise and talent.
Before Kerouac died one of the last things he was reported to have said was “after me, the deluge”. Well, come to think of it, Mr. Whitewolf himself just might be riding on the crest of that deluge wave of great subsequent writers that Kerouac had in mind.
February 15, 2016
I’ve never read a book like this one, that’s for sure. Easily the most unique book I’ve read in a while and it’s a difficult one to summarize really as it criss-crosses different genres and isn’t easily classifiable. All I can really say is I loved every page and the rhythmic writing style just swept me along from page to page and one location to the next.
Route Number 11 is a rollicking and at times raunchy adventure through the South American continent, told in the poetic beatnik writing style, with a narrator who only ever mentions himself in the third person as “the tourist”, with generous amounts of humor, romantic yearning and philosophical observations. Throw in a few chemical substances, quantum physics conversations and untold liaisons with beautiful senoritas, and we have one hell of a travel book!
I most enjoyed learning about the 11:11 phenomenon which I hadn’t heard of before reading this book, but researched a little while reading it.
Am looking forward to reading more from this author.
Route Number 11 is a rollicking and at times raunchy adventure through the South American continent, told in the poetic beatnik writing style, with a narrator who only ever mentions himself in the third person as “the tourist”, with generous amounts of humor, romantic yearning and philosophical observations. Throw in a few chemical substances, quantum physics conversations and untold liaisons with beautiful senoritas, and we have one hell of a travel book!
I most enjoyed learning about the 11:11 phenomenon which I hadn’t heard of before reading this book, but researched a little while reading it.
Am looking forward to reading more from this author.
June 16, 2016
An illustration of irony...
Does anyone else get annoyed at authors who rate their own books just to improve ratings?
Does anyone else get annoyed at authors who rate their own books just to improve ratings?
April 7, 2016
This is a very unique book. I've been reading it one chapter at a time at lunch as time allowed, and was having a harder and harder time putting it down, as the story progressed. It took me a little while to get into the sometimes poetic, sometimes random writing style, but I soon fell into the groove, and adapted to the 'here one day, there the next' story line, which itself reflected the experience of "the Tourist" as he traveled through South America trying to find himself, a journey inspired by severe heartbreak....
The story starts out with an unnamed British protagonist, referred to throughout as "the Tourist", on a Rastafarian-ish adventure with a backpack, an old camera, a couple bankcards, and some less-than-smooth Spanish. He has no specific destination or timeline, but goes with the flow, following signs and being open to synchronicity. He met many different types of people on his journey, some like soulmates, others just passersby - but none could cure what he had to fix himself. Many destinations became nothing short of drunken detours of debauchery, others were inspiring and centering. In his infrequent correspondence with a friend from home, he would be issued an Angel Card to contemplate with relation to his evolution. I loved the introspection. I loved the laid back approach to travel. The Tourist's preoccupation with the 11:11 phenomenon was interesting, but for me, it's always been 7:11 - both lucky numbers, and I hope a sign of where I am headed :) I found this story particularly interesting in its frequent mention of the Mayan prophecy, because I was also drawn to South America in the days approaching 'the end of the calendar' and wanted to experience it from Machu Picchu in Peru (the Tourist was drawn to Argentina)....but I didn't go.
In others words, the Tourist took my journey, so I enjoyed being along for the ride!
Some of my favorite passages:
"Money is karma. That's why it comes and goes unexpectedly all the time."
“Time is relevant to how we use it.”
"...children are closer to God and the Universe than any grown ups are. So we need to remember to look at the world through the eyes of a child as well."
“Worry about anything, and you’re slowly making it happen.”
“Money is fear. If you have it, you’ll worry about keeping it and if you’re spending it on the right things. If you haven’t got much, you’ll worry about having enough. If you haven’t got any, you’ll worry about everything.”
“Meeting new people is just remembering faces of God we've forgotten.”
