RNU.2

Where have you been Wade Davis? His wiki is minimal. His book, The Serpent And The Rainbow, is a majestic tour de force of immersion journalism, one could argue a prototypical work of the genre, to say nothing of a roaring good tale with, in my opinion, an excellent grounding in ethics, intimate in its sensitive and sensible voice, one that retains a poetic fascination of his subject without resorting to condescending attitudes about the "other" (and often interrogating these attitudes when present).

So why does he remind me of David Simon?

I don't want to allude to potential similarities between the mystical Haitian terrain and the slums of Baltimore...I'm not sure I can do so without appearing rampantly racist and a simple comparison of locales would be limiting. It's not so much the subject pool of writers Davis and Simon, it's the freshly informative way they approach their targeted ideas, the politically responsible muscle in their work, their willingness to think expansively about the microcosms they study.

They're also excellent fucking writers, which certainly doesn't hurt.

Let me first state that reading Davis' masterpiece after seeing the movie will probably make you hate Bill Pullman's misadventures in the Spooky World o'Black Folk. It's not that the movie doesn't hold up badly to this day, it's at best decent, and the endgame is Wes Craven's usual nigh-goofy (maybe it's our newfangled modern lenses) denouement stylee that may impart some small joy. But fuck it, the thing is racist and ill-serving to the book. Pullman runs to Haiti after hallucinating with the forest-folk, acts big and bad, shows these black-peasants a thing'er'two about brutish American resolve, is summarily punished for it (which I guess is kind of enjoyable to watch in this context), but then comes back to go toe to toe with the major houngan (being Zakes Mokae, playing one of the only roles he plays - black bogeyman - to a level of almost postmodernist winking-at-the-camera bliss), and then he wins, credits follow a where-are-they-now blurb to remind you that what you saw was based on a true story.

You don't need me to tell you that this is all fucking hogwash, I'm betting the last person who thought that movies-based-on-true-stories have some kind of responsibility to print the truth instead of the typewritten mutterings of a pack of sex-starved, speedfreak hollywood scribes is also still of the belief that wrestling is unsimulated gladiatorial combat. I was rather content in leaving things as they were re: the film until I read this book. Reading this book will make you angry.

First of all, forget Pullman. The guy's good but he's no substitute for the real thing. Wade Davis brings his-ahem-CANADIAN self to Haiti to go stomping around for the secret about Zombies. He's packed with a hypothesis and a zest for freethinking as hinted at in earlier paragraphs about his hallucinogenic escapades of yore. The thing is, Davis realizes very early that he needs to peel off his preconceived notions to understand and reckon with the nation and its people. Throughout the text he is consistently revealed to be more than a stranger in a strange land - he is a lost seeker in a new-found adopted home. His journey to Haiti begins as a goal-driven sojourn, but morphs into an intense exercise in self-education. Like the very best wanderlust narratives, what he originally seeks out in the exterior becomes secondary to an interior transformation. I envision him as a tack-sharp acid-guru college boy, thinking he already learned the secrets of the universe in squares of absorbent paper and amazonian vines, and now finds that he's been scampering blindly on the surface the entire time.

The Haitian people lie, cheat, deceive, and mystify him. They don't trust the "blanc" - as they somewhat insultingly refer to him - any farther than they can throw him. But the story and challenge isn't just about winning their trust, it's about internalizing the language, physics, day-to-day minutiae of their world. It's realizing that his original attempts to treat them as confederates is actually a racist act, he is in their home and the onus is on him to learn. Bargaining with them for knowledge by bluffing his role as an equal is a lost cause: how can he orient himself in their hierarchy if he doesn't even understand it, yet tries to identify with it? The man vs nature conflict that flutters at the work's surface organically transforms into the man vs himself one. You read it and hear the gears turning.

A key component of David Simon's work is its constant repositioning to the sociological sphere; lovingly constructed albeit often bleak narrative gives way to lessons in history, statistical demographics, big-pictureness. A lesser writer renders these departures weakly - they become knee-jerk responses to pointing critical fingers, and only punctuate the greater story to defend the hand that writes them. In Simon's and Davis' hands, these departures become richly rewarding...sometimes the fascination when digesting them overwhelms the reader - fuck it, overwhelms me - and I blink my eyes as the next chapter suddenly interrupts the anecdotes. They add texture that is intrinsically necessary to understanding the narrative, educating the uninformed reader.

If you were poised to read one text this year make it this one. At a glance, it will seem that The Serpent and the Rainbow is another goin-native anthropological misadventure, but you will find something much more profound in its pages. It's a history lesson, travelogue, religious education, racism analysis, ethnobotany primer, two-fisted science epic. It also doesn't hurt that the guy can put words together beautifully.

Bought it for a buck on the street.

End of rant 2, less glowing praise next time, listening to Gogol Bordello.