top of page
JANUARY 2020
Nahgan Villages, Kenya. This photo was taken on a day trip out from Korr, Kenya; a location that I visited often over the past couple of years. In this case, Pastor David, a local Rendille pastor, was making visits to outlying villages to teach at youth gatherings. I went along to photograph and video the event, with the hope of gathering material depicting Africans reaching out to Africans (something that we are always looking get).
About 10 minutes into his presentation, I had most of what I wanted, so I decided to have a walk around the village. Unsurprisingly, without a translator or local guide, I was not given the warmest of welcomes. More accurately, pretty much everyone who saw me and my camera ran for their huts. Westerners don’t often
make it to the Nahgan Villages. I decided my best bet in the situation was to just bag my camera and consider it an opportunity to take it in firsthand. Maybe I would find something to write about.
Wish granted: only a few minutes later, an old woman approached me and was clearly in distress. She was speed-talking in Rendille, a language I wouldn’t have understood even if she had spoken with the utmost clarity and patience. A few confusing moments later, it became clear to me that she was urging me to follow her somewhere. Usually one to act before really thinking things through, I followed her and she led me to a small hut where a young girl was writhing in pain. I knew in that moment the entirety of my 2-day First Aid training would be tested. After a few futile minutes of trying to diagnose the pain through the fog of a language barrier, the woman grabbed the wailing child and pretended to throw her feet first into the smoldering fire inside the hut. Thankful in the knowledge that the Rendille do not practice child sacrifice, I figured that the only other option was that the woman was explaining to me what happened. It suddenly clicked: the girl had stepped into the fire and burned her foot. I asked for water and a basin, and we put her feet into the cool water. I ran to get the first aid kit from my truck. After washing her feet thoroughly, I applied an antibiotic ointment and wrapped her feet in clean gauze. Doctor friends; I apologize if I did anything wrong here. I did my best, and I’m going to be honest: I felt like a superhero. The girl stopped crying and everyone around was ecstatic.
In fact, afterward when I asked the old lady for her picture, she was more than happy to let me capture it. She even posed. Even more, she led me all around her settlement and allowed me to take pictures of everyone around. This picture of two curious young girls came from that mini-tour. Never a boring day in the bush.
FEBRUARY 2020
Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. 5 free days in Addis Ababa were a gift - compliments of the Chadian government, who does not have an embassy in Kenya but still requires visa applications to be made in person. After applying for our visas, my teammates and I took the next few days to explore the city. We made our way to Merkato, one of the world’s largest open air market areas. There were spices, baskets, recycled goods, and of course the legendary Ethiopian coffee. Almost anything you could imagine was available at Merkato. After taking a pit-stop to challenge (and get thoroughly stomped by) a couple of locals at one of the city’s numerous public foosball tables, we decided to get some lunch. Thankfully, our local guide was able to direct us to a nice place up and out of the chaos. We climbed four flights of stairs and eventually
made it to a great lunch spot, complete with delicious Ethiopian fare (by far one of my favorite ethnic foods). While we waited for our food to be prepared, we had the chance to sneak up on to the roof and get a few shots from above. This is one of the resulting images.
Addis Ababa might be one of the most chaotic of cities I have ever been to. I felt 3 attempts at having my pocket picked, and one of my teammates unfortunately ran into a successful attempt. Every place I go, I make an effort to ride on the most common transportation available. Here it was the ubiquitous “15 passenger” van taxi. I give the award of most crowded/least pleasant ride in Africa to this experience (runner up is the Lesotho Combis, and 3rd place goes to Kenyan Matatus). In this photo you can see many of them lined up, ready to deposit their passengers or take them away. Combine the taxi rank with the constant stream of people and rows of sellers offering their goods to passersby, and I consider this to be my best attempt at capturing the life of Addis Ababa in one snap.
Ouaddaï District, Southeast Chad. This photo was nearly destroyed and gone forever. This month’s photo story recounts the time I was detained by Chadian military police and was asked to delete all of my images; but with a little creative problem-solving, was able to get away with them all.
.
We were in the Ouaddaï District, Southeast Chad. 27 miles from the South Sudan border - a region that is historically a well-known hotbed for militant activity. The country is notorious for making it very difficult, if not impossible to operate in full compliance with the rules, so securing documentation is often left to widely accepted, but only semi-legal avenues. Almost everyone in Chad operates in
MARCH 2020
some sort of grey area. For my teammates and I, our gray area was possession of a government issued filming permit. Due to the fact that it can take weeks, or even months, to secure a filming permit, we chose to try a different route. We met with a local administrator – a pistol-touting military man complete with a personal guard – and got his “stamp” of approval to make photos and videos in the region. We were on our way. It didn’t seem to be too much trouble. At least it wasn’t yet.
