Asphalt's Faults
A Review of Three Novels by Carl Hiaasen
[Oct 20, 2004]

Henry David Thoreau may have written that a man is wealthy in direct proportion to the number of things he is able to leave alone, but like the proverbial prophet, the author of Walden remains unheeded in his own country. From politicians to public officials, working folk to webmasters, everyone is in favor of 'development', which ultimately translates to

Carl Hiaasen

turning some piece of real estate into an irretrievable wasteland of homes and offices, theaters and theme parks, strip malls and shopping complexes.

The development bug has bitten my hometown too, a trifle late maybe but no less virulent for the delay. Head out north, south, east or west, and you are soon assaulted by signs of fresh construction: The graceful meadow you had always admired replaced by what looks like an advancing army (of new homes). Woods that once soothed your eyes obscured by a board proclaiming an upcoming Wal-Mart. Or gazing at the horizon for some scenic relief only to find a hillside once full of trees sprouting new luxury villas instead, the discovery made the more poignant by an uncut hill alongside, and the helpless realization that it too awaits the same end.

A drive through the edge of town offers an additional attraction this year. Alongside the announcements of homes and lots and soon-to-come supermarkets and dealerships are the political signs -- Bush/Cheney 04, Kerry-Edwards - A Stronger America, and those of sundry contenders for lesser offices. But one thing is for sure -- whoever may win, there will be no reprieve for the landscape.

If this is the fate of Oregon, which has supposedly benefited from farsighted land use and a visionary governor (Tom McCall), the story can hardly be better in other states. Worst is the plight of Florida, for decades the destination of land developers, exiled criminals and con artists of every stripe, who have found the warm climate, long coastline and ready abundance of the rich, the gullible, and the elderly a dream combination for the establishment of Depredation Central.

This is the setting for novelist Carl Hiaasen's books, of which I have finished three and just begun a fourth. Hiaasen writes of a Florida of great natural wealth and wild beauty, of lakes and creeks and birds and snakes and of the disappearing jaguar, all put to the sword by runaway development and relentless migration. A Pulitzer Prize winning columnist of the Miami Herald, Hiaasen writes of Florida as only a native can, with a passionate love of his state and a cold fury at what is being done to it.

Hiaasen has a sure ear for dialogue, and is comfortable with a wide variety of mannerisms and mindsets. He also knows how to tell a story. The first Hiaasen novel I read, "Sick Puppy", is the story of a lobbyist pushing for the development of a pristine place called 'Toad Island' for obvious reasons (it is the habitat of a unique kind of frog). The novel begins with Palmer Stoat, the lobbyist, tossing the remains of his fast-food meal out of the car window. The car behind him contains a young man, Twilly Spree, described as mentally disturbed but, as we discover, his eccentricity arises from his inability to rationalize the behavior of the rich and powerful who would despoil and trash their surroundings with such merry abandon. The tale proceeds to takes us on a hilarious tour of Florida politics and, as with all three Hiaasen novels I've read, the politics of development -- the sleazy deals and the backroom handshakes all at the expense of some more land.

My second novel was very different, and yet had the similar underlying theme. I think Stormy Weather is Hiaasen's first novel, set amidst the debris of Hurricane Andrew (1992). With a keen but unsentimental eye, Hiaasen captures the devastation of the storm and in many cases the greed that brought it on -- not in the sense of Jerry Falwell's views on September 11 (our sins caused 9-11), but in the fact that people wanted to build, build, build, knowing fully well that these were treacherous locations. The novel brings out the whole sequence of unscrupulous developers trolling for old people to peddle vacations homes, building inspectors with an easy conscience (it features a roof safety certifier who is afraid of heights and okays roofs by driving past homes!), the insurance frauds and the out-of-state hucksters descending in droves following the disaster. The average Floridian is not spared either, and the Florida tourist is skewered. Reading the novel (actually, 'listening' to it -- it is available on tape) in September this year made vivid the effects of Charley, Frances, Ivan and Jeanne, all of which hit Florida in a record-setting 2004 hurricane season.

My next novel was Native Tongue, the story based on a theme park in Florida. In all three novels, Hiaasen's sympathy lies with the animals, whose habitat shrinks daily by the determined advance of the bulldozer -- and whose lives are blighted by the entertainers, game park developers and others who capture and bind them for exploitation. (Talking of exploitation of animals, what does one make of John Kerry going goose-hunting in Ohio, just to show that he is a macho guy too?) In Native Tongue, Hiaasen depicts the practice of coloring or maiming animals for display before an unsuspecting public. The mindless participation of the average guy in these gags is central to why they are practised. The novel is full of breezy language, counting amongst its characters a former mafioso, a phone sex artist and several small-time felons.

All Hiaasen novels appear to have a common theme -- Young people (aided sometimes by old-timers who too are distressed by Development) going up against further erosion of what is left of Florida's natural beauty. They scuttle the schemes of the rich and powerful developers through a combination of lawbreaking and subterfuge, doing things that are, if not exactly criminal, at least hovering on the borders of conventional crime. Hiaasen's novels raise the question of who is the real criminal -- a developer who is willing to hire thugs to kill his opponents, or a kid who would disable somebody's bulldozer? A company which would willingly dump mercury into the river with a wink from the local government, or the hothead who kidnaps (and cares for) a dog to force a lobbyist to back down from a proposed development project? It was Gandhi who observed that in an dishonest society, the only place for an honest man was jail.

Through all of Hiaasen's fiction, the mainstay is a former governor of Florida (drawn a little from Tom McCall of Oregon, no doubt -- and echoing McCall, he seeks a moratorium on tourism). Clinton Tyree, who resigned his governorship in frustration at his losing war with a corrupt legislature and sleazy developers to prevent the asphalting of his beloved state, is now a recluse living in the wild, eating roadkill. Tyree,who now goes by 'Skink', appears from time to time to help the miscreant heroes of Hiaasen's fiction strike a blow for the environment. Skink is aided behind the scenes by another Hiaasen fixture, Jim Tile. Tile, a serving black policeman devoted to his former boss, sagely advises the young that the governor is to be 'admired, but not emulated'.

The young heroes and heroines are not memorable save one or two; one might even find the same character under a different name in another novel. But Hiaasen's characterization of Skink is superb. The Vietnam hero and former English professor is tall (6-foot-6) and sinewy, simultaneously wild and controlled, laconic in speech and cynical by experience, teetering on the edge of conventional sanity. John Kerry in a different life?

All in all, after reading these novels, one yearns wistfully for a Carl Hiaasen -- and a Clinton Tyree -- for every state in the union.

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