The story starts out with an unnamed British protagonist, referred to throughout as "the Tourist", on a Rastafarian-ish adventure with a backpack, an old camera, a couple bankcards, and some less-than-smooth Spanish. He has no specific destination or timeline, but goes with the flow, following signs and being open to synchronicity. He met many different types of people on his journey, some like soulmates, others just passersby - but none could cure what he had to fix himself. Many destinations became nothing short of drunken detours of debauchery, others were inspiring and centering. In his infrequent correspondence with a friend from home, he would be issued an Angel Card to contemplate with relation to his evolution. I loved the introspection. I loved the laid back approach to travel. The Tourist's preoccupation with the 11:11 phenomenon was interesting, but for me, it's always been 7:11 - both lucky numbers, and I hope a sign of where I am headed :) I found this story particularly interesting in its frequent mention of the Mayan prophecy, because I was also drawn to South America in the days approaching 'the end of the calendar' and wanted to experience it from Machu Picchu in Peru (the Tourist was drawn to Argentina)....but I didn't go.
In others words, the Tourist took my journey, so I enjoyed being along for the ride!
Some of my favorite passages:
"Money is karma. That's why it comes and goes unexpectedly all the time."
“Time is relevant to how we use it.”
"...children are closer to God and the Universe than any grown ups are. So we need to remember to look at the world through the eyes of a child as well."
“Worry about anything, and you’re slowly making it happen.”
“Money is fear. If you have it, you’ll worry about keeping it and if you’re spending it on the right things. If you haven’t got much, you’ll worry about having enough. If you haven’t got any, you’ll worry about everything.”
“Meeting new people is just remembering faces of God we've forgotten.”
October 19, 2015
This is a highly original book. The author goes on a trip through Argentina to shrive himself of a failed relationship, as if on a quest to find meaning in his life.And for all that, it's a riveting read - even if the partying does get repetitive at times. Nonetheless, amid the haze of smoke, drink and music, he gets us to empathise with a string of deftly portrayed colourful characters, most of whom have their problems.
The book is actually quite deep and the themes he chews over touch on many of the fundamental questions of life, and how we live it. That these themes sometimes disappear down a one way street and vanish doesn't matter - that's how life is, and we are shown once again that existence has no pat answers.
The style in which it is written is one of his own. At times it's rough and hip, and the way in which he refers to himself in the third person I found rather engaging. He also shows the low of travel - the depression that can overtake you, particularly when you are on your own. So many
travelogue books portray the author as a super-cool guy who can take anything that comes, but this author doesn't dissemble and it's refreshing.
All travellers should read this book.
The book is actually quite deep and the themes he chews over touch on many of the fundamental questions of life, and how we live it. That these themes sometimes disappear down a one way street and vanish doesn't matter - that's how life is, and we are shown once again that existence has no pat answers.
The style in which it is written is one of his own. At times it's rough and hip, and the way in which he refers to himself in the third person I found rather engaging. He also shows the low of travel - the depression that can overtake you, particularly when you are on your own. So many
travelogue books portray the author as a super-cool guy who can take anything that comes, but this author doesn't dissemble and it's refreshing.
All travellers should read this book.
October 7, 2014
A magical read
In his author’s biography, Harry Whitewolf claims he lives in two worlds – the real world, in which he’s a writer and traveler, and the ethereal world, in which he's a spiritual warrior. In Route Number 11 he has successfully combined his two selves and produced a magical read. Highly recommended!
December 4, 2014
An easy reading book that made me reflect on my own life and our mission on this Earth.
After ending his heartbreaking relationship, the main character (the Tourist) is having an unusual trip to Argentina with no plans and no time limit. There are some strange “adventures” he has, lots of alcohol, some chicas around and few friends.
I find this story very inspiring, but also devastating (because of the alcohol and girls).
Here are some quotes I like and would love to share:
“No planes y no tiempo limitado” (No plans. No time limit.)
“… children are closer to God and the Universe than any grown ups are. So we need to remember to look at the world through the eyes of the child as well.”
“If you have confidence and humor, conversation is actually pretty easy, whatever your level of the language may be.”
“Money is fear. If you have it, you’ll worry about keeping it and if you’re spending it on the right things. If you haven’t got much, you’ll worry about having enough. If you haven’t got any, you’ll worry about everything.”
“Worry about anything, and you’re slowly making it happen.”
“If you don’t like it, leave! Simple.”
