"The Shadow of the Sun", a set of stories by Ryszard Kapuscinski, a Polish journalist who travelled and lived in Africa numerous times between the 50s and the 90s, has definitely taught me humbleness and almost painfully exposed my ignorance of Africa.

After finishing the book I read that Kapuscinski had lived through 27 coups and revolutions, had been jailed 40 times and had survived 4 death sentences, however in this book you will not find a single hint of pride or a boasting word about his endurance. The book focuses on depicting African people, tribes and villages, everyday lives of those whom Kapuscinski met on his way, the history of their countries and his notion about their beliefs, traditions and cultures. Reading this book felt like leafing through an album full of colorful postcards of a faraway place: startlingly visual fragments of an alien reality, shocking at times, inviting at others, and always memorable.

Kapuscinski provides us with more questions than answers, provokes our curiosity, gives us just enough facts to start craving for more. These impressive fragments of such a distinct reality enrich us and at the same time make us perceive the vastness of the whole picture which is still uncovered, which is still unknown to us, distant, invisible and impenetrable.

I can only thank Kapuscinski for this lesson of humbleness and I am definitely looking forward to collecting some more pieces of this great picture called Africa.

Rozdziały trochę nierówne, dlatego 4 gwiazdki. Mimo tego była to wybitna uczta. Jakby ktoś był chętny na wyjazd do Afryki to zapraszam. Można już zacząć pakować plecak

If you've ever lived in Africa, or even been there, this collections of journalistic articles from Mr. Kapuszinski's career in Africa will NOT disappoint. He brings up things you always thought of but never knew how to say. Its genius, and the best book, and truthful book, on Africa I've ever read.

Mr. K is the sort of intrepid traveler we're used to reading about in tales of an earlier generation, the Burtons, Humboldts and Spekes of the world. He marks his year by the number of coups he witnesses and the number of death sentences rendered against him. In Shadow of the Sun, a collection of dispatches from around Africa, he manages to relate, in language worthy of Conrad and Maugham, both the beauty and the horror of Africa. It's a stunning, enlightening and occasinally frightening smorgasbord of a book after which the reader can almost feel the overpowering heat and smell the boiling manioc.

Ryszard Kapuściński è sicuramente stato uno dei migliori autori di reportage di viaggi che sia mai esistito.
Attraverso i suoi racconti si riesce a "rivivere" le storie dei paesi da lui visitati e delle persone da lui incontrate.
Ebano inoltre ha il pregio di rappresentare una lucida analisi critica delle motivazioni che non hanno consentito a molti paesi Africani di svilupparsi, come sarebbe stato auspicabile, nell'era post colonialista.
Motivazioni che probabilmente, in molti casi, sono sempre attuali.

Mr. Kapuscinski was a reporter, and for a couple of decades was assigned to cover all the news coming from Africa. Except, as he's the first to point out, there's really no such thing as 'Africa' -- the experience of a Rwandan coffee farmer, a fisherman in Mozambique and a Tuareg cattle herder are so distinct that to lump them all together is meaningless.

He shows great skill in picking out specific vignettes to illustrate larger truths. In an essay about Idi Amin, the horrible, greedy, bloodthirsty and allegedly cannibalistic leader of Uganda back in the 1980's:

One day I was wandering in the market in Kampala...Suddenly, a band of children came up the street that led up from the lake, calling, Samaki! Samaki ('fish' in Swahili). People gathered, joyful at the prospect that there would be something to eat. The fisherman threw their catch onto the table, and when the onlookers saw it, they grew still and silent. The fish was fat, enormous. These waters never used to yield such monstrously proportioned, overfed specimens. Everybody knew that for a long time now Amin's henchmen had been dumping the bodies of their victims into the lake, and that crocodiles and meat-eating fish must have been feasting on them. The crowd remained silent. Then, a military vehicle happened by. The soldiers saw the gathering, as well as the fish on the table, and stopped. Those of us standing nearby could see the corpse of a man lying on the truck bed. We saw the soldiers heave the fish on to the truck, throw the dead, barefoot man onto the table for us, and quickly drive away. And we heard their coarse, lunatic laughter.

It's really hard to imagine a society sunk so low, but for millions of people over twenty years, this was their reality.

But, but: Although he was a reporter, and his job was to feed back these sorts of horrific stories about coups and revolutions and despots, he found plenty to admire as well. He was not forced to remain there; he enjoyed living there, and moreover made a point of living the same way as the local populace, renting normal apartments rather than staying at the local Sofitel.

