The Sex Lives of Cannibals, by J. Maarten Troost

If this book was written today, J. Maarten Troost would be the 20-something, buzzfeed-scrolling, directionless, loan-burdened graduate that (unfortunately) is a mascot for my generation. He decides to move to Kiribati with his girlfriend, and writes stories about his time on a tiny island with interesting people.

(Here's Kiribati on google maps, if you're curious about its middle-of-nowhere-ness)

Troost has been criticized by some about his arrogance, and some have gone so far as to compare him to Tucker Max. I've read books by both, and I couldn't disagree more. What keeps this story from becoming a Tucker-Max-ego-trip is that Troost actually changes.

I know, I know, character development is such a basic component of a good story, Troost isn't blowing any minds by doing this. But I think you have to be a reflective, authentic person to, well, grow. And good travel writing comes from people who aren't just open to change, but also recognize how and why they are changed. Easier said than done. 

Troost is an arrogant American who moves to the Pacific and, I think, is humbled by his experience. The book is funny, and intended to be so, but it's clear that Troost isn't "making jokes." He's a good observer, and can present these observations in an entertaining way. I enjoyed reading about his conversations with the locals, his reflections on his own insecurities, and the history of the place he called home, if only for a little while. 

One passage in particular stuck with me. Here, he and his girlfriend, Sylvia, have just returned from fishing in the ocean for the first time with two local fishermen: 

We hoped this storm marked the end of the drought. 

"Just think of it," I said to Sylvia. "Full water tanks." 

"Provided that the water actually gets into the tanks," she said dryly.

Sylvia still had little faith in my fixing abilities. But I was confident. I had spent hours clearing the roof and gutters of leaves and nettles. I had, very ingeniously I thought, used the materials at hand to plug the holes in the gutter--plastic lids and an extremely valuable roll of electrical tape. 

"Don't worry," I said, "I'm a Dutchman. And Dutchmen know how to channel water." 

"You're only half-Dutch," Sylvia noted, "and you left Holland when you were six."

"It's an innate knowledge. We're water people. Soon, you'll be able to wash your hair guilt-free."

"Twice a week?"

"Twice a week. I promise."

We paused to listen. It was an angry storm.

"I'm glad we're not on the boat now," she said. We pondered for a moment what it must be like for Beiataaki and Tekaii, sailing through the black darkness of a starless night, the ocean a violent maelstrom, rogue waves unseen. And then we went to sleep.