French writer Éric gets an invitation to spend time in Mali to write. At first he's adamant not to go. "Africa is clearest at a distance", he thinks. "Why go there and risk losing touch with the essence of it?" But then he gets a rush from the reaction he gets when he begins to drop his "Oh february, I might be in Africa then" in conversations. Things spiral a bit, and before he knows it he can't really back out anymore. He has to go.

But Mali, the river Niger and Africa as a whole turns out to be a disappointment. He doesn't get to see any of the wild animals - despite numerous Hippo safaris. The wild and strange soul of the Dark Continent annoyingly eludes him. He takes pathetic pride in every dent and stain on his moleskin notbook (what else!) or the fact that he doesn't get an upset stomach ("My body belongs here"), and he looks with contempt at tourists. But the most exciting thing that really happens to him is getting sunburned ears (hence the title, Red ear) and a native nickname fro the tribesmen of a village. What he doesn't know is that "Maïga" means "Where is he?", alluding to the fact that he rarely leaves his room... Even walking across the savannah, he's too occupied with thinking about the fact that he's walking across the savannah (being the kind of traveller that doesn't stick to any touristy hike trail) to really experience anything.

What a humourous little gem of a book this is! It deconstructs the classic travel literature and the vagabond myth in a way that makes me blush, realating to my own backpacker days. But it also, in it's gentle understated way, pokes a hole in the whole western exotisism towards Africa as a continent and a literary landscape. It's clever, witty and full of gentle irony. It had me giggling on almost every page. ( )

L'auteur se livre à la critique d'un tourisme occidental égoïste et stupide, tout en s'acharnant d'une haine malsaine, quoique pertinente, à l'endroit d'écrivains voyageurs mal inspirés. A mon gout, ce sujet ne fait pas un roman. Bien écrit mais inutile.