REDMOND O HANLON

Combining the acute observation of a nineteenth-century missionary, and the wit of a Monty Python player, Redmond O'Hanlon is famous for his adventurous travel. In Congo Journey his challenge is the Congo, the most dangerous and inhospitable jungle in the world.

This is an extraordinary bit of writing wherein the author BECOMES a trawlerman, crazed by days without sleep, endless work and the constant threat of death. In this book, we enjoy the usual O'Hanlon comic genius. But this is truly a phenomenal immersion into the trawler world. More...Rather than describing that world, he becomes part of it and speaks from within. Redmond should be awarded for this work of art. Read it, enjoy it, and appreciate what he has done!

In May 2005 Penguin will publish 70 unique titles to celebrate the company's 70th birthday. The titles in the Pocket Penguins series are emblematic of the renowned breadth of quality of the Penguin list and will hark back to Penguin founder Allen Lane's vision of 'good books for all'. When Redmond O'Hanlon set out to rediscover the lost rhinoceros of Borneo, accompanied by the poet James Fenton, it was in the best tradition of nineteenth-century exploration. They were armed with backbreaking kit suitable to surviving two months in a steaming jungle of creeping, crawling and biting things; their heads brimmed with training provided by the SAS; and O'Hanlon himself had an encyclopedic knowledge of the region's flora and fauna. And yet they proceeded to have an adventure that neither O'Hanlon, his poet friend nor his guides were quite prepared for ...

'It's not my problem,' said Lady, with an enormous grin. He turned his back on me, propped himself up on his elbow, and, with his left hand, poured himself a long gugle of whisky. 'If you're going up the Motaba almost to its source, walking right across the watershed and then expecting to find a dugout in the middle of nowhere waiting just for you' - he took a big gulp from the tooth-mug - 'a dugout, I guess, with a personalized greeting card from God stuck on it - you know the kind of thing - "Dear Redso, every hair on your head is numbered and of course there's a mansion up here with your name beneath the doorbell-push-button but, in the meantime, here's a celestial canoe, old boy, just because you're such a jolly good chap, such a pukkah English pig-sticking pervert, oh yes, Redso, and I nearly forgot, I'm sending jobs with wings to drop in a few supplies and lift you out when you break a leg" - you won't get anywhere near Lake Tele inside three months.'