Grrrrr.... gritty, grimy and grisly...

Three words that quite appropriately describe "The Missionary and the Brute".

I wanted to set this novel - not only in an interesting locale that appealed to me - but also in a harsh natural reality that is unsullied by the nicety of illusory fairy tale optimism. Which is not to say that there is not a ray of hope that runs - sometimes literally - through this story, but rather that it is grounded so much in naturalism that it stays real. Thus giving that fleeting hope more resonance and poignancy.

For me, I view "The Missionary and the Brute" like one of those grand Caravaggio paintings depicting Biblical events. At the time they were painted, to add verisimilitude, Caravaggio reportedly had gravediggers bring him cadavers on which to model his characters. Some of the critics of his day recoiled that he could use the dead to paint images of the Saints, but the depiction of the minutiae of detail such as dirt beneath the fingernails was of such a delicate reality that it - to me (and many others) seemed to lift the artwork to an even higher realm. I got to see his paintings up close once in a traveling exhibit of Vatican artwork - and it blew me away - even moreso than the Michelangelo's or Raphael's that were also displayed. It was one of the great artistic events of my lifetime - right up there with seeing Marcel Marceau perform and hearing Maya Angelou speak.

Setting the table...

I have read that the setting of a novel is metaphorically akin to a table - it is the firm foundation upon which everything else - the theme, the plot, the characters - are arranged for our ready consumption. Without that foundation, the spoons tumble asunder, the peas spill to the floor and the candlesticks have no base upon which to share their glorious light.

In some books however, the setting plays more than a predetermined structural role, and in "The Missionary and the Brute" this is indeed the case. Tanzania is definitely the structure which supports and allows the characters to interact as they do, but more than that, it almost becomes as a character unto itself. Reflecting shades of plot and theme in myriad ways.

I unabashedly adore Tanzania. The people, the landscape, the culture - they all add so much beauty and color to my life. But for all that is beautiful in this wondrous land, there is also an undercurrent of danger and indeed death that is constantly surprising to these American eyes. When I return from my trips to Africa, lots of people view my slides and express a desire to travel there as well, and I appreciate that. Unfortunately, unless you have been truly been there, there is practically no way aside from the lyricism of creative art to express the deep complexities of this seemingly simple locale.

For my novel, I have created the mythical village of Kintori upon which to lift up just such a story. It is based on places I have been and sights I have witnessed, and it tries to capture the essence of village life in rural Tanzania. Kintori is my MiddleEarth, my Perelandia. It is not real. Yet, in a way, it is hyper-real as well. There is much that is familiar to anyone who has traveled thus, or so I do hope. I have embellished this setting with the dogs, the plant life and the people - the sights, sounds and smells - that are known to me as I travel there. I have tried to assure that the customs and cultural aspects of Tanzanian life are evident in my little Kintori just as they are in the very real places to which I traverse.

In a way, "The Missionary and the Brute" can be seen as an epic clash of cultures that is based at least partially on this magnificent setting. It is probably important that I tell you that I have never witnessed with my own eyes serial killers in Africa, nor most of the events that transpire herein the novel - all of those have sprung forth from a fertile imagination reared on David Lynch films and Chuck Palahniuk novels in equal accord.

But truthfully when I am in country, even though I am typically sheltered fairly well away from the tragedies and travesties that befall the Tanzanian people, (any people) - I yet hear the muffled rumblings and stumble upon muted stories of a darker side. People are people despite their bucolic locale and death and brutality exist in Tanzania as they do elsewhere in the world. I certainly don't want to give the impression that is an us versus them tale, because I know there is certainly enough evil in this world to go around. No one people or place hold the monopoly on that.

Thankfully, there is - in my view of the world - even more light and goodness to go around as well. And that is the hope that we all bring to this and any land - regardless of the setting.

To whet the appetite...

To give an impression of the tone and timbre of the story, I am excerpting a part of the story here for your early perusal. To set up what follows - The Missionary, Jadwin Ross, is walking up the mountainside of Kintori with a group of American tourists. Lead by their Tanzanian guide, Daud, they traverse one of those beautifully winding paths that I love so much from my own journeys to Africa. I won't spoil too much of what has come before or after - but this can kind of stand alone as a teaser for the mystery and majesty of the story...

Chapter 21


What a glorious morning! The sun was up. The view was delightful. The fellowship was grand and jolly. Day two in Tanzania began absolutely beautifully!

As their mission project in Tanzania, the Americans – at Ross’s urging – had chosen to build a modest preschool building a few short kilometers from the Guest House up the foothills of the mountain. As they walked together to the worksite, the Missionary swelled to think of the generosity of the Americans generosity. Truly it was a beautiful thing indeed.

The trail was fairly remarkable also. Awesome! Instead of turning from the Guest House to the main dirt road on which Daud had lead them to church – and hence through all the village streets – they went via the shortcut path. The path was dirt upon dirt and covered with matted down, trampled leaves. It skirted around the village itself and rose quickly enough to isolate and make the visitors feel remote and adventuresome. At various places the path forked into differing directions. One leading to the evangelist trail of the day previous another to the church and primary school, yet another tracing the path to the building project for the new preschool up in the foothills.

Any way you took it, it was a path of peace and was absolutely gorgeous. Especially now. Mostly uninhabited – save for a few farmers knee deep in their shambas picking carrots, or tending to cows staked along the lonesome path, it was a place where travelers could seek solitude and reflection before they returned to civilization – such as it was – and the pushing, noisome tumult of the friendly and enthusiastic Tanzanian people of the village.

For the most part, the Americans traveled the trail without words. Many were still a bit tired from the day before. Davison and Mrs. Starr walked with Daud near the front and were excitedly telling of what they had seen at the Tanzanite mines. Next came the married Johnsons and then Leah and Raven and then the Missionary.

Ross was in particularly fine spirits. He felt amazingly alive and renewed. Filled with excitement and the passions of youth. It was as if the entire world had changed over night. Everything was suddenly vibrant and energized. Pure. Bright.

Lovely.