Beruflich Dokumente
Kultur Dokumente
Felix Driver
Department of Geography, Royal Holloway, University of London, UK
Editors Note: The following is the third in the Singapore Journal of Tropical Geography Lecture Series. It was presented at a special session of the annual conference of the Royal Geographical Society (with the Institute of British Geographers) in London on 4 September 2003.
It is appropriate that a journal such as this should periodically take stock of its raison dtre, which in our case means reflecting upon the multiple histories and geographies resonating within its very title (Grundy-Warr et al., 2003; Savage, 2003). Recent work published in these pages has raised farreaching questions concerning the genealogy and the spatiality of the subdiscipline of tropical geography, most notably in relation to contemporary concerns with colonialism, postcolonialism, the politics of development and fieldwork (Driver & Yeoh, 2000; Bowd & Clayton, 2003; Sidaway et al., 2003). In the present paper, my focus is less on the origins and evolution of tropical geography as a component of the modern geographical discipline than on the history of ideas and images of tropicality, and the role these have played in the construction of knowledge about the tropical world over a longer period of time. Such issues of epistemology transcend and in a sense precede the formation of particular subdisciplines. To an extent, they also extend beyond particular national research schools and traditions. For example, that great theorist of tropical geography, Alexander von Humboldt (1769-1859), was a Prussian who (following his return from his travels in the Americas) spent the most productive years of his long working life in Paris and whose influence was felt across the English-speaking world and beyond (notably in Latin America; see Holl & Reschke, 1999). During his lifetime,
which approximately corresponds to the period under scrutiny in this paper, a series of exemplary tropical sites the tropical forest, the desert island, the mountain scene and the coastal view was brought into focus, not for the first time, but in ways which left a lasting impression on the discourses of tropicality. While I am principally concerned here with an era before the institutionalisation of modern academic geography, this paper addresses in rather a precise sense the disciplining of geographical knowledge. The production and circulation of authoritative knowledge about the tropical world during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, and especially the making and recording of observations in situ, required a particular kind of discipline of the senses. This sort of discipline has often been conceived by historians of science in terms of the heightened emphasis on instrumentation within the field sciences during this period and the impetus to precision which this represents, as for example in the celebrated case of Humboldt himself (Cannon, 1978; Bourguet et al., 2002). While this focus on instruments is in itself necessary and tells us much about the epistemology of contemporary natural science, it is as important to recognise that the making of observations in the field also required the deployment of specific kinds of embodied skill in the production of images and inscriptions as reflected, for example, in what might be called the instrumentalisation of hand and
Singapore Journal of Tropical Geography, 25(1), 2004, 1-17 Copyright 2004 Department of Geography, National University of Singapore and Blackwell Publishers Ltd
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(Christ is supposed to have named them Boanerges, or Sons of Thunder, because of their fiery zeal. They had called on God to throw down fire from heaven in order to punish the Samaritans.) Divided by these ten circles together with 24 Meridians, Ruskin (1904:445) wanted his globe to be simply coloured: within the Arctic circles, the sea pale sapphire, and the land white; in the temperate zones, the sea full lucia, and the land pale emerald; and between the tropics, the sea full violet, and the land pale clarissa. In place of the divisions and boundaries on nineteenth-century globes, then, Ruskin had substituted a graphic design with an ancient pedigree. His representation of global space, which would generally be regarded as fanciful today, was in fact designed to enhance students appreciation of principles of projection and their application in the graphic arts. The key point in the present context, however, is that his nomenclature and his system carry no more symbolic meaning than those on a conventional globe. But we can go further than this, in so far as the tropics were and are conceived as a conceptual as well as a cartographic space. Whether the adjective tropical denotes a particular kind of experience, a look, a species, a landform, a soil or a meteorological event, the term carries with it a powerful array of associations which may or may not be tied very specifically to a particular geographical zone or location. In this paper, I am particularly concerned with what constitutes a tropical view or vision, and with some of the ways in which the tropical has been imagined as itself a view or a vision to be experienced. The representation of the tropics as a discrete space, or perhaps more accurately as a distinct set of associations, constitutes an important part of this story. Indeed, the contrast between the tropical and the temperate is one of the most enduring themes in the history of global imaginings. Whether represented
eye. In this paper, I focus especially on the place of a particular kind of visual image the sketch made on the spot within two connected spheres of knowledge: natural history and navigation.1 In both these fields, the application of graphic skills in the depiction of tropical natures forms was regarded as essential to the production of authoritative knowledge. Here we are concerned as much with practice as with representation; or more precisely, with practices of knowledge-making, and what happens to them in the process of circulation through the tropical world.
