Colombia. Cali. School for poor children.
Cameroon. Bamenda Grasslands. Primary school class.
Learn photojournalism joining Victor on one of his journeys
Showing posts with label Cameroon. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cameroon. Show all posts
Friday, May 4, 2012
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Saturday, September 12, 2009
An Amazing Odyssey
An Amazing Odyssey
In my last blog I told you about Moise, the strong and fearless Cameroonian who punched a drunken chief of police in the face to punish him for ordering me to hand him my photographic equipment. He lives in Spain now, which he entered illegally. He’s been working there for a year. But he just lost his job to the recession.
Moise in December will fly to his native Douala and his wife and five kids. He earned a status that now allows him to fly back to Spain legally. He plans to do so in April, when he hopes to find a new job. Until December he will be paid unemployment. Though it won’t be much, it will be enough for him, living frugally, to add somewhat to his savings. Life is getting very difficult for Africans, and many will do anything to keep their families alive.
To reach Spain, Moise risked his life a couple times. First, Chadian rebels captured him and a few companions, and enslaved them. They taught them the use of firearms to later forcibly enlist them in their ranks. A month later, however, during the Ramadan, when every faithful Moslem must show acts of kindness, the rebels allowed them to resume their cross-Saharan journey.
On the Lybian coast, in the middle of the night to avoid Lybian coast guards, they joined 300 people in what he calls a pirogue, which says enough how unfit it must have been to hold so many people. Hardly out on the Mediterranean Sea, they were caught in a terrifying storm. Enormous waves constantly crashed on them, threatening to overturn and sink the boat. But thanks to every single person helping to bail out the boat, it finally made it past the Strait of Gibraltar and down to Las Palmas, one of the Canary Islands. Fortunately, every passenger was carrying a can for use as an individual urinal.
Five passengers lost their lives to fever along the way. As possible causes, Moise listed the cold, malaria, tuberculosis, and typhus. The ordeal lasted to the end. Italian islands were considerably closer to the Lybian coast, but too well guarded by coast guards. Besides, they are already saturated by unemployed Senegalese. The Canary Islands are apparently a stepping stone for illegal entry into Spain from Africa.
Moise was lucky. In Las Palmas he met a woman who got him a job contract in Spain. One look at him must have told her that this man was for real.
http://victorenglebert.com
In my last blog I told you about Moise, the strong and fearless Cameroonian who punched a drunken chief of police in the face to punish him for ordering me to hand him my photographic equipment. He lives in Spain now, which he entered illegally. He’s been working there for a year. But he just lost his job to the recession.
Moise in December will fly to his native Douala and his wife and five kids. He earned a status that now allows him to fly back to Spain legally. He plans to do so in April, when he hopes to find a new job. Until December he will be paid unemployment. Though it won’t be much, it will be enough for him, living frugally, to add somewhat to his savings. Life is getting very difficult for Africans, and many will do anything to keep their families alive.
To reach Spain, Moise risked his life a couple times. First, Chadian rebels captured him and a few companions, and enslaved them. They taught them the use of firearms to later forcibly enlist them in their ranks. A month later, however, during the Ramadan, when every faithful Moslem must show acts of kindness, the rebels allowed them to resume their cross-Saharan journey.
On the Lybian coast, in the middle of the night to avoid Lybian coast guards, they joined 300 people in what he calls a pirogue, which says enough how unfit it must have been to hold so many people. Hardly out on the Mediterranean Sea, they were caught in a terrifying storm. Enormous waves constantly crashed on them, threatening to overturn and sink the boat. But thanks to every single person helping to bail out the boat, it finally made it past the Strait of Gibraltar and down to Las Palmas, one of the Canary Islands. Fortunately, every passenger was carrying a can for use as an individual urinal.
Five passengers lost their lives to fever along the way. As possible causes, Moise listed the cold, malaria, tuberculosis, and typhus. The ordeal lasted to the end. Italian islands were considerably closer to the Lybian coast, but too well guarded by coast guards. Besides, they are already saturated by unemployed Senegalese. The Canary Islands are apparently a stepping stone for illegal entry into Spain from Africa.
Moise was lucky. In Las Palmas he met a woman who got him a job contract in Spain. One look at him must have told her that this man was for real.
http://victorenglebert.com
Friday, August 28, 2009
Talking Money with the Cameroon Police
I’m standing on a shabby wooden bridge photographing men in canoes pulling sand from a creek to be later mixed into concrete when five policemen suddenly appear.