“… you don’t need to go anywhere to find yourself. That should be pretty clear by the fact that’s it’s you you’re looking for.”
“What else is life about, if not love in all its forms?”
“Meeting new people is just remembering faces of God we've forgotten.”
“Any holidayer knows that two weeks abroad always goes very quickly, and yet at the same time it feels like you've been away for ever.”
“Every place contains its own time.”
“Time is relevant to how we use it.”
After ending his heartbreaking relationship, the main character (the Tourist) is having an unusual trip to Argentina with no plans and no time limit. There are some strange “adventures” he has, lots of alcohol, some chicas around and few friends.
I find this story very inspiring, but also devastating (because of the alcohol and girls).
Here are some quotes I like and would love to share:
“No planes y no tiempo limitado” (No plans. No time limit.)
“… children are closer to God and the Universe than any grown ups are. So we need to remember to look at the world through the eyes of the child as well.”
“If you have confidence and humor, conversation is actually pretty easy, whatever your level of the language may be.”
“Money is fear. If you have it, you’ll worry about keeping it and if you’re spending it on the right things. If you haven’t got much, you’ll worry about having enough. If you haven’t got any, you’ll worry about everything.”
“Worry about anything, and you’re slowly making it happen.”
“If you don’t like it, leave! Simple.”
“… you don’t need to go anywhere to find yourself. That should be pretty clear by the fact that’s it’s you you’re looking for.”
“What else is life about, if not love in all its forms?”
“Meeting new people is just remembering faces of God we've forgotten.”
“Any holidayer knows that two weeks abroad always goes very quickly, and yet at the same time it feels like you've been away for ever.”
“Every place contains its own time.”
“Time is relevant to how we use it.”
August 30, 2014
Harry can write, there is no doubt about that, and for a debut novel this is great. His prose are quite lyrical, with a 60’s beatnik /Hunter S charm to the meter at many points.
I enjoyed the travelogue aspect of the book, you felt as though you were on the journey with ‘The Tourist’, which I highly suspect maybe the author himself? But much preferred it more when it went off on a tangent to religious/philosophical/scientific topics; like the part in Roasario.
There is some great dialogue within this book. I especially liked the conversation with the Pixie Witch in Buenos Aries and there is some clever turn of phrase and observation also.
I did find the use of repletion to emphasis points a little hard work and frustrating at times. In the same way I would not read collections of beatnik poetry one after another.
When I got to the last three chapters, back in England and Madrid it felt like the sea had calmed, which was probably intentional. The conclusion and taking stock I really loved and felt that it made the ‘journey’ of the book worthwhile and enlightening.
If you like an unsanitised travelogue with a visceral feel and The Beatniks, I highly recommend this book to you.
The Writing IMP
I enjoyed the travelogue aspect of the book, you felt as though you were on the journey with ‘The Tourist’, which I highly suspect maybe the author himself? But much preferred it more when it went off on a tangent to religious/philosophical/scientific topics; like the part in Roasario.
There is some great dialogue within this book. I especially liked the conversation with the Pixie Witch in Buenos Aries and there is some clever turn of phrase and observation also.
I did find the use of repletion to emphasis points a little hard work and frustrating at times. In the same way I would not read collections of beatnik poetry one after another.
When I got to the last three chapters, back in England and Madrid it felt like the sea had calmed, which was probably intentional. The conclusion and taking stock I really loved and felt that it made the ‘journey’ of the book worthwhile and enlightening.
If you like an unsanitised travelogue with a visceral feel and The Beatniks, I highly recommend this book to you.
The Writing IMP
September 6, 2014
A dreadlocked hipster in his thirties, a sort of British Man With No Name called The Tourist, hits the road to South America following the breakup with his girlfriend of several years. Was it from lack of communication? If it was, then the irony of his nomadics in a land where his communication skills are stunted are sadly poignant.
So far the book reminds me of the quiet desolation of Antonioni films like La Notte as well as Donovan's tales of beatnik backpacking in his autobiography "Hurdy Gurdy Man". I also found the symbolism of empty, desolate towns in contrast with his broken heart to be well done.
Route Number 11 is written in a bohemian prose poetry style that's easy to read and enjoy, and while the odyssey is very sad I'm enjoying where I'm being taken. It all feels like some mad dream....