salvage. In the post-colonial world, these fantasies have, if anything, become more pervasive, if distinctly less enchanting. And the imaginative flow has certainly not at all been one-way. Artists and intellectuals seeking new cultural forms to describe their work in what we now call the global South have themselves appropriated the language of tropicality for their own ends. Think, for example, of the aesthetic of tropical modernism which informed the work of the Brazilian landscape architect Roberto Burle Marx (Stepan, 2000); or the ambivalent cultural politics of the tropiclia movement in Brazilian popular music, as represented in the work of Caetano Veloso (Dunn, 2002). In both these cases, moreover, we move beyond the tired oppositions between core and periphery: here the problematic relationship between indigenous and cosmopolitan cultural forms is empowering, not disabling. In fact, this process of cultural exchange transculturation, if you like brings into question some of the ways in which discourses like Orientalism have often been conceived. In particular, the model of projection which drives many accounts of colonial discourse the West projecting its sense of cultural difference on the rest is badly in need of repair. One obvious risk is that images (like the Orient or tropicality) are conceived as already fully formed, readyto-be-projected, a position which greatly exaggerates their coherence and consistency. Another is that the cultural and natural worlds are represented as a homogenous screen on which these images are depicted. In such a perspective, the discourse of tropicality would project an image of the tropical world which was produced by and for Europe, uncontaminated as it were by anything in between. Instead, we might develop ways of conceiving this process in terms of transactions rather than projections: to think of images, certainly, but to understand the process of their being made as negotiated in various ways (Driver & Yeoh, 2000:2-3). This would enable the production of knowledge about the tropical
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Brazil (Paris, 1996; Skidmore, 2003). With that other great geographical historian Lucien Febvre, whom he met by chance on one of his transatlantic crossings, Braudel later edited a special issue of the journal Annales devoted to the Latin Americas (in the plural, significantly). The words of the introduction still resonate today, half a century on: Are we going to forget that we, historians of the Old World, face the Atlantic? This is recognised, even today, in the quality and considerable importance for us of a history that is as much European, as fully European, as it is powerfully South American. A history that is an integral part of our national histories, but still more of our cultural history. A history of back-andforth movement, of loans and repayments, of borrowings and refused borrowings, of adventurous comings and goings with composite interest. It is already one of the first and most important chapters in this history of exchanges of worlds that each of us begins in our dreams to develop for the near future (Febvre, 1948, cited in Mattelart, 1996:194-95).
