For Burundi, I read Baho! by Roland Rugero. I really wanted to like this book–it has an exclamation mark in the title!–but alas, Baho! ended up being my least favorite book of the B’s. On the bright side, it was a super fast read clocking in at only 91 pages, so at least I did not suffer for long.

This book actually had a lot of potential. I enjoyed the writing style (sparse with well chosen, precise language) and the writer explored interesting themes (mob mentality, justice in a war torn society) but ultimately, one thing ruined the entire story for me.

The author talked about rape in a way that was disrespectful and harmful to women.

Here’s the premise of the entire book: a young man who does not speak attempts to ask an adolescent girl where he can use the bathroom by grabbing his crotch. Several women have recently been raped, so the girl screams, thinking she is about to be the rapist’s next victim. Pandemonium ensues as villagers descend and a mob chases the young man.

Maybe the author intended these circumstances to be funny? Or maybe he just wanted to create a scenario that would led to vigilante justice at the hands of an enraged mob? Whatever his intentions, his story didn’t work because he described the perceived threat of rape insensitively, even callously:

For two months, the obsessive fear of rape has haunted this country’s women. Mothers make their little girls wear panties under their wraps when they go to draw water and under their skirts when they go to school, when before they did not. Girls are required to go everywhere in groups.

Baho! pg. 15.

On the same page, the author writes that in two months, six girls have been raped in the area. And he dares suggest that being afraid of rape is obsessive? It’s been five days since I finished Baho! and UGH, just rereading that passage makes me want to spew obscenities.

The book’s tone regarding the fear of rape never improved. The author almost seemed to be ridiculing people who would defend girls from rapists. If the author wanted to make a point about mob mentality, then he should have used any other perceived crime but not rape. Not in this world, where women still struggle to be believed and cannot roam the world as safely as men. Not in a world where rape is used as a tool to dominate, as a savage act of violence, as an instrument in war.

Rape should not be used as a clever literary device, end of discussion.

For Burkina Faso, I read Of Water And The Spirit: Ritual, Magic, and Initiation in the Life of an African Shaman by Malidoma Patrice Somé. When I finished this book yesterday, I gave it 3/5 stars on Goodreads (rounding up from a 2.5) but the more I think about it, the more I like it. I’ve already revised my Goodreads rating to 4/5 and who knows where I’ll be in another month.

This book is a spiritual memoir. Malidoma was born in Upper Volta (now Burkina Faso) as a member of the Dagara tribe. When he was four years old, he was abducted by a Jesuit priest and taken to live at a nearby missionary school. There were, however, hints in the memoir that Malidoma’s father gave the green light to his abduction, and according to Wikipedia, Malidoma’s father took him to a Jesuit boarding school. Perhaps Malidoma later modified his story? Either way, Malidoma’s years at the boarding school were traumatizing and both emotionally and physically abusive.

While at the boarding school, Malidoma was forced to learn French and stop speaking his native Dagara. As an adolescent, he was transferred to the seminary to train to be a priest where he endured more physical and emotional abuse and sexual abuse as well. At about the age of twenty, Malidoma rebelled, escaped the seminary, and walked home over a hundred miles to his home village. Through the African bush. I cannot even imagine.

Except I can imagine what it was like to walk through the African bush because Malidoma did an excellent job of describing the setting throughout the book. I could really visualize his tribal village, the missionary school, the seminary, and the African bush.

Fun fact: As a woman born and raised in California, I think of the African bush as “wilderness” but the members of the Dagara tribe refer to the city as “wilderness.” Just one of the many ways that this book reminded me the two much of life is about our personal experiences and perspective.

Malidoma made it back to his village, but he had forgotten his native tongue and could not speak with his parents. Fortunately, his sister could speak some rudimentary French and with time, Malidoma remembered Dagara. However, he was not welcomed with open arms by his entire tribe. The elders were concerned that Malidoma, now literate, did not belong and would upset the balance of village life. He had also missed the male initiation rites that happen in the bush during adolescence. After much agonizing and reflection, the elders decided that Malidoma could participate in the initiation rites–although they warned that as a man in his twenties, the experience might break him.