So far the book reminds me of the quiet desolation of Antonioni films like La Notte as well as Donovan's tales of beatnik backpacking in his autobiography "Hurdy Gurdy Man". I also found the symbolism of empty, desolate towns in contrast with his broken heart to be well done.
Route Number 11 is written in a bohemian prose poetry style that's easy to read and enjoy, and while the odyssey is very sad I'm enjoying where I'm being taken. It all feels like some mad dream....
April 1, 2017
Excellent!! Makes me want to go to all these places..wish I could have 6 months.
October 6, 2014
Copy provided by the author in exchange for an honest review
I absolutely haven't read something like this before. Unique writing style, absorbing way of storytelling, but without any real plot and character development. I find the thought of our protagonist "the Tourist" consuming, but I think we never get to know him entirely, like he's always hiding something from readers and not for the sake of mistery. There are a lot of questions hanging of tourist's life before he went on his journey and sometimes I was more interested in his past than in his present.
This is a story of traveling through South America, of dealing with a tough break-up and of arising new friendships that have potential to last forever.It's pretty much one-sided story because we never see how others feel or think, we only see how the tourist is responding to them. You can say the tourist is unreliable narrator, because 90% he's drunk or hangover. He began his travelling because love of his life left him, so he went on a journey to find himself. At least that's what I think this is about, a lot of important information is foggy. We never find out WHY they broke up, nor if they relationship was as perfect as the tourist think it was, we just now that he spent a year longing for his ex-girlfriend while drinking and sleeping with others through South America. And that's fine, his story is remarkable, but his ongoing parties become repetitive after a while.
Nevertheless, as the protagonist life loses the track of what is the real life, he shares some of his opinions on philosophy, religion, superstition and existentialism. The problem is that it's hard to take him seriously, because it looks more like the drunk talks we all have at 6 am when we're so tired we don't control our own brain and tongue anymore. I found myself wondering what is he running from, because it's obviously what he was doing, as he desperately tried to fall into oblivion. The end brought him some peace and indicators for a new beginning, but I think he never really delt with the change in his life. He was with this girl for 8 years (I think so) and then she left him and through whole journey he's moping for HOW she left him, but he never wondered WHY she left him. I believe that part of every break up is dealing with WHY relationship ended, what I did wrong, why the other person didn't suit me well enough for us to work out. The tourist doesn't seem to ever consider those questions.
Whitewolf's prose is simple, but lyrical, concise with short sentences, but the thoughts he's expressing are a bit detached. He's skipping from one subject to another too fast and that's why sometimes his opinions sound like babbling. Overall, it was a solid read and good debut.
I absolutely haven't read something like this before. Unique writing style, absorbing way of storytelling, but without any real plot and character development. I find the thought of our protagonist "the Tourist" consuming, but I think we never get to know him entirely, like he's always hiding something from readers and not for the sake of mistery. There are a lot of questions hanging of tourist's life before he went on his journey and sometimes I was more interested in his past than in his present.
This is a story of traveling through South America, of dealing with a tough break-up and of arising new friendships that have potential to last forever.It's pretty much one-sided story because we never see how others feel or think, we only see how the tourist is responding to them. You can say the tourist is unreliable narrator, because 90% he's drunk or hangover. He began his travelling because love of his life left him, so he went on a journey to find himself. At least that's what I think this is about, a lot of important information is foggy. We never find out WHY they broke up, nor if they relationship was as perfect as the tourist think it was, we just now that he spent a year longing for his ex-girlfriend while drinking and sleeping with others through South America. And that's fine, his story is remarkable, but his ongoing parties become repetitive after a while.
Nevertheless, as the protagonist life loses the track of what is the real life, he shares some of his opinions on philosophy, religion, superstition and existentialism. The problem is that it's hard to take him seriously, because it looks more like the drunk talks we all have at 6 am when we're so tired we don't control our own brain and tongue anymore. I found myself wondering what is he running from, because it's obviously what he was doing, as he desperately tried to fall into oblivion. The end brought him some peace and indicators for a new beginning, but I think he never really delt with the change in his life. He was with this girl for 8 years (I think so) and then she left him and through whole journey he's moping for HOW she left him, but he never wondered WHY she left him. I believe that part of every break up is dealing with WHY relationship ended, what I did wrong, why the other person didn't suit me well enough for us to work out. The tourist doesn't seem to ever consider those questions.
