caught up in the exitement, cheering back at the crowd. I nestle the camera in my lap and let my mind grow dull, trying to recharge my energy. I should be scanning for shots, but find that impossible. The busses careen over the dust to the center of Ouagadougou, to a large, enclosed, concrete arena. We enter and find ten thousand spectators watching a people’s tribunal try a criminal. There are microThe Afrikaner indicates the plates in front of him with a dip of his hand. His pink hand is relaxed, digits turned in, except the little g one is extended slightly, it denotes ownership—the signal that one might give to a trained laboratory j animal. ' phones rigged so that anyone in the crowd can testify. The accused stands straight, hands clasped behind his back to the crowd as waves of comments, incomprehesible to me, echo by. Are they accusatory or supportive? His submissive bearing suggests no clue. He may face an insignificant fine or slow death. The crowd is attentive. I shoot it like a sporting event. On the way out I notice a,white man, the first white I have seen in Ouagadougou since our arrival. I nod at him. He glares back. The city has streets with machine gun emplacements at their intersec-, tions. Each is manned by two soldiers. and each gun points straight out, level, at people walking along the road. We pass many on our way into the country to plant trees. Each Afrikaner and each member of the ANC plant a tree to commemorate their meeting. It is an insignificant event visually. But the teenage guards show up again with their red berets and assault rifles. I shoot a lot of them. The next event is the laying of the cornerstone of a monument against apartheid. There are a thousand children waiting for us at the site; they sing revolutionary songs. Speeches are made. The cornerstone is laid. There is some good stuff of black and white hands managing the stone together. It is one of those shots that editors think tell the whole story, even though it doesn’t tell one percent of it. It is good for me because there aren’t too many people to push out of the way. Back at the hotel, I take a shower and go down to the restaurant. Isit with six of the Afrikaners. It is the first time that I have had the opportunity to have a meal with them. I admire these people. It requires a tremendous amount of courage to stand against their white tribe in the way they have. They are facing ostracism or worse on their eventual return home. The waiter wears some type of pseudo-native dress and after taking my order stands back near the table, a behavior I haven’t noticed in Africa before. One of the Afrikaners turns slightly toward him and calls, “Boy.” The waiter sweeps forward. The Afrikaner, having returned to his conversation, makes a gesture. He makes it without seeing the waiter come up behind him, he is just completely sure that within a certain amount of time after his command the waiter will be there. The Afrikaner indicates the plates in front of him with a dip of his hand. His pink hand is relaxed, digits turned in, except the little one is extended slightly. The movement is economically precise. The hand brushes the air as if it were warm water. My neck muscles tense. I know the Afrikaner’s movement. This gesture has a category, a definition, a position in my instinctual recognition of the world. It denotes ownership—the signal that one might give to a trained, laboratory animal. It is not part of the give and take of communication between humans; there is merely a human and a switch. As the waiter quickly and obsequiously removes the offending articles, the action slows. I want to be shooting; I want to crawl behind my viewfinder and peer at this in black-and- white detachment. I could have zoomed into the African’s slavish face. I could have dawdled on the elegance of the Afrikaners’ movements. I feel the same physical reaction I have when I smell putrid flesh, which is a horrible smell, but somehow deeply familiar and compelling; I inhale and gag simultaneously. 1know at this precise moment, we have failed. We have been driving ourselves through the dust and sun because we think there is a valuable lesson of hope in the meetings we are documenting. The world is not so easily turned around. Ignorance and prejudice possess much greater perseverance than I have credited them. These Afrikaners, even though A ; MT 8245 SW Barnes Road Portland, OR 97225 297-5544 Come See The New Menu At OTOWORS since 1934 Featuring: EGGS O'CONNORS OYSTER CLUBHOUSE SANDWICH CATCH OF THE DAY CODD SALAD Cinnamon Rolls Baked Fresh Daily! and much more! 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