Ryszard Kapuscinski, 1932-2007

Aw, damn. Ryszard Kapuscinski has died. If you've never read anything by Kapuscinski, I suggest you do so right now. My recommendations are the brilliant The Emperor (on Haile Selassie, but really a broader, rather hallucinogenic, meditation on dictatorship), Imperium (on the collapse of the Soviet Union and the gulags), The Shadow of the Sun (a lovely travel account through the diversity and richness of Africa), and perhaps especially now, Shah of Shahs (on Shah Reza Pahlavi of Iran, former client of the US).

A generous soul with brilliant, wide-open eyes....

“They started to build a roof over their heads, some little corner, a nook of their own. Because these arrivals had no money—having come here to make some from traditional villages where money is not commonly used—they could look for a place only in the slum neighborhoods. It is an extraordinary sight, the construction of such a neighborhood. Most often, the municipal authorities designate the worst land for this purpose: marshes, quagmires, or barren desert sands. Someone erects the first shack there. Next to it, someone else puts up another one. And then another. Thus, spontaneously, a street is formed. Nearby, another street is advancing. Eventually they will meet, and create an intersection. Now both streets will start to spread, divide, branch out. And a neighborhood will come into being. But first, people collect building material. It is impossible to figure out where they get it. Do they dig it out of the earth? Do they pull it down from the clouds? The one thing is certain: this penniless throng is not buying anything. On their heads, on their backs, under their arms, they bring pieces of corrugated iron, boards, plywood, plastic, cardboard, metal automobile parts, crates, and all this they assemble, erect, nail, and glue into something halfway between a cabin and a lean-to, whose walls configure themselves into an improvised, colorful collage. Because the floor of the hut often consists of swampy ground, or sharp rocks, they line it with elephant grass, banana leaves, raffia, or rice straw, so as to have somewhere to sleep. These neighborhoods, these monstrous African papier-mâché creations, are made up of everything and anything, and it is they, and not Manhattan or the Parisian La Défence, that represent the highest achievement of human imagination, ingenuity, and fantasy. An entire city erected without a single brick, metal rod, or square meter of glass!” – Ryszard Kapuscinski, The Shadow of the Sun