Malidoma decided to participate in the initiation rites, and he described these in great detail. My Western beliefs were very prickly during these passages, and I often had to remind myself that to an outsider, my beliefs might seem pretty crazy. If I believe in miracles like Jesus turning water into wine, why should I criticize the things that Malidoma believed happened during his invitation rites? (For example, that he jumped through an animal skin into another dimension.)

Except sometimes, maybe we need to accept that beliefs vary wildly throughout the world but we are also allowed to challenge these beliefs so humanity can grow and change and improve.

I believe there are infinite ways to experience spirituality and connect with the divine. Although there is no RIGHT way to practice spirituality, there are ways that can be wrong–and there were some elements in Malidoma’s book that raised some serious red flags for me. Most obviously, Malidoma participated in initiation rites with adolescent boys from other villages and four of the boys died. FOUR. I am trying to accept and embrace the fact that we all have different beliefs, and I’m coming from a Western bias, but if four adolescents at the local Catholic school died during their confirmation, I would be raising hell.

Another red flag: when Malidoma returned to his village, the elders were concerned that he would be a bad influence on the community because he could read and write. Literacy was perceived as evil. Again, I know I’m coming from a Western bias here, but it seemed like the elders were worried that literacy would introduced new ideas to the young and that could upset the patriarchy. Malidoma’s memoir described a spirituality that seemed to support a seriously patriarchal society and I often found myself wanting to hear from the female members of the Dagara tribe. Do they connect with the tribe’s beliefs in the same way as Malidoma? Do they have their own initiation rites? Do they feel uplifted and inspired by their beliefs or are they stifled and smothered by village life?

Ultimately, I’m really glad I picked Of Water And The Spirit for my Read Around the World quest. As I continue to think about this book, I feel myself pulled by two competing concerns: (1) respecting the beliefs of people who live in a community completely foreign to me; and (2) challenging beliefs that might be oppressive to some members of a community. Or, perhaps I am dealing with two personal and competing concerns: (1) my inherent people pleaser, who does not want to offend anyone, and (2) my inner voice that wants to challenge inequities and the status quo.

And this is why I’m obsessed with this project. With each book, I feel my soul and mind expanding.

For Bulgaria, I read Border: A Journey to the Edge of Europe by Kapka Kassabova. Kassabova was born in communist Bulgaria in 1973 and her family emigrated to New Zealand at the end of the Cold War when she was seventeen.

Kassabova now lives in Scotland but felt drawn to explore the borderlands of Bulgaria, Turkey, and Greece. During the Cold War, it was rumored that the border shared by Bulgaria, Greece, and Turkey was easier to cross than the Berlin Wall. Folks reasoned that traveling through the woods and crossing some barbed wire was easier than Checkpoint Charlie.

Border is a work of narrative nonfiction that is parts travelogue, history, and memoir. Kassabova deftly weaves together her personal journey through the borderlands with the stories of people who tried to cross the border. During the Cold War, we meet East Germans fleeing communism, and in more recent history, we meet refugees desperately seeking asylum in Europe from parts of Turkey, Syria, and Iraq. This book made me think so much about country, nationality, and borders, and I’m still grappling with these shifting ideas.

Kassabova brought the woods of Stranja to life, making them seem more haunted and magical than any woods traveled by Goldilocks or Little Red Riding Hood. There are bears and wolves, spies and soldiers, monasteries carved out of rocky hills, and tunnels filled with treasures left by the Thracians. I ache to visit these places, but they are not exactly tourist destinations for Americans. I’m not sure I could ever find half the villages Kassabova visited, and the tourism industry in that part of the world seems to be damaging the woods–so should I even consider going?

[Though seriously, take a moment and Google “rock monastery of Saint Nicholas.” Now don’t you want to come with me to the Balkans?]