world to be understood as a more differentiated, more uneven and ultimately more human process; moreover, it would give more agency, and autonomy, to the world being represented. No longer a screen, but now a living space of encounter and exchange. One of the limitations of the language of projection is that it tends to collapse an argument about particular kinds of cultural production into an argument about global history as a whole, in which some cultures and some spaces are essentially active and others passive: in a nutshell, the West represents the Rest. Yet, the thing which today is called Europe has actually come into being through various kinds of exchange with the rest of the world. Culturally as well as economically speaking, this Europe has never been self-sufficient: it has always learned, borrowed or stolen from elsewhere. We have become so used to thinking of European expansion including the exploration and colonisation of the tropical world as the means of extending and dramatising an already existing worldview that we have underestimated the extent to which the process of extension is actually transformative of the European sense of self, culture, history (Hall, 1992). A fascinating if relatively late (and in the grand scheme of things, rather minor) example of this process at work may be found in the career of the French historian Fernand Braudel, who like several of his peers (including the anthropologist Claude LviStrauss and the geographer Pierre Monbeig) spent a formative period teaching in Brazil in the 1930s. Reflecting on his career in later years, Braudel once remarked that it was his period in Brazil that turned him into a true intellectual. It is, indeed, a striking revelation the design of that masterwork, The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II (Braudel, 1976), conceived not in France, but in the very-nearly tropical So Paolo. Or rather, in the transatlantic shuttling between these worlds which Braudel experienced during the late 1930s, wintering in the archives of Europe, spending the rest of the year in
Humboldts significance in this context is clear. For those aspiring to the status of the truly philosophical naturalist, as opposed to what they regarded as the mere surveyor or collector, the view had to be framed by a wider vision. Humboldts vision of the natural world was essentially physiographic: hence his abiding concerns both with the spatial distribution of natural phenomena over the surface of the earth, and with their visual representation, notably in the form of his celebrated iso-maps (Dettelbach, 1999; Godlewska, 1999). Cartography was, however, only one such means of representation, and Humboldt also made full use of other sorts of diagrams, tableaux, panoramas and descriptive narrative in his depictions of landscape physiognomy in various regions of the globe. His famous cross-sectional landscape profile of the Andes from the Atlantic to the Pacific, first sketched on the spot at the foot of Mount Chimborazo (Figure 1), was in fact a hybrid production (Nicholson, 1990:173-78; Dettelbach, 1996:26772). It was intended to allow relationships between such variables as vegetation, altitude, topography and climate to be seen in one allembracing view. Combining a topographic picture with text denoting the names of plants typical of different altitudes, together with a table of data in 16 columns alongside, the image fused very different modes of representation, creating what Nigel Leask (2002:25354) calls a sort of scientific hyper-text. In some respects, Humboldts celebrated tableau is an ingenious development of something rather more commonplace in the literature of travel and exploration during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries; that is, the combination of graphic representations with other kinds of data, including textual descriptions. As Michael Bravo (1999) has argued, the culture of precision associated with Humboldtian science was not confined to the use of refined instruments or numerical data: it was also reflected in approaches to evidence in the form of narratives, maps and visual images generally. For Humboldt, as for
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Figure 1. Alexander von Humboldt, Gographie des plantes prs de lEquadeur, 1803, ink and watercolour on paper. Courtesy of the Museo Nacional de Colombia, Bogot, Colombia. many of his contemporaries, the sketch of natures forms made on the spot was thus a vital source of knowledge. In the hands of a skilled draughtsman, it promised something more authentic than received wisdom. If more synoptic and philosophical visions demanded other sorts of skill available only to the savant in his library, they nonetheless depended ultimately on the accurate rendering of the view in the field. In the remainder of this paper, I shall consider the making of such views by the hands of two exemplary figures, both of whom travelled extensively within the tropical world in the opening decades of the nineteenth century. These vignettes are drawn from my current research with Luciana Martins on the image-making of naturalists and navigators during this period (Driver & Martins, 2002; Martins & Driver, 2005). fellow naturalist about the botanical riches of tropical nature. Its luxuriance defied even his expectations as an experienced traveller so much so, indeed, that he was tempted to turn from Natural History to Painting.2 The sentiment was entirely proper for a Humboldtian; and in Burchells case, it was no mere flight of fancy. His education had included classes in landscape drawing with Merigot, a French migr in London, and by the time of his journey to Brazil he was already an accomplished artist. During a period of 15 years spent working as a naturalist in St. Helena, Southern Africa and Brazil, Burchell used his considerable skills as a draughtsman, in tandem with his scientific expertise, to document the features of landscapes, peoples, flora and fauna. He also collected a large number of botanical, zoological and geological specimens, which were packed up for transport back to England. If Burchell can be treated as an exemplary figure, it is because his work so clearly