The market in Onitsha is where all the roads and paths of mercantile Africa converge. I was fascinated by Onitsha because it is the only market I know of that has spawned its own literature, the Onitsha Market Literature. Dozens of Nigerian writers live and work in Onitsha and are published by as many publishing houses, which have their own printing presses and bookshops in the marketplace. It is a diverse literature--romances, poems, and plays (the latter staged by the numerous little theatrical companies in the market), folk comedies, farces and vaudevilles. There are many didactic tales, countless self-help pamphlets, such as "How to Fall in Love?" or "How to Fall Out of Love?" Many little novellas like "Mabel, or Sweet Honey that has Poured Away," or "Love Games, and Then Disenchantment." Everything is meant to move you, to make you weep, and also to offer instruction and disinterested advice. Literature must be useful, believe the authors from Onitsha, and in the market they find a huge audience thirsty for wisdom and vicarious experience. Whoever cannot afford the brochure masterpiece (or simply doesn't know how to read) can listen to its message for a penny--the admission fee to authors' readings, which take place often here in the shade of stalls piled high with oranges, yams or onions.

Kapuscinski is no fool, and makes no claims to be 'describing Africa,' an impossible task. He does a very good job of describing the misery of being trapped in heat so brutal that people simply find a patch of shade and stop moving, sometimes for hours; a good job of describing the beauty of the Rwandan landscape and the way people, faced with challenges that we in the Western world can scarcely imagine, find ways to cope. Sometimes he tries to lift his matter-of-fact prose into something loftier, which tends not to work very well.

I enjoyed it, but feel only marginally less ignorant than before.

"В дійсності, поза географічною назвою, Африки не існує".

Капусцінський подорожує Африкою, створюючи картинку континенту з фргментів різних країн. Він потрапляє на континент, коли афиканські країни здобувають собі незалежність. Але ця незалженість не всюди давала мир та спокій: "У політичних та економічних науках тих років у світі домінувала думка, що свобода автоматично принесе добробут, що воля негайно, відразу перетворить світ колишніх злиднів на землю, що тече молоком і медом. Так стверджували найбільші мудреці того часу, і здавалося, що немає підстав їм не вірити, тим більше, що ці пророцтва звучали так спокусливо!" У них (країн Африки) є багато різного, але і багато спільного. Наприклад, війна. Автор багато пише про різні африканські війни. "Багато воєн в Африці точиться без свідків, таємно, в недоступних місцях, в тиші, без відома світу або просто світом забутих". І хоча він старається показати більше, ніж чергові війни, але тут цього реально багато. "Немає нічого гіршого за такий стан ні миру, ні війни. Бо одні йшли в бій з надією, що здобудуть перемогу і пожнуть її плоди. Однак мрія ця не здійснилася: наступ доводиться зупинити". І, напевно, ця книга є яскравим доказом того, що війни не всюди однакові.

"Війна, навіть найдовша і найбільша, швидко западає в небуття, стирається з пам’яті. Її сліди зникають наступного дня: мертвих відразу треба поховати, на місці спалених ліплянок поставити нові. Документи? Їх ніколи не було. Немає письмових наказів, штабних карт, шифрів, листівок, відозв, газет, кореспонденції. Немає звичаю писати спогади, вести щоденники (зрештою найчастіше просто немає паперу). Немає також традиції писання історії. Та й зрештою: хто би це мав робити? Немає збирачів документів, музеєзнавців, архівістів, істориків, археологів."

Ось ця відсутність писаної історії призвела до того, що: "ніхто не може сказати: почитайте нашу історію в книгах. Бо таких книг ніхто не написав, їх немає. Вона не існує поза межами того, що вони тепер можуть тут розповісти. Історія, яку в Европі називають науковою і об’єктивною, в їхньому випадку ніколи не постане, оскільки африканська історія не знає документів і записів, і кожне покоління, слухаючи переказану йому версію, змінювало її і змінює, перетворює, модифікує і прикрашає. Але завдяки цьому, вільна від тягаря архівів, від ригоризму даних і дат, історія досягає тут своєї найчистішої, кристалічної форми — форми міту".

Врешті, зазначає автор, важить кут зору, з якого дивишся. І саме кут зору на Африку, зокрема, європейців Капусцінський хоче змінити. "Африка — це тисячі ситуацій. Найрізноманітніших, відмінних, найсуперечливіших. Хтось скаже: «Там війна». І матиме рацію. Інший скаже: «Там мир». І теж матиме рацію. Бо все залежить від того — де і коли."

А ще Африка - це територія голоду (знову ж таки, всюди по-різному, але це одна зі спільних рис країн Африки): "Багато років хартумський режим використовує голод як зброю для знищення населення Півдня. Він робить сьогодні з дінка та нуерами те, що зробив Сталін з українцями в 1932 році: виморює їх голодом".

Капусцінський хоче, щоб про Африку знали більше ніж про місце, де війни, голод та смертельні хвороби. І щоб показати цю іншу, свою, Африку, автор часто може прифантазувати, тому не варто брати на віру кожне його слово. Хоча написано добре. Книжка якраз для такого спекотного літа (бо ж в Африці ще більша жара!).