.
Over one week of travel, and we had finally arrived at our filming locations. To get an idea of what it takes to get there, you will have to wait for November, when I summarize the story behind that photo. It felt like we were at the end of all known civilization. I was loving it. Soon I learned that we would be going even farther afield, as we had been welcomed to small village out of town to meet the Maba people, an unengaged people group. This type of trip, as far from the beaten path as imaginable, is the kind of thing I spent much of my time in Nairobi daydreaming about. We got up early the next morning and headed to the village.
.
Part II
.
Upon our arrival, we were met with decadence that defied expectation. They set out perfumed rugs for us. I felt like a king from a far-off land. Family after family showered our group with gifts of delicious foods. Just when I thought I couldn’t have been more uncomfortably full; another family would arrive with sweet breads, roasted peanuts, and watermelon.
.
Through the heat of the day we sat there, sharing food and asking questions of one another. I got to see one of our medical missionary colleagues teach the village leadership about mental illness – something that is often grossly misunderstood in many developing cultures. It was exciting, and I realized that this is what it looks like to be at the very front end of a missions initiative. There was no missions compound, or even a missionary house. There were no church planting movements. No viable witness to the Gospel at all. Late in the afternoon, we ended our meeting the Chadian way, with Thé Vert (which is best described as liquid sugar with green tea briefly dunked into it) and the chief’s son agreed to take us for a tour around the village.
.
The village was small, and we were kindly greeted by all we passed. In the documentary world, this would be considered a content-rich day. I filled 2 memory cards and started a third. Just as we turned to leave, I glanced over my shoulder, and this month’s photo is what I saw. It was a beautiful ending to a great day. I like to think that she was on her way back from town, where she had to go to replenish the milk and flour that she used up feeding the village guests. So often in places like this, I am astounded by the sacrificial hospitality of Africans.
.
The following day, we would begin our multi-day return trip to Kenya. I asked a new friend for a ride on the back of his motorcycle to catch a few last videos in the streets of town. 10 minutes later I met a nice-looking man in camo. It turned out that wasn’t so nice after all…
.
Part III
.
The man in camo approached me with a kind smile and asked (with hand gestures) to see what I was filming. I like to show people what I am working on. I think of it as a very small way for me to show thankfulness for allowing me to film. He smiled, and I said “shukran” (which is about 50% of my Arabic knowledge). I gestured that I was headed to meet my friends in the town square, and as I began walking there, he took me by the hand. This is a very common thing for men in Africa. I have gone entire conversations and long walks holding hands with other men. So far, there was nothing in this situation that I saw as a warning sign. That was about to change.
.
As I approached the town square, I noticed his grip was getting tighter on my hand and suddenly he took a hold of my arm with his other hand. It was finally registering that I was in a region that the US Department of State considers a “High Risk Area”, and that this man was not going to let me go where I wanted to go. He pulled me into a small, dimly lit office, yelled something in Arabic, and sat me down in a chair in the corner. When it was clear to him that I did not speak Arabic, he switched to French. When it was clear to him that my French (which is 10x better) is pathetic, he yelled something else in Arabic, this time at the guard.
.
Soon after, the local pastor (who I’d known from the past week) arrived to advocate for me. I was infinitely grateful for a familiar face and was ready for the presence of the pastor to calm down the situation, which seemed to be escalating rapidly. But this is Chad, so what I expected is not what I got. After the obligatory pleasantries, my new pastor friend launched into a 2-minute French monologue at the top of his voice. Much finger-pointing ensued. Afterward, the guard returned with another of my friends. Mercifully, this friend was also our English translator. It was time for me to finally find out what was going on.
.
“You’ve been arrested” my friend said…
.
Part IV
.
My first two questions were: “What for?” and “Who is this guy?”. These questions were answered with a trepidatious “we’re not really sure” and “we’re not really sure.” A flurry of French and Arabic ensued. My friend asked, “Do you have your travel papers?” “Yes.” “He wants to see them.” “Okay, but you know the filming permit isn’t exactly kosher”. “I know. We will see how this goes.” But this is Chad, so of course the only paper my captor looked at was that semi-legal filming permit; not the dozen other painstakingly acquired and perfectly in-order travel papers. More Arabic. More French. “He doesn’t like it.”
.