to ensure that reliable and unvarnished information could be collected, stored and eventually transmitted back to the centre. Such a model of observation is securely represented in Burchells portrait of his wagon, in which he travelled across southern Africa in 1810-15 (Figure 2). Though Burchells African journey was not quite tropical in the cartographic sense, I have argued elsewhere that this small watercolour sketch does faithfully represent key aspects of the practice of Humboldtian natural history (Driver, 2001:17-19). Most obviously, it is crammed with instruments of all kinds compass, telescope, thermometer, weighing scales, maps, specimen cases, plant press and pistols as well as botanical and zoological specimens, ethnographic portraits, flag, hammock and flute. And of course plentiful drawing materials. The first volume of Burchells (1822:108-11, 118-20) Travels in the Interior of Southern Africa includes a painstaking description of the design of the vehicle, which was adapted from the standard Cape ox-wagon. The wagon effectively functioned both as a mobile laboratory and as an instrument itself, the rotations of its wheels providing a means of calculating the distances travelled. In fact, Burchell regarded his mobile home as the most perfectly designed of any of his instruments, and this is presumably why he painstakingly composed this intimate portrait.3 On the one hand, the wagon was literally a vehicle for the pursuit of metropolitan science; on the other hand, its disarticulated construction was also well adapted to the uneven terrain. Global functions, as it were, calibrated to local conditions. Burchells commitment to accuracy in recording information in graphic, textual and numerical form is striking. Typically, he made a precise record of the time it took to complete the watercolour sketch of his wagon (120 hours), just as he did when arranging and labelling his botanical and zoological specimens (Poulton, 1907:40). Burchells abilities as a draughtsman are just as evident in his depictions of the forms of tropical nature within his St Helena sketchbook. Amongst
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Figure 2. William J. Burchell, Inside of my African Waggon, 1820, watercolour. Courtesy of the Oxford University Museum of Natural History, Oxford, United Kingdom (UK).
Figure 3. William J. Burchell, A group of plantains from nature, St Helena, 20 February, 1807. Courtesy of the Royal Botanic Gardens Archives, Kew, UK.
specimens gathered in his five-year journey through Brazil, and he spent four more years relabelling them (Poulton, 1907:54). In later life, Burchell complained constantly of lack of space and time, his frustrations at what he perceived as a lack of official support, and the sheer scale of the task he had set himself. In contrast to his work in South Africa, he failed to publish anything of his travels in tropical Brazil.
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Figure 4. John Septimus Roe, Views of the Sugar Loaf, Rio de Janeiro, June 1817, from the logbook of the transport Dick. Courtesy of the State Library of Western Australia, Perth, Australia.
Figure 5. John Septimus Roe, Views of the coastline between Cabo Frio and Rio de Janeiro, May 1817. Courtesy of the State Library of Western Australia, Perth, Australia.
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supervision of Phillip Parker King, who had been given the task of undertaking a coastal survey of tropical Australia. The Admiralty had specifically instructed him to supervise Roes drawing and colour-washing on the journey out (Hordern, 1997:24-26). The physical labour of drawing, mapping and sketching is painfully visible in Roes correspondence. Indeed, throughout his early naval career, he never ceased to lament the effect of constant observation, sketching and drawing on his overworked eyes. In December 1818, writing from Port Jackson, he complained: My sight has been so much impaired by constantly looking out, since my being employed in this service, that I now find it difficult to distinguish objects plainly without the aid of a glass.4 It seems that, together with his books and drawing instruments, Roes most precious possession was the eye-water made up to his mothers recipe. What he called the heat and glare of tropical climes,5 as well as the countless hours spent confined in candle-lit cabins preparing his charts, would strain even the most imperial eye. Roes sketches, then, served a number of purposes. Seen from the perspective of the Admiralty in London, they provided more or less reliable descriptions of the shape of coastlines, within and beyond the tropics. Seen from on board ship, they appear not only as laborious experiments in a way of seeing, but also as the far from certain means of an attempt to secure a place in the world. In comparison with Burchell, John Septimus Roe began his career a lowly figure, without a private income to support his ventures in science and survey; but he did eventually secure a position for himself as a colonial surveyor in Western Australia. Years later, in his letter of retirement (cited in Jackson, 1982:166), Roe impassively recorded the physical effects of his labours on behalf of
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the imperial state, in a manner which speaks volumes for the ways in which such service was performed: whilst actively employed in the Public service the sight in one eye has been completely destroyed, that of the other eye very much damaged, the head has twice been severely injured, as also the left hand, and incurable hernia has been contracted whilst forcing [sic] almost impenetrable country. Roe was no doubt seeking further reward for services rendered; but his letter also reminds us that there was nothing disembodied about the work of colonial survey (Carter, 1987; Driver & Martins, 2002).