While reading this book, I often thought about its parallels to Secondhand Time, my pick for Belarus. Both Kassabova and Alexievich preserve the stories of ordinary people who lived in communist states and who are struggling to find their footing as borders and governments shift and topple. Kassabova, however, was the protagonist of Border whereas Alexievich rarely appeared in Secondhand Time. No approach is better than the other. Both books touched my soul.

I also thought about The Bridge on the Drina, my pick for Bosnia and Herzegovina. Not only are both countries in the Balkans, but both books explore a part of the world where East meets West, where religions clash, where questions of nationality and ethnicity are spicier than I am used to in my American bubble. Kassabova also described literal bridges that reminded me of the bridge in Višegrad and told stories about the building of these bridges that echoed Ivo Andric’s work.

Both Andric and Alexievich were awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. I wouldn’t be surprised if Kapka Kassabova someday receives that honor as well. I can’t wait to read more of her books.

For Brunei, I read Written in Black by KH Lim. Poor Brunei. It had the bad luck of following Brazil and The Posthumous Memoirs of Bras Cubas, which was one of the most effervescent experiences I ever had reading a book. Machado de Assis is one of the most incredible writers I’ve ever read. Then there’s the people of Brazil. OMG Brazilians are the most loving, enthusiastic, vibrant people on the internet. Everyone should have the pleasure of going viral in Brazil at least once in their life, plus I am so excited to read more Brazilian literature–

Crap, I’m supposed to be writing a post about Brunei.

The book I read suffered from Wrong Coveritis. Here’s the cover I got:

And here’s the sentence from the Amazon blurb that grabbed my attention:

Jonathan escapes his grandfather’s wake in an empty coffin and embarks on a journey through the backwaters of Brunei to bring his disowned brother back for the funeral and to learn the truth about his absent mother. 

Between the cover design and the book blurb, I thought the protagonist was going to travel by coffin on a river, and holy shit, how cool does that sound? Sign me up!

Spoiler alert: the coffin is never used as a boat. And there’s no travel by river either. Instead, Jonathan hides in a truck with a few empty coffins and then at some point, he hides inside one of the coffins, but most of his journey takes place on foot or by car. Also, we never actually learn the truth about his absent mother. There are just some vague insinuations AND THIS WAS FRUSTRATING.

As a reader, I felt like I’d been sold a bill of goods. This is an important lesson for writers: writers need to manage their readers’ expectations. Do not show a coffin being used as a boat on a river unless your story involves a coffin being used as a freaking boat on a river! (But as a writer, I’m taking a mental note and saving this idea for a future book….probably dark fantasy, yeah?)

I had a few other problems with this book. There was way too much scatological humor. I’m all for a good fart joke, but there is a limit on how many descriptions of diarrhea that I can read. The characters were unlikeable, and no one seemed to grow in a meaningful way. And then suffered from a bunch of scenes that built up tension that ultimately went no where. For example, at the beginning of his journey, Jonathan happens upon an abandoned house with a room of voodoo dolls and obituaries including an obituary for his grandfather. I was on edge, waiting to see where the story was going … and then there were some bats, Jonathan ran away, and we never again heard about the obituaries in the abandoned house. What the actual fuck? Yes, stories need some mystery but this was just bizarre and emotionally unsatisfying. Maybe I’m missing something from Brunei culture?

The book did, however, give me a fascinating glimpse into life in Brunei. The story’s center is the death of Jonathan’s grandfather, and the writer described the mourning rituals beautifully. The funeral was unlike any I’ve ever experienced, and it was a good reminder that although grief and death are universal experiences, there are different ways to process them.

Am I going to be recommending this book to everyone I know? Nope. But was it a good reminder of why I embarked on my Read Around the World quest? Absolutely. I experienced a completely different part of the world and got out of my comfortable American bubble. Although I did not love the story, I did enjoy the insights into life in Brunei.

For Brazil, I read The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas by Machado de Assis, and holy shit, I think this is my new favorite book. Or at least top five. But probably my favorite. (Sorry, Jane, Pride and Prejudice will always hold a special place in my heart, but if you’ve read this book, you’ll understand.)

