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
Showing posts with label dangerous. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dangerous. Show all posts
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Back from Colombia
I’m back from Colombia. Had a great trip. Better than I expected. The country is back to better times. And the people are as friendly as ever. But in that country you can never discount the bad guys, as I have learned firsthand several times.
Many years ago, on a December 26, I lived one of my most unpleasant Colombian experiences. The Cali Fair starts on that day, and at that time lasted two weeks. For the length of the fair, people worked only half days. They celebrated at the bullring, and later at outdoor cafes. It was a chaotic time of booze and irresponsible behavior.
The fair opens every year with a cabalgata, a cavalcade. Hundreds of people ride horseback across town. They stop here and there to greet family and friends among the thousands of people that line the avenues to watch the spectacle. Many of the riders keep drinking from bottles of aguardiente as they move along. Sometimes, too drunk to stick to the saddle, one drops to the ground.
Standing in the middle of the avenue, I photographed the oncoming procession of riders, all dressed up to look like South American cowboys and cowgirls. As I pointed my lens at two men, one of them leaning on the shoulder of the other as they rode side by side, all hell broke loose. Before I understood what was happening to me, four men had come galloping to surround and crush me between their horses from all sides while shouting obscenities at me.
“Give me your camera!” one of the men ordered. Only the powerful drug mafia could act so arrogantly, and I knew that I was in deep trouble. But I could not hand my camera to the first person who ordered it. It would make me feel like a worm.
“Why?” I asked, fearing the worst.
“Because you took our picture, idiot. That’s why. Give me your camera!”
“Let’s do it differently,” I said, striving to look as stupid as he said I was. “Give me your address, and I’ll send you prints.” That threw the man into a fit of worse rage.
“Gringo de mierda! Shitty gringo!” he shouted as he spat on me, immediately imitated by the other men, while they tightened their circle against me again.
Two policemen ran to my rescue. They were carrying machine guns.
“What’s going on here?” one of them asked.
“Hijos de putas! Sons of whores!’ the man who had been leaning on an aide and was drunk now shouted at the policemen. “Do you know who I am?”
The policemen looked up at him, lowered their heads, and turned away, leaving me alone to face those bandits.
“Bueno,” I said. “Here is my film.” And I pulled it out of my flat little Leica, which was fitted with a small wide-angle lens, and out of its cassette. I wanted the film to veil because it was the wrong film, and I did not want them to learn it later if they sent it to a photo lab for processing.
The mafia picture was inside my other camera, a bulkier Nikon, on which protruded a long lens. Not that I wanted to keep that picture and run into any any more troubles. But there were many other pictures on that film that I wanted to save. The Leica film had just been changed and had no more than five pictures on it. The man, who did not notice the deception, pulled the film out of my hands and signaled his minions to follow him as he rode away.
The good people who had watched the attack from the sidelines immediately came forward to lament it and make sure that I was all right. One teenager even wanted to give me his own pictures of the event. But I can’t use amateur pictures. Anyway, I was not finished doing my job, though I would be more careful now.
An hour later, as the horse riders stopped constantly to say hello along the way, I found myself ahead of the mafiosos again. As they passed by, their leader, the one who had been leaning on his lieutenant, saw me in the crowd and lifted his poncho to his eyes while staring at me for a long time, but he rode on.
Days later, having got my film back from processing, I showed the picture that had put me in trouble to a Colombian friend.
“Jesus!” he said. This guy could have killed you. He is the head of the North Cauca Valley cartel, the one responsible for all the corpses floating down the Cauca River with vultures riding on their bellies. He must have thought that you worked for the DEA.
The man ended up behind bars, where he got killed eventually. Fortunately, I'm still alive.
http://victorenglebert.com
Many years ago, on a December 26, I lived one of my most unpleasant Colombian experiences. The Cali Fair starts on that day, and at that time lasted two weeks. For the length of the fair, people worked only half days. They celebrated at the bullring, and later at outdoor cafes. It was a chaotic time of booze and irresponsible behavior.
The fair opens every year with a cabalgata, a cavalcade. Hundreds of people ride horseback across town. They stop here and there to greet family and friends among the thousands of people that line the avenues to watch the spectacle. Many of the riders keep drinking from bottles of aguardiente as they move along. Sometimes, too drunk to stick to the saddle, one drops to the ground.
Standing in the middle of the avenue, I photographed the oncoming procession of riders, all dressed up to look like South American cowboys and cowgirls. As I pointed my lens at two men, one of them leaning on the shoulder of the other as they rode side by side, all hell broke loose. Before I understood what was happening to me, four men had come galloping to surround and crush me between their horses from all sides while shouting obscenities at me.
“Give me your camera!” one of the men ordered. Only the powerful drug mafia could act so arrogantly, and I knew that I was in deep trouble. But I could not hand my camera to the first person who ordered it. It would make me feel like a worm.
“Why?” I asked, fearing the worst.
“Because you took our picture, idiot. That’s why. Give me your camera!”
“Let’s do it differently,” I said, striving to look as stupid as he said I was. “Give me your address, and I’ll send you prints.” That threw the man into a fit of worse rage.
“Gringo de mierda! Shitty gringo!” he shouted as he spat on me, immediately imitated by the other men, while they tightened their circle against me again.
Two policemen ran to my rescue. They were carrying machine guns.
“What’s going on here?” one of them asked.
“Hijos de putas! Sons of whores!’ the man who had been leaning on an aide and was drunk now shouted at the policemen. “Do you know who I am?”
The policemen looked up at him, lowered their heads, and turned away, leaving me alone to face those bandits.
“Bueno,” I said. “Here is my film.” And I pulled it out of my flat little Leica, which was fitted with a small wide-angle lens, and out of its cassette. I wanted the film to veil because it was the wrong film, and I did not want them to learn it later if they sent it to a photo lab for processing.
The mafia picture was inside my other camera, a bulkier Nikon, on which protruded a long lens. Not that I wanted to keep that picture and run into any any more troubles. But there were many other pictures on that film that I wanted to save. The Leica film had just been changed and had no more than five pictures on it. The man, who did not notice the deception, pulled the film out of my hands and signaled his minions to follow him as he rode away.
The good people who had watched the attack from the sidelines immediately came forward to lament it and make sure that I was all right. One teenager even wanted to give me his own pictures of the event. But I can’t use amateur pictures. Anyway, I was not finished doing my job, though I would be more careful now.
An hour later, as the horse riders stopped constantly to say hello along the way, I found myself ahead of the mafiosos again. As they passed by, their leader, the one who had been leaning on his lieutenant, saw me in the crowd and lifted his poncho to his eyes while staring at me for a long time, but he rode on.
Days later, having got my film back from processing, I showed the picture that had put me in trouble to a Colombian friend.
“Jesus!” he said. This guy could have killed you. He is the head of the North Cauca Valley cartel, the one responsible for all the corpses floating down the Cauca River with vultures riding on their bellies. He must have thought that you worked for the DEA.
The man ended up behind bars, where he got killed eventually. Fortunately, I'm still alive.
http://victorenglebert.com
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