But the moving machine of people suddenly stopped. It certainly seemed to bring out the worst in the author, who has managed to make a career out of broken, mangled and destroyed black bodies like many before him. It was our intention to make clear that this would be our last discussion. One had nothing to hold on to. They had been forcibly exorcised by their family because their family often was not able to feed them.
Bobby was hesitant initially but the duo moved forward with such speed and conviction and when they spoke it seemed so utterly sincere — they asked for an advance of only half the money — that already it felt too late to refuse. Oscillating between anger and loneliness and between melancholy and exhilaration, Stringer completely transports us not only to the Congo-but to the limits of sanity, reason, and experience. Anjan Sundaram did just that. But in order to tell their story, Vic and Mad must focus on all the chapters in between. The traders decided to cull half the livestock. Some had come with food, others with rings of rope that tied together plastic canisters, called bidons. We ran through our provisions and checked the maps, with Xs at landmarks so we wouldn't get lost among the islands striping the river.
The author takes refuge in a hotel with other journalists and then subsequently hides in the compound of an Indian-owned margarine factory. When Sundaram is engaged as a stringer for the Associated Press, he becomes a chronicler for a country he s just beginning to experience. The result, according to Sundaram, just as Anand Gopal suggests in No Good Men Among the Living about Afghans, is a traumatised people. So we see not only the megalomaniac Leopold, but also those who revealed his actions and crusaded against them, inclulding E. Meanwhile the captain had returned to the helm and he ordered the barge to speed up to avoid inclement weather; apparently the rains had come early. These moments, beautifully rendered, draw back the curtain on the making of foreign news.
I waded out of the water, jumping, making big splashes. Sundaram has written a memoir of the time he spent working as a freelance reporter for the Associated Press based in Kinshasa. Soon my pieces were cornered. He decisively pulled himself onto a chair and announced he had found a nugget. As he inevitably will be compared to V. As more and more city produce was exchanged for animals, the squawks and noises woke me even earlier in the morning.
It's not often one reads a book of reportage from a difficult foreign country with such fever-dream immediacy, such tense intelligence, and such an artful gift for story-telling. I met these children in the cemetery, who we just described. This was the authenticity he knew. Set on a mud cliff, it was a decrepit colonial-style construction: with pillars, a triangular roof, whitewash, paved verandas. Chickens were chosen for their plumpness. It was hard to tell what the book was trying to convey except to give a daily account of life in the Kinshasha ghetto - there were first-hand accounts about the war and the author's experience as a news reporter, but any context or thoughts from the author about either situation appeared random After seeing the author on The Daily Show I was so excited to read this.
I stood against the railing. I have never been more revolted by a non-fiction author. A funeral was taking place. A fisherman's boy told me he had found the dead beast. Against the light we saw the silhouette of a person looking at us.
Adding to this sense of rawness is the fact that there are no chapter titles, and one chapter flows into the next on the same page, marked merely by a number. A mosquito came into the weak beam of my torchlight. Along the way he would go on a joyride with Kinshasa's feral children, fend off its women desperate for an escape route, and travel with an Indian bus. This text may not be in its final form and may be updated or revised in the future. After graduating from Yale in 2005, Sundaram turned down a PhD program in mathematics as well as a job with Goldman Sachs, to pursue reporting as a freelancer in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. The rain approached and grew louder and louder.
This debut is the result of an 18-month occupation during which Sundaram is robbed, contracts malaria, and sees firsthand the undignified crushing of the human soul. A fight breaks out in the capital between the personal armies of President Kabila and his main rival, the warlord-turned-politician, Jean-Pierre Bemba. Sundaram describes the grueling reality of daily existence in the Congo, intimately outlining his own struggle to make sense of life in a world where cab rides can end at gunpoint and rebel generals are only a phone call away. Put the gold inside paper and X-rays can't see. After spending the entirety of the book snarking about his compatriots and questioning their characters and motives and looking, in general, at the worst side of almost every nationality and race he comes across, his survival instinct is what makes him identify as part of a tribe and go into a complete meltdown. I looked up — but the forest was impenetrable and I couldn't make out the path by which the plane had come.
One of Mobutu's many palaces appeared on the riverbank. There is a huge cast of characters which makes it difficult at times to remember who is who, but the story of survival of his dream against all odds is riveting. I sat on the riverbank for a long time. I guess I take it for granted that the author is an award-winning news writer. Kinshasa almost appears a city that is isolated from the rest of the country.