“You’re arrested. Give me your cameras and your passport,” the policeman in charge orders. “It’s a crime to photograph bridges.”
“I was not photographing the bridge,” I protest, “only from the bridge.” But they shout that I’m telling lies, and arguing in a loud cacophony that I have compromised Cameroon’s national security. I offer the men to give them my film, but they want my camera equipment as “evidence.”
And so the game begins. I know that in much of Africa the photography of government buildings, airports and bridges is prohibited but this humble bridge could have no strategic value, and I did not photograph it. But I have travelled in West Africa often enough to know that those men couldn’t care less about this bridge. They want money, and how much depends on my wits.
Raymond, my driver, a quiet middle-aged man, keeps prudently to the side but our companion, Moise, enraged at the police, lowers the chorus by repeatedly punching the police chief in the face. Moise is tall, vigorous and short-tempered and puts up such fierce resistance that it takes five policemen several minutes to handcuff him. I watch in disbelief. Then everyone calms down.
We sit down on a couple of benches under a palm roof around the end of the small bridge where the men had been hiding. A strong smell of marijuana permeates the air and the chief uncaps a large bottle of beer. He swallows it in one draft, and throws the empty bottle to the ground next to several others. His eyes, as are those of the other policemen, are bloodshot. For a while nobody talks and I simply wait.
The chief avoids dealing with me directly, though we are sitting only a few paces apart. He uses Moise as the messenger and wants $300 tin exchange for our release.
“Tell him that I want to see a judge,” I tell Moise.
“A judge?” he asks . “Do you want to spend a week behind bars waiting to see one, and then to pay him at least ten times that amount?”
And so Moise goes back and forth between the officer and me. Much of my money is fortunately well hidden, and I keep insisting that I can’t pay even the steadily decreasing amount that the officer would accept.
This lasts for over two hours, and the police is getting more impatient than I am. In the end they settle for the content of my wallet: about $40,00.
That paid, the police return my photographic equipment and passport and release Moise. Now all five men warmly embrace us, including Moise.
“Have a good trip and stay away from police,” they shout as we drive away.
http://victorenglebert.com
“You’re arrested. Give me your cameras and your passport,” the policeman in charge orders. “It’s a crime to photograph bridges.”
“I was not photographing the bridge,” I protest, “only from the bridge.” But they shout that I’m telling lies, and arguing in a loud cacophony that I have compromised Cameroon’s national security. I offer the men to give them my film, but they want my camera equipment as “evidence.”
And so the game begins. I know that in much of Africa the photography of government buildings, airports and bridges is prohibited but this humble bridge could have no strategic value, and I did not photograph it. But I have travelled in West Africa often enough to know that those men couldn’t care less about this bridge. They want money, and how much depends on my wits.
Raymond, my driver, a quiet middle-aged man, keeps prudently to the side but our companion, Moise, enraged at the police, lowers the chorus by repeatedly punching the police chief in the face. Moise is tall, vigorous and short-tempered and puts up such fierce resistance that it takes five policemen several minutes to handcuff him. I watch in disbelief. Then everyone calms down.
We sit down on a couple of benches under a palm roof around the end of the small bridge where the men had been hiding. A strong smell of marijuana permeates the air and the chief uncaps a large bottle of beer. He swallows it in one draft, and throws the empty bottle to the ground next to several others. His eyes, as are those of the other policemen, are bloodshot. For a while nobody talks and I simply wait.
The chief avoids dealing with me directly, though we are sitting only a few paces apart. He uses Moise as the messenger and wants $300 tin exchange for our release.
“Tell him that I want to see a judge,” I tell Moise.
“A judge?” he asks . “Do you want to spend a week behind bars waiting to see one, and then to pay him at least ten times that amount?”
And so Moise goes back and forth between the officer and me. Much of my money is fortunately well hidden, and I keep insisting that I can’t pay even the steadily decreasing amount that the officer would accept.
This lasts for over two hours, and the police is getting more impatient than I am. In the end they settle for the content of my wallet: about $40,00.
That paid, the police return my photographic equipment and passport and release Moise. Now all five men warmly embrace us, including Moise.
“Have a good trip and stay away from police,” they shout as we drive away.
http://victorenglebert.com
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