sure, just on principle, just with the hope of smashing an expensive lens or pulverizing an eyeball into useless jelly. The plane bumps on the cheap apron. Chuck and I are poised in the galley near the exit. Jimmy and Rashid are opposite. An African voice comes over the loudspeaker, “We welcome you to Ouagadougou. Taking of pictures is prohibited in the terminal area by the military police.” I look at Jimmy as the plane dips slightly to a halt, its engines, sounding relieved, finally spooling down. “Let’s go for it,” he says. - A team of three stewardesses wrestles the door open and Chuck and I are onto the ramp, rolling tape so our camera is up to speed. Hot. Humid. Bright. Large delegation with banners waits about fifty feet away. Low terminal building in front to the right. Get down steps. Two kids at bottom offering a wooden bowl of water. We’re by them. That water okay to drink? Goddamn delegation is halfway down the ramp. Turn, get them. Pan to kids. One looks Swedish, the other is pitch black. Won’t hold the contrast. There’s Slabbert. Get him, got him. There’s Thabo, good. That will be good. Different angle, got to cut. Where’s Jimmy? Don’t walk into his shot. Moving, close-up, boring. Air Afrique emblem on plane, cutaway, zoom out. Hate zooms, hate this. Move to receiving line. Come on. Run. Strange stuff. Banners, crude, homemade. Poster in hand. Get it. Singing, keep it roiling for sound. Delegation is halfway down the line already! Damn, fuck. Get in, get tight, stay ready. Run! Cutaways. Find a shot, make it work. It’s flat, it’s spread out, it’s wrong. Make it right. Slabbert, Thabo, they’ve gone inside. Milling, confusion, discordance, anarchy, it’s like filming soup, it sucks. Just wait. An official approaches us. “Do you want to go around front?” he asks. We are up, walking quickly, don’t run, into the pale terminal building. There’s customs. Past customs. No customs for us. Black face after face. Eyes pass like tracers. Hot inside. Hot outside. Lots of people. More banners. Delegation will exit here. Holy shit! Red Guards. Fourteen year olds in fatigues. Chinese rifles. Red berets. Fantasy land. Heart of Darkness land. Shoot kids. Shot sucks. Light sucks. Just forget it. Where is the delegation? No one knows. Yes, our friend who led us here does; they are having a press conference inside. I kneel down on the sidewalk and set up a shot for their exit. We wait. I feel something unusual. Everything I wear is drenched with water. I can feel little rivulets coursing down my back and legs in tiny streams. It pools on the cement under my knees. 1look at the faces of the red-bereted guards and wonder about them. Having dived into this country I am now floating on the surface of an opaque ocean. There is a depth of substance and life below me but I can’t see it. I can’t understand it. I know nothing about these people, even though, in part, my job is to know everything, to act as a representative for the people of the United States, or at least the people who will watch this documentary, to tell them something meaningful, to broaden and deepen their understanding of the world. The delegation exits, all smiles, heroic. They troop to the busses, undoubtedly the best busses in the country, bare metal, raw and primitive. There is a heady aroma of haste. If things move quickly, they are important. We are very important. We are the most important thing to happen in Ouagadougou this year. We must drive faster than anyone has driven in Ouagadougou this year. The streets are bordered by citizens. Miles of them, holding banners, playing calypso-type music through horned loudspeakers, waving as we rocket by. Buses and trucks are parked on the side streets, evidence that the citizenry has been transported from the hinterlands, to pack the capital, to welcome the delegations, to show unity of purpose There is a heady aroma of haste. If things move quickly they are important, we are the most important thing to happen in Ouagadougou this year, we must drive faster than anyone has driven in Ouagadougou this year. against apartheid, to be kept from realizing what a shithole they live in, to keep busy so they don’t assassinate their leader. I try to gain an optical purchase on the crowd but the bus is going too fast and they strobe by like an endless picket fence. It is all I can do to support the camera without smashing it against the window. I pull the thing inside and glance at Chuck sourly, letting him know I’m not rolling anymore. The print reporters up front are T H E T W E N T Y F I R S T Econo-Line Futon: Twin $70, Double $90. Queen $100, King $135. Celebrate! We have a new futon and new lower prices for the New Year! Made with the same old care and craftsmanship that you’ve come to expect from Northwest Futon Company! Come celebrate with us! A beautiful, wooded meadow is annually transformed into a community gathering of over 300 fine, creative and culinary artists...Continuous music performances and vaudevillians thrill the senses on 9 stages...Ecological and political thought is exchanged...You're invited! Save money and hassles when you buy your ticket in advance and use the free bus ride to the fair site from Lane County Fairgrounds in Eugene (fair site is 13 miles west of Eugene near Veneta). Tickets available soon! N O R T H W E S T FUTON C O M P A N Y HOME FURNISHINGS FOR MODERN LIVING Portland: 400 S.W. 2nd Ave. 242-0057 • 3443 S.E. Hawthorne Blvd. 235-0977 Eugene: 1030 Willamette St. 342-1762 • 198H N.W. Futon Co. 14 Clinton St.—Spring 1990
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