Whitewolf's prose is simple, but lyrical, concise with short sentences, but the thoughts he's expressing are a bit detached. He's skipping from one subject to another too fast and that's why sometimes his opinions sound like babbling. Overall, it was a solid read and good debut.
June 9, 2016
An illustration of irony...
Does anyone else get annoyed at authors who rate their own books just to improve ratings?
Does anyone else get annoyed at authors who rate their own books just to improve ratings?
August 26, 2014
‘The truth is always subjective…’
As most journeys, this book starts out with a promise. In this case it's of a travel experience played out in alliterated, rhythmic poetry. However as the protagonist’s life dissipates into a repetitive, drunken crawl around a nebulous land of nightmares, the reader shares in ‘The Tourist’s’ struggle to awaken to the spiritual warrior within.
The story unfolds in a perpetual, sometimes painful, always honest, stream of consciousness, punctuated by some light relief, when the author allows The Tourist to appear in the guise of the ‘Where’s Wally’ character. Signposts present themselves in the guise of angel card readings, emails from overseas friends, and I Ching interpretations. Perspective shifts occur with the constant changes of South American scenery.
As the protagonist plunges himself into a state of constant unknowing, I found myself wondering why, when we suffer loss or rejection, we push ourselves even further towards the edge of oblivion. Is it that idea about having to reach the bottom before we can once again rise?
If it is ‘as without, so within,’ can we pursue the internal journey without a geographical adventure? If so, why do so many of us chose to travel? And why to the fringes of society? is this perhaps where everyone is hoping to find someone else willing to also bare their naked soul?
As The Tourist reveals his tortured psyche, so accompanying him on his journey becomes more compelling.When he finds himself hiking under the silent watch of mother nature in the mountains, I, too, feel his momentary respite. The author’s skill enables the reader to so easily accompany the protagonist along for this ride.
‘We are all growing ups…’ I like that notion. It will stay with me.
Comfort eventually becomes constricting, whether we chose to acknowledge it or not.
I love to read books which challenge my understanding and assumptions.
Route Number 11 is one of those books.
Helen Noble, author of ‘Tears of a Phoenix’; 'The 49th Day’ and 'Scorpio Moons.’
As most journeys, this book starts out with a promise. In this case it's of a travel experience played out in alliterated, rhythmic poetry. However as the protagonist’s life dissipates into a repetitive, drunken crawl around a nebulous land of nightmares, the reader shares in ‘The Tourist’s’ struggle to awaken to the spiritual warrior within.
The story unfolds in a perpetual, sometimes painful, always honest, stream of consciousness, punctuated by some light relief, when the author allows The Tourist to appear in the guise of the ‘Where’s Wally’ character. Signposts present themselves in the guise of angel card readings, emails from overseas friends, and I Ching interpretations. Perspective shifts occur with the constant changes of South American scenery.
As the protagonist plunges himself into a state of constant unknowing, I found myself wondering why, when we suffer loss or rejection, we push ourselves even further towards the edge of oblivion. Is it that idea about having to reach the bottom before we can once again rise?
If it is ‘as without, so within,’ can we pursue the internal journey without a geographical adventure? If so, why do so many of us chose to travel? And why to the fringes of society? is this perhaps where everyone is hoping to find someone else willing to also bare their naked soul?
As The Tourist reveals his tortured psyche, so accompanying him on his journey becomes more compelling.When he finds himself hiking under the silent watch of mother nature in the mountains, I, too, feel his momentary respite. The author’s skill enables the reader to so easily accompany the protagonist along for this ride.
‘We are all growing ups…’ I like that notion. It will stay with me.
Comfort eventually becomes constricting, whether we chose to acknowledge it or not.
I love to read books which challenge my understanding and assumptions.
Route Number 11 is one of those books.
Helen Noble, author of ‘Tears of a Phoenix’; 'The 49th Day’ and 'Scorpio Moons.’