Poor Jane Austen, indignant that Pride and Prejudice

has been bumped from my number one slot.

Bras Cubas was published in 1881 and written in Portuguese. I read the English translation by Flora Thomson-DeVaux. I might have to read other translations to compare, but I thought this translation was superb. (Coincidentally, I’m currently reading the audiobook for Babel by R.F. Kuang, a fantasy novel about a translation student, and I’m currently fascinated by the subject of translation. But that’s another blog post.)

The book is told from the perspective of Bras Cubas, a disagreeable aristocrat who is recently deceased. He’s decadent, self-absorbed, shameless, flippant, and callous, yet he’s the sort of anti-hero I love and adore. (What does that say about me? Let’s not dive into that today…)

The writing style is fresh, witty, engaging, and utterly original. You could tell the author had a lot of fun writing this book and gave approximately zero fucks about writing like everyone else. Here are a few samples:

Yes, I was that handsome, graceful, wealthy lad; and one may easily imagine that more than one lady inclined a pensive brow in my direction, or raised a pair of covetous eyes to meet mine. But of all of them, the one who captivated me straightaway was a … a … I’m not sure I should say; this book is chaste, at least in its intentions; in its intentions it is supremely chaste.

The posthumous memoirs of bras cubas by machado de assis, pg. 42.

I went on my way, unfurling countless reflections, which I’m afraid I have forgotten entirely; they would have made for a good chapter, perhaps a cheerful one. I like cheerful chapters; I have a weakness for them.

id. at 148.

The years slipped away, but not her beauty, for she had never had any to begin with.

id. at 157.

Just typing out those quotes makes me want to curl up with this book and begin rereading it now, but I’m going to wait. After all, I do have a Read Around the Journey quest to continue… But I’ll definitely be rereading this book, partly to delight in its writing, but also because I suspect that every time I read it, I will experience The Posthumous Memoirs a little differently. This time, I felt an intense surge of joy and zest for life, and I kept thinking that if everyone read this book, they would appreciate the utter joy of reading.

Seriously. Why didn’t I read this book in high school?!?! It should be part of the Western canon. I slogged through so many books in my high school English classes that I have long forgotten, but The Posthumous Memoirs of Bras Cubas? My friends and I would have been obsessed.

I majored in history in college, but if the English class I took during my freshman year had included Bras Cubas, I probably would have majored in English and written a thesis on Brazilian literature.

Okay, yes, I am obsessed! I’m obsessed with this book, with the excitement of reading more Brazilian literature, and with this project. I do want to continue my Read Around the World quest and discover other literary treasures, but I also want to stop now and read everything Machado de Assis published.

Dearest Bookworms, please get your hands on a copy of The Posthumous Memoirs of Bras Cubas immediately, if not sooner, and curl up in your favorite chair with a cup of tea and clear your schedule of all distractions. You are in for such a treat!

For Botswana, I read Call and Response, a collection of short stories by Gothataone Moeng. Moeng was born in Serowe, Botswana and the stories take place in her home village and the capitol city of Gaborone.

I cannot say enough good things about this book.

The writing style was engaging and sucked me in. I could–and did–sit for hours with this book, losing track of time and my surroundings.

Each short story was captivating on its own. The author is working on a novel, and although I was satisfied by each story, I could also have read an entire novel about each character. But as a collection, the stories hung together with tiny links. In one story, a girl is upset that her dying aunt has moved into her bedroom, and in another, an aunt who was living abroad moves into her niece’s bedroom. A widow mourns her young husband who was killed when his car struck a cattle in the road, and in a later story, a wife tells her husband to be careful and watch for cattle on the road. I kept thinking about how we are all linked together despite our differences.

The stories explored a rich array of themes mined from the lives of women, including grief, duty to one’s elders, the bonds of family, the role of tradition in a changing Botswana, and the effects of colonialism. It made me think about the universal issues that affect all women, but also made me keenly aware that women in Botswana are dealing with traditions and social mores I can only imagine.