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Museum of Natural History, this sort of sketch may be understood as a kind of proxy specimen, the embodiment of evidence seen and recorded in the field, destined in principle to be brought back and fitted into a wider archive of knowledge. This at least was the epistemology of drawing as it was described in contemporary manuals of natural history and navigation: observation meant inscription and depiction on the spot, trusting nothing to memory. In practice, of course, these images cannot simply be regarded as unvarnished originals, snapshots of the scenes they were supposed to witness. Roes sketches, for example, were composed according to conventional rules: but they were worked and reworked, ultimately serving as crucial resources for his own selffashioning. Burchells drawings were similarly intended to be fitted within a system, partly of his own making, and they too were worked and reworked. Such images were certainly mobile, but as Rudwick (2000) also shows they were not immutable, even in this form. Today, in fact, these images continue to have a life of their own, though they are likely to be valued more highly in the auction room than in the laboratory. There is a more specific point here about the status of the finished image, notably in the context of landscape art. Oil paintings of tropical landscape by artists such as Johann Moritz Rugendas (1802-58) and Frederic Edwin Church (1826-1900), inspired by Humboldts sublime vision, had a major impact in Europe and North America during the nineteenth century (Manthorne, 1989; Diener & Costa, 2002). The iconography of tropicality relied on the recognition of typical or emblematic landscape forms, so that certain visions could transcend the particularities of the view and stand in for aspects of tropical nature as a whole, most notably of course the tropical forest scene. There is room here for further research on the geographies at work in this process of circulation of ideas and images, as well as people, plants and resources, through the inter-tropical zone. Writing about Indias place in the tropical world, for example, David
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Figure 6. Charles William Browne, Sugar Loaf and Cockovado [sic] from the sea, c.1818. Courtesy of the Geyer collection, Museu Imperial, Petrpolis, Brazil. Arnold (1998:6-9) has noted what he calls an important piece of intra-tropical semantic exchange: while the term hurricane travelled from the Caribbean to the East Indies, the word jungle, which originated as a Sanskrit term meaning waste or uncultivated ground, came to signify dense, damp forests throughout the tropical world.6 Such exchanges have their visual equivalents: thus, the tropical forests of the Americas, as described by Humboldt, were imaginatively transported to the old world by European travellers. Alternatively, the scenery of the Orient could be mapped onto the topography of Rio de Janeiro, as in the case of Figure 6, a pencil drawing by another midshipman (discussed in Martins, 1999). This delicate sketch, which bears the traces of the experience of travelling across the globe in the early nineteenth century, provides yet another instance of that history of exchanges of worlds described by Lucien Febvre in 1948.
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equivalent of knowing? and partly because in its treatment of the history of voyaging, the space of experience is left open.7 The archive of tropical travel yields evidence of something more fragile and unpredictable alongside imperial ambition and planetary consciousness: in a word, disturbance. Jonathan Lamb (2001:7), referring to eighteenth-century voyages of discovery, puts the case well: The commanders of these expeditions may have been committed to large and comprehensive views, and believed devoutly in systems of classification and cadastral measurement; but their data proved intractable, their experiments prone to failure, and they became periodically distracted, behaving unlike themselves owing to the stress of isolation, disease, fear and occasionally exquisite pleasure. The more we look for it, indeed, the more the evidence multiplies, and continues to multiply, well beyond the late eighteenth century. We can see the signs in the more humble experiences of both Roe and Burchell, even though they struggled hard to insure themselves against the disturbing effects of tropical travel. While the imperial eye sees the history of knowledge-making in terms of the establishment of a more or less coherent system or network, there are other stories, in which knowledge is anything but settled. In attempting to trace the outlines of these other stories, it is sometimes better to begin with a sketch than a vision.