October 9, 2014
Route No 11 is a unique book. It is a story of a tourist who travels in Argentina and experiences human life as it is. What I liked most in the book is the spiritual messages which are embedded in the story. You can find several quotes from this book, which are valuable. Some quotes that strike me are
“Although what is being a grown up anyway? We seem to have this crazy notion that we are once children and then become adults. But we all know that the truth is we're always constantly changing who we are, learning from past experience, and therefore always in a state of
growing. We never become grown ups. We are all growing ups”.
“The tourist's truth is that the Eternal Truth lies in between the two sides of the coin. To find God, we have to let go of the black and white, either or mentality and look for the gap in between”.
“The problem is science and spirituality still seem to be at loggerheads, but it's only because of the different names we give to them. Both are about Life, the Universe and Everything. Both
are seeking truth”.
The style of the author reminds me of Paulo Coelho, who is my favourite author.
A book with message!!
“Although what is being a grown up anyway? We seem to have this crazy notion that we are once children and then become adults. But we all know that the truth is we're always constantly changing who we are, learning from past experience, and therefore always in a state of
growing. We never become grown ups. We are all growing ups”.
“The tourist's truth is that the Eternal Truth lies in between the two sides of the coin. To find God, we have to let go of the black and white, either or mentality and look for the gap in between”.
“The problem is science and spirituality still seem to be at loggerheads, but it's only because of the different names we give to them. Both are about Life, the Universe and Everything. Both
are seeking truth”.
The style of the author reminds me of Paulo Coelho, who is my favourite author.
A book with message!!
August 3, 2014
From the very first paragraph, I was wondering if Allen Ginsberg's spirit had risen from his grave and was sitting beside me to talk about his unusual trip to Argentina. Part travelogue, part a story of post break-up coping, part a tribute to a cherished friendship; Route no 11 is a whiff of fresh air in the much crowded space of travel writing. While the book is intensely self-reflecting, there are numerous sharp and hilarious observations and the author has a real talent in churning out unique turns of phrases one after another.
The book is edited well but the book can be uneven at parts and can at times fall a little short of the great standards and consequent expectations the writer sets after chapter 1. The author may also be on weaker grounds when he talks about spirituality because much of his perspectives may quite familiar to some readers.
All in all, a very refreshing debut and I hope this book gains the awareness it deserves. Long live the beat generation.
The book is edited well but the book can be uneven at parts and can at times fall a little short of the great standards and consequent expectations the writer sets after chapter 1. The author may also be on weaker grounds when he talks about spirituality because much of his perspectives may quite familiar to some readers.
All in all, a very refreshing debut and I hope this book gains the awareness it deserves. Long live the beat generation.
September 28, 2014
What a surprising treat of mental floss. At first I really thought I wasn't going to like this book. I've never been a fan of Allen GInsburg , and this had a surprising feel for his work. Then I kept reading. I went through an amazing emotional journey and really had to reflect on my own travels in life. Not necessarily the road journeys, but just life experiences that I have gone through on this path I'm on. Sometimes life kicks you in the butt and I found the one-liners very effective "reality checks" . The book shows us through this journey, that we all are never really grown up, we just keeping learning and adding to our box of tools. Great work Harry Whitewolf. Keep on writing.
November 5, 2021
A companion piece of sorts to his Egypt book, Route Number 11 is written differently stylistically and I believe I liked this approach better of the two. Another difference between the two books, for me, is that I felt the Egypt travelogue focused most solely on the lonesome travels of the tourist (as he is called in Route Number 11) and while in the South American adventures we read more about friendships he gains in his adventures, Sean and Jack to name a couple, and get to "meet" these friends too.
March 2, 2015
A break-up, bus stops, joints, beers, angels, hustlers and hostels converge with the monks, travel companions, casual mention of some of my favorite things (“bleat”, fate, Pearl Jam) in this, dark-yet-humorous, reach-for-the-stars, transcendental quest for redefinition.
Route Number 11: Argentina, Angels & Alcohol could be a novel about sacred numbers, signs and the assumption of the Assumption, or about a dejected 30-something embarking on Bacchanalian adventures in South America, but both would be as false as they are true. For “the tourist”, as we’re introduced to him, could be you, or him, or even me.
