A shot seen 'round the world

So the road trip ended reuniting with Lisa (reattached after jettison) in Maputo and heading back over the border and onward to Kruger National Park where we saw a plethora of animals.

I think the pictures say enough:




Then after two days of endless animal sightseeing, we sped toward "civilization", stopping at a casino in Polokwane for lunch, then onto Johannesburg. Labeled by other American travelers as "the Detroit of South Africa", we entered the insanity of this industrial metropolis. And we found accommodation in an icebox dorm room that we locked ourselves into, only to be rescued by the management who proceeded to get locked in there with us. The malfunctioning room led to an accommodation reassignment and we turned in that evening.

In the morning we had breakfast at the Johannesburg Art Gallery and then checked out "Africa Remix" the largest exhibit of contemporary African art ever. This was the one activity that I had insisted upon during the entire trip, and it surely did not disappoint. It was an amazing survey exhibit featuring some of my favorite artists like Yinka Shonibare. I was in there so long, relishing the amassing of so many important modern African artists in one space, one of the others had to retrieve me and move things along.

Niv and tried to make a trip to the world of beer with the Brothers Ginsberg, but it was to no avail. Instead we headed the Apartheid Museum. As much as a good brew would've been mighty satisfying, and flush-inducing, the museum was far more valuable, in retrospect.

Not to mention there was an exhibit of Peter Magubane's photographs from the Soweto uprising. It actually meant a lot me to see this particular display of photographs having met Mr. Magubane, the legendary photographer himself my sophomore year at Pomona. I was in Arts of Africa, taught by Phyllis Jackson--a class that changed my life, developing and deepening my critical consciousness. All the students in the class were urged to meet him at this talk. For such a major photographer, it was strange that it was a congregation of only 10-15 people. Our intimate group was treated to Mr. Magubane's career spanning slides, from those iconic Soweto photos to more recent snapshots of famine in Ethiopia.

The most unforgettable story from that encounter was when he showed us a self-portrait he taken during the riots: A rivulet of blood dribbled down his face, camera around his neck, but he possessed an expression on his face still with quiet determination. Amidst the chaos, a security officer had threatened Magubane and demanded that he take the film out of his camera. As a result of Magubane's resistance and tenacity to preserve these powerful images, the officer beat him, and the film was subsequently removed and destroyed. But Magubane knew that these events must not go undocumented. He spoke of his strong sense of responsibility to capture this history, to tell the story of this uprising and the struggle against the oppression of apartheid through pictures. He has this preternatural awareness of the power of the image. And it was such an awareness, I imagine, that lead him to reload the camera that day in an act of blatant defiance. He forever froze his own bloodied visage and weapon of choice together, creating in a single shot a self-reflexive icon of photojournalistic freedom. Seeing that slide up there, and the man in the flesh standing in front of us, 30 odd years later, sent chills down my spine. It was the first time I really saw the potency of a photograph. All at once, the stillness, the gravity, and the dynamism of an instant, visually preserved. Magubane's unparalleled talent for catching moments that are suddenly transformed into indelible images seared into your mind--a cascade of stark black and white along with blazes of color tracing the contours of humanity--gave me a pang of pain in my chest and truly moved me.

Recently I have also reflected on a motif of the shot, from both camera and gun being one and the same. They have a the capacity for inciting violence, mobilize people to action, and can change lives in a split second. Point, aim, focus your sights, and shoot. For amusement and any who have further interest in getting caught in the crosshairs, these are a few works I have recently been exposed to touching on this:

A piece in the latest issue of Chimurenga , "(The Picture)", by Suren Pillay.

Michelangelo Antonioni's film Blow-Up

The documentary just released on Darfur, The Devil Came on Horseback

Mozambique: Land of prawns and cashews

Journeying on from St. Lucia, after a croissant fresh out of the oven of the local coffee shop, we headed for the Swaziland border. Through a dirt road detour and border crossing into Mozambique, we powered on to the capital Maputo. The frenzy of urban commotion and the throngs of people and cars was a display of a city pulsating with fitful life. The gritty beauty of a place whose streets heralded the names of communist heroes of a bygone red era, and whose buildings were like lego blocks with faded and chipped pastel veneers, made me wonder what had come and gone there, and what was to become of this grubby surging concrete behemoth of a city. It was sad these musings would go undeveloped as we were only to spend mere feeble evenings and hurried mornings there.

Weary from the three countries traversed in the day, we arrived at The Base, a backpackers where we happened to run into Laura, a good friend of Lulu's who had been staying at the house (Lulu is the owner and occupant of the house I live in) before heading out on the Baz Bus, a southern African backpackers caravan. Strangely enough, she had also made Niv's acquaintance on the bus before they had parted ways, only to find each other there in Maputo.

After a dinner of prawns at a seaside restaurant, we turned in for the night. And boy, were those prawns succulent and tasty. The mosquito buzzing around my room that night thought likewise of me.

The morning came and with it, renewed determination to reach our faraway destination of Tofo Bay. Breakfast at a pasteleria, strong coffee and flaky pastry, waffling over SIM cards, and we finally the road. All the roadside signs prepared me for the conversion of my meager Spanish knowledge into an even more limited implementation of Portuguese. In Xai Xai I was able to cobble together enough to ask , "adonde vende naranjas?" And then I promptly followed the fingers pointing to where we bought those oranges, some bananas and little pasteles. The women purveyors were amused at my poor Portuguese.

Potholes everywhere on stretches of road, delinquent children tossing dirt in the way of our car, bags of cashews hung on trees, and homemade peri peri sauce beckoned along the way. As the day was on its last legs we passed through Inhambane, a town with candy colored houses from bygone days. The ocean avast, boats totting about, and village market shacks offering the latest in junk, biscuits and sweets, fruit, fabric, and other random goods imaginable blessedly began to give way to signs indicating the path to Praia de Tofo.

Just as the twilight crept up we alighted at Bamboozi, a chalet well equipped with mosquito nets and palm tree construction. It was like we had discovered paradise, albeit a slightly dingy-fabulous paradise. We four, having jettisoned Lisa in Maputo, walked along the beach squeaking about in the tightly packed sand, eyes fixed to the starry heavens above. Stopping at beachside bar Dino's for a much needed dinner, our outdoor dining was rained on. Content, we returned for an evening of Set and chillaxin'.

Praia de Tofo at dusk

Sadly, choppy waters prevented any snorkeling or scuba attempts, so we just laid around on the beach for a long while. I also walked a stretch of sand as the weather got warmer, picking up seashells and letting the waves lap up against my feet. Then we spent the rest of the afternoon walking around the town and sent a few correspondences at the internet cafe.

Kenney sisters gaze upon children playing in Inhambane as our tires got rotated

The next morning, after getting stuck in the sand briefly, and after Tofo Scuba's "Wet your dreams" truck made a failed attempt to tow us out, we dug around the wheels and finally made our way back, stopping to get our tires rotated, grabbing some oily snacks for the road, picking up a huge bad o' cashews and some peri-peri sauce, only to arrive in Maputo once again bleary eyed and only seeing an Indian restaurant across the street from the backpackers before calling it a night.

A cache of cashews!

The sun rose and we greeted the day with a repeat of pastries and juice, and headed for the border, crossing into South Africa in the early afternoon and stopping in Nelspruit for groceries and a Nando's lunch.