I learned a lot about life in contemporary Botswana, glimpsing the rites and traditions surrounding birth, marriage, and death. The setting was described so well, that when I looked up photos of Botswana, they matched the movie in my mind. There were familiar details, like social media and Kentucky Fried Chicken, and there were issues I have never experienced, like the water being turned off in a city neighborhood or men leaving town to visit their cattle. It was the perfect book for my Read Around the World quest.

For Bosnia and Herzegovina, I read The Bridge On The Drina by Ivo Andric–and holy crap, this book caused a bit of an uproar on my TikTok channel. Two days ago, I posted a video about The Bridge On The Drina and casually mentioned it was my pick for Bosnia and Herzegovina, and then fighting erupted in the comments. Does Ivo Andric, a Nobel Prize winner, “belongs” to Bosnia and Herzegovina? Many TikTokers insisted he’s Serbian. Others said he’s Croatian. There are strong feelings all around, but this comment might be my favorite:

The comments threw this lady in the Balkan fire with no warning. 😅 Welcome to the spicy part of Europe. We are spicy but great. Hope you get a chance to visit to experience it. This book is a great choice for Bosnia and Hercegovina. Many great writers and books from ex YU countries. Hope you enjoy some more of them. Greetings from one book lover to another from Belgrade!

@AlexDante

I’m not going to attempt to summarize the arguments about Ivo Andric’s national identity because there are so many varied and intense opinions. I could spend ten years studying the matter and still only scratch the surface of the debate. Suffice to say, I picked Ivo Andric for Bosnia and Herzegovina (1) because he was born in Bosnia and (2) The Bridge On the Drina takes place in Bosnia, and I’m going to stick with this as my pick for that country.

I should note: I do not mind the deluge of comments. They were fiery but very educational and for about five minutes, I was trending in the Balkans. Some people in that part of the world are very unhappy with my book choice for this Read Around the World project, but you can’t make everyone happy about even the simplest things. This quest is expanding my horizons, and I’m so glad I decided to share my journey on TikTok. (Besides, the people who hated my pick will probably never visit my TikTok channel again. At least, until I read Bulgaria…)

The Bridge On The Drina is historical fiction about an actual bridge in Bosnia. It begins with the building of the bridge in the mid 1500’s and ends in 1914 with the partial destruction of the bridge during World War I. It’s not a traditional novel with a clearly identifiable hero, villain, and plot. Instead, it’s the story of the life on and around the bridge. Going into it, I was highly skeptical. Sure, Ivo Andric won the Nobel Prize for Literature, but how good could a book about a bridge be? But I was quickly drawn in.

The stories about the people living their lives around the bridge are compelling, and the descriptions created a movie in my mind. This one book transported me from the Middle Ages to the Industrial Revolution, and the bridge, oh the bridge! I could imagine myself sitting on its kapia, sipping a strong cup of coffee, watching the green sparking river flow underneath and eavesdropping on the swirl of life around me.

Andric’s insights about human nature felt timeless and universal. Here are a few of his observations:

Men who do not work themselves and who undertake nothing in their lives easily lose patience and fall into error when judging the work of others.

Bridge on the drina, pg. 62.

For every woman has some reason to weep and weeping is sweetest when it is for another’s sorrow.

id. at 171.

Every human generation has its own illusions with regard to civilization; some believe that they are taking part in its upsurge, others that they are witnesses to its extinction. In fact, it always both flames up and shoulders and is extinguished, according to the place and the angle of view.

id. at 233

The Bridge On the Drina is an epic masterpiece that dances between fiction and history with generous doses of philosophy, anthropology, and sociology. It’s a meaty book and required a lot of attention while reading, but when I was done, I felt as if I had eaten a rich sumptuous feast that would sustain me for years to come. I could read this book again and again, and always learn something more, and I know a lot of this book went over my head since I know very little about the Balkans.

I would recommend The Bridge On The Drina to anyone interested in the Balkans–but if you post about it on TikTok, be prepared for some fiery comments.

