Land-Cruising the Sahara : MALARIA DREAMS An African Adventure <i> by Stuart Stevens (Atlantic Monthly Press: $18.95; 236 pp.; 0-87113-278-8) </i>

Stuart Stevens is a political consultant who lives in New York and Connecticut and contributes to The Washingtonian, The New Republic and Esquire. His first book, “Night Train to Turkestan,” was described by Beth Henley as ‘The best travel book I’ve ever read.’

One evening, in Thailand, a French friend--Lucien--suggested to Stevens that he might enjoy driving Lucien’s new Land Rover back to Paris from Bangui. Naturally enough, Stevens had never heard of Bangui. But, when Lucien identified it as the capital of the Central African Republic, “To my surprise, I realized I had heard of the country. ‘Bokassa’s empire,’ I said. ‘The fellow who made himself emperor and ate all those schoolchildren.’ ”

On Page 1 Stevens emerges as ebullient and impetuous, with a disarming line in rueful humor. Soon he was flying to Bangui, having chosen Ann, a petite 23-year-old ex-model, to accompany him on one of the world’s most hazardous motor routes.

In Bangui Stevens and Ann were cherished by a coffee-planter, Henri--”Lucien’s best friend in the CAR.” They needed cherishing. A senior government official had taken a fancy to the Land Rover which, though blatantly present, was not available for the journey to Paris. How had this absurd situation come about? Why could it not be altered? To answer those questions here would spoil the story.

Eventually it became clear that the government official and the Land Rover could not be pried apart. Whereupon Stevens and Ann, still determined to drive to Europe, trucked into Cameroon to buy a suitable (they hoped) vehicle at a reasonable (they hoped) price.

Stevens’ witty account of arriving late in Yaounde, after a shattering journey, and encountering a plethora of surreal problems, is one of the most memorable passages in “Malaria Dreams.” He soon discovered that, as a vehicle sales-point, the Cameroonian capital has its limitations. Seeking, haggling, supervising essential repairs and maneuvering through the bureaucracy took a very, very long time. Not until Page 114 of this 236-page book does the drive to Algiers begin.

When the journey at last begins, the Land Cruiser’s bizarre variety of tedious mechanical problems provokes a new obsession--equally uncontrolled. “What I liked most about N’Gaoundere were the auto-parts stores”--Stevens doesn’t even mention the Lamidat, or the ancient walled market, or the several fine old mosques, or the astounding (rather than fine) new mosque. Yet one would have expected N’Gaoundere to be of particular interest. As the center of a Fulani Emirate, built long before Yaounde appeared, it was among the few pre-colonial towns on Stevens’ route.

Between Yaounde and Algiers there are, over long stretches, no roads as Westerners understand that term. The many foreigners who follow this route--through Cameroon, Chad, Niger and Algeria--use vehicles that have been elaborately adapted in Europe to meet the grim challenge of the Sahara. Stevens and Ann were extraordinarily brave (or foolhardy?) to attempt such a journey in a Land Cruiser of poignant decrepitude. And they were extremely lucky to survive.

“Malaria Dreams” is uneven: sometimes uncommonly well-written and hilariously funny but too often--especially in the second half--incoherent or banal. While crossing one of the remoter regions of West Africa Stevens tells us almost nothing about the landscape but records: “With visions of mission comforts, we decided to try to reach Tibati that night. . . . Ann had brought with her two baseball caps--one from Notre Dame University (a gift from her boyfriend) and the other her red St. Louis Cardinals hat. We debated which might have the strongest appeal to a Catholic clergyman.”

Stevens and Ann frequently camped out, for lack of a mission, but seem to have wasted all their opportunities to fraternize with villagers. At one stage Stevens’ gums bled--a symptom of scurvy, in an area where everyone eats large helpings of Vitamin C-rich greens (jammu-jammu) at least once a day. Did these travelers fear the local food? Or did the villagers not offer any because “white man” was motoring and therefore apparently self-sufficient? But that seems unlikely; most rural Africans are compulsively hospitable to strangers of any color or transport-status.

There are significantly few good books about motoring through Africa, where the gulf between rural and urban life creates serious psychological as well as material problems. Stevens’ brilliant vignettes of urban life are completely authentic. Anyone who accuses him of exaggeration will be wrong. Yet numerous descriptions of African city scenes add up to a misleading impression of that continent. For a complex web of reasons--economic, religious, geographical, political--the spirit of Africa can by now only be contacted in bush-villages, far from the nearest town or motor track.

Stevens is culpably vague about the historical background to his journey. His reference to West Africa’s immemorial tradition of domestic slavery is wildly inaccurate. It was a much less vicious institution than he deduces from the 1851 comments of an ill-informed and politically biased English traveler. Also, Cameroon was not divided between the French and English “as a spoil of World War I.” Having been a German colony, it became two League of Nations Mandated Territories. In theory these were not colonies though the French, unlike the British, rapidly forgot that fine ethical distinction. Had Stevens given himself more than three weeks to do his homework, “Malaria Dreams” might have been a much better book.