From tragedy, he takes the fragments of his identity and embarks on the age-old journey to find himself (“that’s why tragedy exists. To break old patterns…”). But unlike every tired variation on this story, the tourist is aware of its fallacy, its twinge of absurdity-come-irony and yet willingly succumbs to the inexorable need to do so anyway.
It truly is the journey for the peripatetic, dread-locked, vegetarian, alcoholic and sometime pothead, floating about South America with the taciturnity of a summer storm, at once in control and briskly swept away. One moment, he’s pursuing the barmaid. Engaged in this flirtation, this tango of extension and recoil, she plays with the cigarette pack foil, “like a cat pawing at a sparkly, shiny plaything.” But when it doesn’t work out, he claims to never have been one for a casual encounter. You believe him, because despite the best intentions, we all occasional plummet to the base. Or, perhaps, despite our baser natures, we attempt to reach for more? Who’s to say?
Route Number 11, and the tourist move in flashes, like Impressionist painting, leaving swabs of color and staccato brushstrokes of truth, without the pesky confines and lines that form the low ends of a bell curve. Whitewolf describes Buenos Aires as “historic. Exotic. Eva Peronic…” with the economy of poetry, in prose. To continue the analogy, Whitewolf writes, “by letting all of life’s colours penetrate us, we can become more integrated.” This is the Namaste philosophy you get between bars- “meeting new people is just remembering faces of God we’ve forgotten.”
For those who love Kerouac, or Johnny Depp as Hunter S. Thompson, or even Charles Bukowski, you will immediately tumble into lustful sympathy for our hero in Route Number 11. Given my great obsession with historical fiction, heroines and complete (if not terribly, terribly, terribly long) sentences, the tourist and I were unlikely companions, who bonded on a journey, as travelers often do. Now I am a convert to this new brand of universalist beatnik Whitewolf has created.
“The tourist unwittingly says grace all the time. Gracias…Gracias…” And I do, too. Thanks, Harry.
Cristel Orrand
Author of "The Amalgamist"
Route Number 11: Argentina, Angels & Alcohol could be a novel about sacred numbers, signs and the assumption of the Assumption, or about a dejected 30-something embarking on Bacchanalian adventures in South America, but both would be as false as they are true. For “the tourist”, as we’re introduced to him, could be you, or him, or even me.
From tragedy, he takes the fragments of his identity and embarks on the age-old journey to find himself (“that’s why tragedy exists. To break old patterns…”). But unlike every tired variation on this story, the tourist is aware of its fallacy, its twinge of absurdity-come-irony and yet willingly succumbs to the inexorable need to do so anyway.
It truly is the journey for the peripatetic, dread-locked, vegetarian, alcoholic and sometime pothead, floating about South America with the taciturnity of a summer storm, at once in control and briskly swept away. One moment, he’s pursuing the barmaid. Engaged in this flirtation, this tango of extension and recoil, she plays with the cigarette pack foil, “like a cat pawing at a sparkly, shiny plaything.” But when it doesn’t work out, he claims to never have been one for a casual encounter. You believe him, because despite the best intentions, we all occasional plummet to the base. Or, perhaps, despite our baser natures, we attempt to reach for more? Who’s to say?
Route Number 11, and the tourist move in flashes, like Impressionist painting, leaving swabs of color and staccato brushstrokes of truth, without the pesky confines and lines that form the low ends of a bell curve. Whitewolf describes Buenos Aires as “historic. Exotic. Eva Peronic…” with the economy of poetry, in prose. To continue the analogy, Whitewolf writes, “by letting all of life’s colours penetrate us, we can become more integrated.” This is the Namaste philosophy you get between bars- “meeting new people is just remembering faces of God we’ve forgotten.”
For those who love Kerouac, or Johnny Depp as Hunter S. Thompson, or even Charles Bukowski, you will immediately tumble into lustful sympathy for our hero in Route Number 11. Given my great obsession with historical fiction, heroines and complete (if not terribly, terribly, terribly long) sentences, the tourist and I were unlikely companions, who bonded on a journey, as travelers often do. Now I am a convert to this new brand of universalist beatnik Whitewolf has created.