For Bangladesh, I read Revenge: A Fable by Taslima Nasrin and WOW, this was the perfect book to read after Yummah, my pick for Bahrain. Both books dive deeply into a Muslim marriage but where Yummah romanticized and exalted the ideal of a subservient wife, Revenge burnt the institution of Muslim marriage to the ground. And then took the ashes of Muslim marriage and put them in a box and dropped that box in a dormant volcano. But the volcano was so offended by the ashes of this toxic institution, it erupted and sent them into the atmosphere.

No points for guessing which book I preferred.

(It’s Revenge. I’m a feminist if that’s not obvious.)

Taslima Nasrin is also a feminist and an absolute bad ass. She is known especially for her writing about women’s oppression and criticism of Islam, and some of her books are banned in her native Bangladesh. She was born in Bangladesh in 1962 and forced into exile since 1994, with multiple fatwas calling for her death.

I don’t want to say too much about the plot of Revenge. It starts with a newly married woman who thinks she is pregnant, but her husband does not believe her and then… well, let’s just say that I felt like I myself was trapped in a suffocating Muslim marriage and felt All the Feelings. I didn’t know where the story was going but the ending delivered a very satisfying catharsis and I mentally high-fived the author.

Taslim Nasrin is on my list of favorite authors from my Read Around the World quest, and I’d recommend her works to anyone on a Read Around the World quest.

For The Bahamas, I read Uncertain Kin, a collection of short stories by Janice Lynn Mather. I don’t read short stories very often, but this collection reminded me that a well-crafted short story can be as emotionally satisfying as the best novel–and these were masterfully crafted short stories.

One of the stories detailed a woman’s struggle with adapting to life in Vancouver after immigrating there with her family, and in just a few pages, Mather helped me understand the immigrant experience on a whole new level. The rest of the stories were set in The Bahamas, and Mather picked the right details to bring that world to life.

The stories are about women and girls and dive into issues ranging from coming of age to the responsibilities of parenthood. This feels like cheating, but the description on the book jacket says its better than I can:

Tinged with folklore and the surreal, Uncertain Kin is grounded by its emotional richness and breathtaking insight into our relationships with others–and ourselves.

How do you cite the book jacket? lol

I loved this book. It submerged me in feelings of grief, abandonment, and betrayal without making me feel depressed. Sometimes, books that dive into the darker corners of humanity leave me feeling wrecked, but this one left me feeling blessed and a little more connected to humanity. Perhaps I need to read more short stories. I certainly intend to continue reading around the world.

For Azerbaijan, I read The Orphan Sky by Ella Leya. Ella Leya is a musician who was born in Azerbaijan and grew up Muslim in the U.S.S.R. She and her young son Sergey received asylum in the United States in 1990. NPR has a nice piece about her here.

The Orphan Sky is a novel about a girl named Leila who is a classical pianist and devoted to being a good Communist. The story begins in Baku, the capital of Azerbaijan, and Leya’s descriptions bring the city to life. The reader also travels to war-torn Afghanistan, remote parts of the Soviet Union, London, and California.

In my Read Around the World quest, Azerbaijan follows Austria, so I read The Orphan Sky immediately after finishing The Pianist. Both books are steeped in music, but they could not be more different. The Pianist is dark and punishing, and the protagonist’s relationship with music borders on sadistic. While reading it, I’d look up from the pages, look at our piano, and shudder. In The Orphan Sky, however, the author’s descriptions of music are ecstatic and uplifting and inspired me to sit down at our piano and play a few songs. (I’m not very good.) (But playing the piano is still cathartic and lovely.)

The story dived into a myriad of complicated issues arising from being an artist during the Cold War in a country torn between religion and communism. I felt the protagonist’s grief and despair, her hope and longing, her confusion and the eventual clarity that came from questioning the world she was born into. It was a transportive and transformative novel.

This is the author’s only novel. I know she’s a musician, but damn, I hope she is someday called to write at least one more book.