contained. In this spirit, I have been particularly concerned in my work to explore the ways in which images of tropical nature may reflect, or translate, the experience of travel, its disappointments as well as its successes (further developed in Driver, 2004). We have heard much in recent writing about the sheer ambition of the naturalists, navigators and explorers who sought to make the world an orderly place in the name of enlightenment during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries (Stafford, 1989; Miller & Reill, 1996; Edney, 1997; Drayton, 2000). These world-makers imagined the creation of vast archives of texts, images, artefacts and specimens, patiently assembled, through which the geography of the earth could be made known. They created great empires of learning, presided over in Britain by such influential figures as the naturalist Joseph Banks, the geographer-geologist Roderick Murchison and the botanist Joseph Hooker, whose networks extended the reach of power and knowledge across every continent and every sea. Theirs was a suitably imperial vision, of order, system and progress, in which the scientific travellers role was to fill in the blanks: the keepers of the imperial archive would do the rest. If we look more closely at the archive of tropical travel, however, it is clear that such projects raised as many questions as they answered. How was the experience of travelling itself to be put into words and images? To what extent did the encounter with difference, in nature and culture, undermine or affirm existing conventions? Such questions as these were addressed long ago in Bernard Smiths (1985) seminal work on the impact of the Pacific voyages on the development of European scientific theories and landscape art, first published in 1960. If European Vision and the South Pacific remains an inspiration today, it is partly because of its concerns with the epistemological status of image-making in what ways, precisely, can seeing be the
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This paper forms part of an ongoing research project with Luciana Martins on the theme of tropical views and visions. I am indebted to her for allowing me to draw on some of our joint work here. The project was supported by the Arts and Humanities Research Board (AHRB) of the United Kingdom.
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ENDNOTES
On related issues in the practices of travelling artists, see Greppi (2005) and Martins (2004).
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on Pierre Gourous Les paysans du delta tonkinois, 1936, Singapore Journal of Tropical Geography, 24(2), 147-68. Bravo, M. (1999) Precision and curiosity in scientific travel: James Rennell and the Orientalist geography of the new imperial age (1760-1830), in J. Elsner & J-P. Rubis (eds.), Voyages and Visions: Towards a Cultural History of Travel , London: Reaktion, 162-83. Burchell, W. J. (1822) Travels in the Interior of Southern Africa, Vol. 1, London:Longman. Burnett, D.G. (2000) Masters of all They Surveyed: Exploration, Geography and a British El Dorado, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Cannon, S. F. (1978) Humboldtian science, in S.F. Cannon, Science in Culture: The Early Victorian Period , New York: Science History Publications, 73-110. Carter, P. (1987) The Road to Botany Bay: An Essay in Spatial History, London: Faber. Carter, P. (1999) Dark with excess of bright: Mapping the coastlines of knowledge, in D. Cosgrove (ed.), Mappings, London: Reaktion, 125-47. Cosgrove, D. (2001) Apollos Eye: A Cartographic Genealogy of the Earth in the Western Imagination, Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Dettelbach, M. (1996) Global physics and aesthetic empire: Humboldts physical portrait of the tropics, in D.P. Miller & P.H. Reill (eds.), Visions of Empire: Voyages, Botany and Representations of Nature, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 258-92. Dettelbach, M. (1999) The face of nature: Precise measurement, mapping and sensibility in the work of Alexander von Humboldt, Studies in the History and Philosophy of the Biological and Biomedical Sciences, 30, 473-504. Diener, P. & Costa, M. F. (2002) Rugendas e o Brasil, So Paulo: Capivara.
Burchell to [Richard] Salisbury, letter, 11 August 1826, Linnean Society Archives, London, UK.
2 3 Of course, the space of the wagon was actually far from self-sufficient: throughout his travels, Burchell relied on the labours of his servants, the cooperation of local inhabitants, and last but not least the health of his oxen (Driver, 2001:19).
John S. Roe to J. Roe, letter, 7 December 1818, J.S. Roe Papers, State Library of Western Australia, Perth, Australia.
4
John S. Roe to J. Roe, letter, 29 January 1821, J.S. Roe Papers, State Library of Western Australia, Perth, Australia.
5 6 On later readings of jungle, see Birtles (1997) and Sioh (1998).
There have been many attempts to rework these themes in the light of postcolonial concerns; see especially Thomas and Losche (1999).
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