A fantastic introduction to this mysterious continent. The experiences of over 40 years travelling in and reporting from Africa are beautifully condensed in this small book. Here is a long quote:

"The European and the African have an entirely different concept of time. In the European worldview, time exists outside man, exists objectively, and has measurable and linear characteristics. According to Newton, time is absolute: “Absolute, true, mathematical time of itself and from its own nature, it flows equably and without relation to anything external.” The European feels himself to be time's slave, dependent on it, subject to it. To exist and function, he must observe its ironclad, inviolate laws, its inflexible principles and rules. He must heed deadlines, dates, days, and hours. He moves within the rigors of time and cannot exist outside them. They impose upon him their requirements and quotas. An unresolvable conflict exists between man and time, one that always ends with man's defeat – time annilhates him.

Africans apprehend time differently. For them, it is a much looser concept, more open, elastic, subjective. It is man who influences time, its shape, course, and rhythm (man acting, of course, with the consent of gods and ancestors). Time is even something that man can create outright, for time is made manifest through events, and whether an event takes place or not depends, after all, on man alone. If two armies do not engage in a battle, then that battle will not occur (in other words, time will not have revealed its presence, will not have come into being).

Time appears as a result of our actions, and vanishes when we neglect or ignore it. It is something that springs to life under our influence, but falls into a state of hibernation, even nonexistence, if we do not direct our energy toward it. It is a subservient, passive essence, and, most importantly, one dependent on man.

The absolute opposite of time as it is understood in the European worldview.

In practical terms, this means that if you go to a village where a meeting is scheduled for the afternoon but find no one at the appointed spot, asking, “When will the meeting take place?” makes no sense. You know the answer: “It will take place when people come."

Un viaggio nel tempo e nello spazio, iniziato negli anni cinquanta quando un reporter polacco giovane, appassionato e di belle speranze "vince" la possibilità di andare in Africa come corrispondente per il suo piccolo giornale.
Da qui una serie di capitoli che percorrono buona parte dell'Africa e coprono mezzo secolo, pennellate date con maestria che ci offrono istantanee della vita in Africa.

La vita nei villaggi e quella nelle città, gli usi e le tradizioni secolari di chi vi abita, le divisioni che da sempre separano i suoi abitanti, il rapporto particolare tra clima, geografia e abitanti.
La cultura di un continente dove la natura detta i suoi ritmi imperiosi da sempre, e dove l'uomo sopravvive adattandosi, piegandosi alla natura invece di piegarla al proprio volere.
Ma anche la forma mentis creata da secoli di colonialismo e di schiavismo, che hanno fatto sì che pure quando le catene sono cadute, l'unica forma di rapporto coi "diversi" che molte popolazioni conoscevano fossero ormai quelle apprese a caro prezzo. E quindi sopraffazione o miseria, crudeltà o schiavitù.

Molto bello, un autore che dimostra grande empatia e grande comprensione dello spirito umano, dei meccanismi dietro le abitudini e gli eventi storici.
E mi ha chiarito parecchi retroscena relativi a eventi di cui avevi sentito parlare senza mai interessarmene troppo.

Книга на стику авторського репортажу, популярної антропології і етно-філософії сповнена чесної, а тому гіркої любові автора до Африки та людей що її населяють.

«Гебан» однозначно займе своє місце на поличці «улюблені». Як людина що провела в найзлиденніших місцях Африки 10 місяців (що не порівняти з десятиліттями мандрів автора) можу підтвердити що а) Капусцінський створив неперевершено глибокий і точний портрет Африки б) Африка не дуже сильно і змінилась за останні десятиліття.

Категорично раджу любителям мандрів, далеких країн і чесних оповідей.

Ryszard Kapuscinski sits under the branchy shade of a solitary acacia and stares at the incommensurable moonlike landscape unfolding in front of him. Plains covered with parched, thorny shrubs and vast extensions of sandy ground seem ablaze in a shimmering haze that refracts on the journalist’s eyes forcing him to squint. “Water and shade, such fluid, inconstant things, and the two most valuable treasures in Africa”, this half-historian, half-journalist recalls while revisiting the thirty years he spent roaming the most recondite spots of this battered continent castigated both by man and the most hostile aspect of nature. A place where its people are one with its arid terrain, blinding light and spicy smells. A place where the night belongs to myth and spirits, where time stretches and melts without shape or tempo. A place where history does not exist in archives or records because it can only be measured by memory, by what can be recounted here and now. So I sit down next to Ryszard and I listen to his chronicle.

