/Ouagadougou; * By Donald Sellers y V L - r ^ * Illustration by Wague Baba Diakite A This happened in Ouagadougou, which is the capital of Burkina Faso, a country in West Africa, during the worst job I have ever worked on, when hard luck rolled in like bad weather and just wouldn’t lift. The bottled water made us sick, our story eluded us, and we finally turned on each other The camera attracts things, good and bad. In South Africa, for example, riots start up like summer thunderstorms. They develop quickly into vortices, sucking in the camera crew, the victim and the mob. like tired dogs. On the ground in Ouagadougou, I’m not sure what to expect. The Air Afrique Airbus has used up the entire length of the long, single runway on landing, and is now taxiing back on it, presumably to some sort of terminal. The plane is full and smells of sweat and ginger. I am going to work soon. 1hunch over and extract the bulky Betacam from under the seat in front. It has spent the flight from Dakar sitting on undersized airline blankets secured by my feet. The lens, the videotape, the various switches are all correct. Icheck everything. When left to themselves, things can always be counted on to go wrong. We have been shooting for six days but I can only vaguely remember the flight down from Paris to Dakar, in which we first met the delegation of dissident Afrikaners traveling to their meeting with the African National Congress (ANC). Von Zayle Slabbert, intellectual, tough, boxer-like, heads the delegation from South Africa; Thabo Mbeke, another intellectual, but quiet, more of a magician, leads the ANCdelegation. Meetings like this have occurred before, but in secret. Something has changed that, and now they are together in the light, discussing schemes to bring a peaceful change of government to South Africa. We are there because our executive producer figures there are people in America who care. I look out the window to note the light, its direction and condition, information that will be important to me soon. A boundary of high, green trees passes by, shielding us from the country. Instead of focusing on my work, I am thinking about Africa. We are sitting in a vehicle of aluminum alloy, electronics and plastic. Beyond that line of jungle are swamps, rutted roads and mud hovels. I have seen them from the air. Burkina Faso promotes itself as the 'poorest country on Earth. It had been known for its river blindness, before that was cleaned up by the UN. The contrast depresses me. I feel the frustration of trying to comprehend something that naturally eludes understanding. Heat distorts the air around the wings, but my balky mind offers this alternative: the modern aircraft and Fifth World Africa are so incompatible, they could not coexist without emitting a magical, frictional heat. 1suspect the Betacam is magical by now. Over the past few days it has improbably achieved the ability to convert energy into mass; when I expend my energy holding it up, it converts that effort into its own weight. To take up this camera now requires my reaching deep into an exclusive reserve within me. I resent it. It is energy I need to survive. There has been only one news report of the initial meetings in Dakar I am sitting in a vehicle of aluminum alloy, electronics and plastic. Beyond that line of jungle are swamps, rutted roads and mud £ hovels. Burkina Faso promotes itself as the M T t poorest country on Earth. The contrast depresses me. on the U.S. networks. The small bazaar of reporters that camped around the conference finally packed in their cables and portable terminals and flew off to the world’s next great hot spot—wherever their editors in New York and London divined great events would soon break. For the rest of the trip, there is only one other crew left to deal with, Jimmy Matthews and Rashid Lombard, respectively a black and colored South African, who are documenting the conference for the Mitterand Foundation which sponsored it. Jimmy and Rashid are reasonable to work around. In this business most people are not. The plane turns. Chuck, my soundman-engineer, lifts his microphone boom and adjusts the coils of bright green sound cable that hang from his shoulder strap. Chuck is lanky, with a strong Long Island accent which has somehow eluded national television’s effect of homogenizing American speech into bland non-regionalism. He looks drained, but his actions tell me his thoughts are now with our imminent work. I look at him; he nods. We rise and move toward the door of the Airbus. One of the stewards stands up, intending to stop us, but seeing our gear, returns to his seat. As press, we are immune to the petty rules that control common men. The camera is my authorization, universally recognized. Hard rubber bullets push the crowd back like fists and then one or two are always pumped toward the camera crew. Just for good measure, just with the hope of smashing an expensive lens or pulverizing an eyeball into useless jelly. The crews sweep around the mob, reeling in to get a shot of the tire burning below the cocked and screaming head, dancing deftly back before the swarm notices them and turns. On the coarse lines of the black-and-white viewfinder, the police arrive. Hard rubber bullets push the crowd back like fists and then, with a tiny turn, one or two are always pumped toward the camera crew. Just for good meaClinton St.—Spring 1990 13
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