Unfortunately, the author spends this entire book breaking the cliched cardinal rule of writing -- show, don't tell. For example, we're told about the protagonist's murdered father and insane mother. We're _told_. We are never shown any flashbacks in which these people are alive and relating to the protagonist. We're just supposed to swallow the scenario whole, and believe in it, care about it, for the balance of the book.
The book's third-person-omniscient point of view doesn't help matters. At some point, we're inside the head of nearly every character in the book, being told things rather than being shown them. Sometimes we're in more than one character's head in a single scene. Sometimes we're inside the "head" of something like a knife or a headache -- more than once, I noticed the author personifying objects and sensations. There was a headache or a fever that "wanted" to split somebody's head in two, or something like that. Lots of window dressing, but very little meaning.
The book tells nearly everything and shows almost nothing, and despite the author's seeming desire to be explicit, the writing remains imprecise. For just one of many possible examples of the imprecision -- at one point, the author describes a young government official as wearing a uniformly "solemn" expression, but a couple of sentences later notes that his eyes are darting around the room, which doesn't seem very solemn at all. The book is full of this type of garbled observation.
The characters are flat and expository. The romantic male figure, Seb, is meant to be sensitive and caring but he comes off sappy. It seems like Seb's character is propped up to show the reader how businesslike and non-touchyfeely Marika, the protagonist, is. The two characters continually butt against one other and never engage in a way that seems believable. Even when they're at their most comfortable with one another, they speak in pronouncements about how much they care about each other. The famous journalist Marika pursues tells her the story of his murdered son's decomposition, and somehow that story is lacks immediacy, lacks horror. Also baffling were the fact that the famous journalist mentioned having told the decomposition story to native children who couldn't understand English, and the fact that the author includes almost nothing about Marika's reaction to hearing this story. It seems to have been included as pure exposition.
In addition to being flat, the characters were just plain implausible. I had a really hard time believing that the hardened journalist would confess to Marika that he'd promised himself he wouldn't care about anyone anymore (but, of course, he finds himself caring about _her_). Certainly not at the point in the book at which this happens. I also had a hard time believing that Marika, a professional journalist who regularly visits countries where women are second-class citizens or worse, would balk in such an ignorant manner at being made to go to a menstrual hut while having her period. Surely someone in that line of work would have some understanding of customs and superstitions that aren't in line with modern civilization.
The closest the book comes to creating a real character is with the character of Tobo the witch doctor. Tobo is dryly funny, foolish, superstitious, wise, fatalistic, and caring all at once. I found him to be the only likeable character in the book, and I was pleased that he had the last word.
But truthfully, I wouldn't pick up this book just for Tobo. The writing is very bland, and scenes that are meant to stir some emotion in the reader (including, unfortunately, the torture scenes) simply do not work. Nothing really happens in this book, which would have been something very different in the hands of a more dynamic writer.