“The tourist unwittingly says grace all the time. Gracias…Gracias…” And I do, too. Thanks, Harry.
Cristel Orrand
Author of "The Amalgamist"
September 24, 2014
On The Road to the New Age
When a love relationship ends we usually feel like it is the end of the world. In many ways it is, it is the end of the world you were building with the other person (or imagining you were building), it is the end of the plans you had with the other person, and it is the end of being in that person’s world and they in yours. But what if the end of your relationship coincides with the date the Mayan calendar predicts for the end of the world? That is the premise of Harry Whitewolf’s “Route Number 11.”
“Route Number 11” follows the tourist, the unnamed protagonist as he journeys across Argentina going where his guardian angel, tarot cards, I Ching, numerology (looking for God in the numbers), or dreams lead him. The tourist is hiking through Argentina after what seems a particularly bad breakup and he’s gone to find himself. What happens isn’t all that important although the tourist finds himself falling in with others also searching for something and that search frequently takes them to bars, parties and women. The true plot of the book is the tourist’s inner journey so it defies genres, classification, (but that’s a good thing), or even a plot synopsis. It wouldn‘t make sense to a reader out of the context. The story is structured as a free verse poem or a novel stripped down to its bare essentials of what is happening in the moment, some passages seeming more like snapshots.
In “Route Number 11”, Whitewolf has a very beat sensibility in the exact terms Jack Kerouac used for the definition of ‘beat’ being both beat down by life and finding (or at least searching for) the beatitudes. It’s not as if Whitewolf is trying mimic the beats, it’s as if the text is infused with a beat spirit. Readers of Kerouac will find it has some similarities to “Desolation Angels” in that as the main character in searching for himself gets caught up in the lives, parties and misadventures of those he’s befriended as he tries to heal and find himself in the new world without the woman he believes his soul mate.
Maybe this is a novel of the existential moment itself because when it comes right down to it we’re all tourists just passing through.
When a love relationship ends we usually feel like it is the end of the world. In many ways it is, it is the end of the world you were building with the other person (or imagining you were building), it is the end of the plans you had with the other person, and it is the end of being in that person’s world and they in yours. But what if the end of your relationship coincides with the date the Mayan calendar predicts for the end of the world? That is the premise of Harry Whitewolf’s “Route Number 11.”
“Route Number 11” follows the tourist, the unnamed protagonist as he journeys across Argentina going where his guardian angel, tarot cards, I Ching, numerology (looking for God in the numbers), or dreams lead him. The tourist is hiking through Argentina after what seems a particularly bad breakup and he’s gone to find himself. What happens isn’t all that important although the tourist finds himself falling in with others also searching for something and that search frequently takes them to bars, parties and women. The true plot of the book is the tourist’s inner journey so it defies genres, classification, (but that’s a good thing), or even a plot synopsis. It wouldn‘t make sense to a reader out of the context. The story is structured as a free verse poem or a novel stripped down to its bare essentials of what is happening in the moment, some passages seeming more like snapshots.
In “Route Number 11”, Whitewolf has a very beat sensibility in the exact terms Jack Kerouac used for the definition of ‘beat’ being both beat down by life and finding (or at least searching for) the beatitudes. It’s not as if Whitewolf is trying mimic the beats, it’s as if the text is infused with a beat spirit. Readers of Kerouac will find it has some similarities to “Desolation Angels” in that as the main character in searching for himself gets caught up in the lives, parties and misadventures of those he’s befriended as he tries to heal and find himself in the new world without the woman he believes his soul mate.
Maybe this is a novel of the existential moment itself because when it comes right down to it we’re all tourists just passing through.
August 14, 2014
I received this book from Goodreads and it's a fabulous book quite unlike anything I have ever read before. The tale of the 'tourist's' (never named) travels as he discovers Argentina as a backpacker. A true story driven by a broken heart, the phenomenon of 11:11 and spiritual growth. I cannot put my finger on why I enjoyed it so much other than it resonated so well with my own beliefs and was a totally engrossing, if somewhat confusing (at times) story. Brilliant!
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