With unsentimental approach and spartan phraseology unravelled in a collage of disorderly snapshots spread out in time and assorted geography, Kapuscinski evokes the Africa that runs through his veins, beats in his heart and brims over his memory, avoiding clichés and showing the hidden face of this mistreated continent. He neither judges nor idealizes the African culture. Instead he narrows his incisive perspective down to the daily life of cast leaders, peasants or the bayaye --beggars--, eluding the official routes of embassies, palaces or press conferences to disclose the reality of contemporary Africa. Formally presented in autobiographical narrative but with the intimate tone of a personal diary, the main events of the last century are overtly disclosed: colonialism, racism, tribal wars, mass famine, sadistic genocide, power struggles and corruption are tackled and dissected with factual crudity.

Kapuscinski’s account is that of a witness, that of a wanderer who knows Africa to be a too disparate menagerie of tribes, castes and ancient traditions to be framed as a whole.
“The continent is too large to describe. It is a veritable ocean, a separate planet, a varied, immensely rich cosmos. Only with the greatest simplification, for the sake of convenience, we can say “Africa”. In reality, except as a geographical appellation, Africa does not exist.”

One needs to inhale the pungent odor of rotten fish drying out in the scorching sun, to wake up in a local hospital shuddering with the feverish coldness of malaria, to observe emaciated children fainting next to markets full of provisions or used as kamikaze soldiers in the militia under the effect of drugs, to assume that a useless object like a casserole or a rusty bicycle can make a difference between poverty and middle class, to respect tribes whose only source of income comes from a camel or a cow and their culture of exchange, to understand that misery condemns most to death and transforms a few into monsters, bloody dictators, crazied executioners like Idi Amín, whose demented quest to exterminate the Tutsis cast in Rwanda was endorsed by several European presidents. One needs to live all that in order to entirely grasp the glory and the consequence of a place like Africa.

Kapuscinski awakens from his reverie. He stares back at me, his eyes full of golden sun and unwavering sadness. Sitting under the shelter of this acacia tree, I have listened to this man’s soul and I have felt The Spirit of Africa. I have envisioned life as an endless battle, as a frail equilibrium between survival and annihilation but also as a mosaic of vivid colors and ceaceless metamorphosis. And I have understood that nothing will ever conquer the immense elephant of the world, nothing will ever conquer Africa and its power within. For its power remains in its untamable nature, and its nature is its people.

Lektura tej książki, to była prawdziwa uczta. Kapuściński zabiera czytelnika w podróż po Afryce, której już nie ma.
W połowie ubiegłego stulecia, jedno za drugim, państwa afrykańskie zaczęły odzyskiwać niepodległość po długim okresie kolonializmu. Autor przez kilkadziesiąt następnych lat zjeździł Czarny Ląd wzdłuż i wszerz. Był w takich krajach, jak: Ghana, Uganda, Etiopia, Tanzania, Senegal, Zanzibar, Ruanda, Somalia, Liberia, Senegal, Mali, Nigeria, Erytrea... nie wiem, czy wymieniłam wszystkie z nich.
W przeciwieństwie do swoich kolegów z Zachodu, polski reporter nie dysponował wielkimi pieniędzmi, więc radził sobie, jak mógł. Dogadywał się ze wszystkimi, podróżował różnymi środkami lokomocji. Nie zawsze było to bezpieczne, a czasem wręcz karkołomne, dzięki temu jego relacje czyta się, jak świetną powieść przygodową. Zepsuta ciężarówka na środku pustyni i brak wody? Maleńka łódź między lądem a Zanzibarem podczas szalejącego sztormu? A może gorączka malaryczna? Proszę bardzo. Autor przeżył to wszystko. I zawsze było mu mało, bo pchał się w najciemniejsze i najbardziej niebezpieczne zakamarki. Chciał wiedzieć, jak wygląda prawdziwa Afryka, a nie ta z folderów biur podróży. Często ocierał się o śmierć. Był świadkiem krwawych przewrotów, walk plemiennych, widział walczące dzieci, bogactwo nowo tworzących się elit i ucieczkę starych, głód i czary. Bo trzeba nam wiedzieć, że Afryka, to wyjątkowe miejsce, gdzie świat realny i magiczny przenikają się nawzajem.
Nie wiem, jak zakwalifikować ten rodzaj twórczości. Bo niby to reportaż, ale taki, któremu blisko do tzw. literatury pięknej. Dla autora każdy poznany człowiek staje się bohaterem opowieści.
Dziś Afryka znowu powstaje z kolan. Kilkadziesiąt lat tak zwanej wolności zaprowadziło ludność tego kontynentu w to samo miejsce. Korupcja, nepotyzm, rozkradzione bogactwa, bieda ludu i przepych sprzedajnych elit. Ciekawe, czy znajdzie się nowy Kapuściński, który kiedyś opisze, jak wyglądały te dzisiejsze przemiany i do czego doprowadziły. Kolonializm, korporacjonizm... Czy historia zatoczy następne koło i jaka będzie jego nazwa?