At this point, we were joined by my friend the doctor. Alongside my friend the translator and my friend the pastor, they got into more heated conversation. Fingers were pointed in my direction by all parties present. People came. People stared. People went. Almost an hour later, another unexpected turn: a sudden lightening of the mood. My translator helped me to understand: “Its lunch time. You’re free to eat. They’ll send a guard to get us when we need to return you to them.”
.
2 hours passed, and we were summoned to return. Suddenly a thought: what if they ask me to delete my content? Literally Terabytes-worth of photos and video. I’ve heard of this happening in situations like this. I needed to act fast. We were already on our way back. I reached for my cameras and slipped all of my full memory cards out and into the bottom of the bag. I replaced them with empty cards, put the shutter on continuous mode, and fired off hundreds of shots at 7 frames per second.
.
We were ushered into a new building. This one was different. For one, it didn’t have RPGs in the corner. Instead it had two guards armed with AKs. I guess that’s a fair trade? This time the room was packed. 3 more doctors came to advocate on my behalf. An elder from the church joined the pastor. My translator filled me in. “The man says it is clear that you are not a threat, but they won’t accept your filming permit. Unfortunately, they are asking you to delete all of the photos from your camera.” Outward devastation. Internal Joy. Surely an Oscar-worthy performance. I prayed that this would work. Revealing my camera, I flipped through the menus and briefly paused before activating the “delete all” function. The man in camo looked on as a progress bar filled the screen. All done. My translator explained the words “Memory card empty.” A smile of satisfaction from the man in camo. "He says you’re free to go.”
.
I had a chance to thank my advocate/friend/pastor one last time. He was very sorry, emotional even, that I had to delete my photos. I gave him a wry smile and showed him the cards in my bag. “Bravo” he said, smiling. Finally, some French I could understand.
.
Part V - Epilogue
.
Like you, I thought this story was finished. After riding (this time in an actual seat) the dusty road 4 hours back to the region’s largest city, I had a fitful night’s sleep. It didn’t help that it only cooled to the upper 80’s overnight, but what kept me up was the thought that I might have really messed things up for the future of ministry where we were filming. People told me to be careful there. They warned me that the political situation was not stable. Yet I couldn’t help myself - I just had to get on that motorcycle and parade around town with a camera. It wasn’t long before I had convinced myself that the Maba (an unengaged UPG) would remain unengaged because of my carelessness.
.
My fears were confirmed at lunch when our ministry leader for the region asked our missionary doctor the very question I had in my mind: “Do you think that yesterday’s events will harm our efforts to get a ministry team running there?” The doctor responded: “You won’t believe this…” (By this time, we were all very accustomed to that preface to any statement about Chad). She went on to tell us that she had received a call from the local pastor. In the call, He explained that the regional administrator (the pistol-toting guy with a personal guard from part I) arrived later that day, and demanded to see the local chief of the militia – the man we know as “the man in camo”. Apparently, the meeting was very short. The administrator chastised the man for giving trouble to “his guests” and promptly punched the guy right in the face. I love Chad. No need for a disciplinary hearing when a right cross will do. The local administrator assured our pastor that we wouldn’t be having any more trouble from them. We were more than welcome to send a team. Anyone feeling called to something new?
Khatibe, Lesotho. I’ll let you in on a secret: I save my favorite calendar picture each year for the month of May. This is in no way strategic, but solely based on bias. It stands to reason, then, that this is my favorite of the twelve this year. It brings a smile to my face to know that I could write pages about this young boy. Many of the people I have photographed over the years I know for just a brief moment; but over the course of two years I got to develop a friendship with this young man and his family. His name is Motlatse, and he is the younger brother of one of the shepherds I lived with out in the mountains. He is a jokster, and I must have a dozen other photos of him making a silly face of some sort. Even in my most recent visit, I couldn’t walk past this fella without getting into a pretend boxing match.
MAY 2020
The story of this particular shot, as many of my photos, is that it was a photo of opportunity. I was in the middle of setting up and making a photograph with his father, the village chief. He was looking particularly chiefly that day, and I wanted to take advantage of the “blue hour” light, which was strikingly good that evening. While doing so, Motlatse went to fetch their horse from the pasture. Upon his return, I saw the diffused light striking his blanket in a very interesting way, providing rim light around his entire torso, so I quickly removed my camera from its tripod, turned, and snapped this photo just before he broke into another of his silly faces.
.
As far as I've most recently heard, Motlatse has not yet accepted Christ as his Savior. While we praise God that shepherds in the area are beginning to turn to Him, we pray that Motlatse might be among the next.
bottom of page