It was just another morning at this rundown village, a place where one would deduce, “Poverty couldn’t be any worse than this!” A place where a not-so-romantic past and a bland, unpleasant present mingle into a bleak, uncertain future; a place where one might daydream a twenty-first century and yet wake up to the reality of a fifteenth century existence. Anyone who would say, “Poverty, or no poverty don’t tell me people still live like this in this age!” Well, they do.
I’m not aiming at poverty talk and all that. No intention of joining the rank of ‘anti-poverty crusaders’ who probably haven’t experienced the sensation of a delayed dinner, let alone go hungry for a couple of hours.
That morning the village had ‘visitors,’ four or five ferenjis. No need to call any hotline to find out if they were tourists; they probably were. Thiers wasn’t some leisurely stroll. In fact, it was what they did more than their presence which turned one head too many. They carried impressive looking cameras and were taking pictures of the old, decaying cottages, the horrifyingly unkempt children with rags for clothes and all the things one wouldn’t want to store in the gallery of one’s Smartphone.
If they thought about documenting our lives, why do they particularly focus on the most unsightly and grotesque things! After all, even amidst so much misery there were nicer things for the perfect close-up shots like the smiles of the mostly women vendors selling fruits and vegetables on the sidewalks. Those were images of a real photo enthusiast wouldn’t have missed them!
They weren’t from some media outlets in the case of which arguments could have been made about their actions. But these were tourists, for heaven’s sake! Why in the world do they have to focus on the filthiest, the most repelling scenes? And we thought tourism was all about happiness, refreshing the flesh and lifting up the soul; about winding down mentally and physically and some sort of tired genes’ regeneration and about having good, positive time. Back home, would they be putting their pictures on the living room walls? Would they be all smiles when they boast to guests, “I took these when I was in Ethiopia. What a swell time I had!” Well…maybe the answer is somewhere in a ‘Business for Dummies’ book.
One just couldn’t imagine a tourist going to some place with plans like, “I want to enjoy myself seeing how those poor people live and take a couple of hundred photographs. Misery sells!”
“Sir, good afternoon;”
“Thanks, good afternoon to you, too.”
“Sir, what do you think you’re doing?”
“I beg your pardon!”
“I said, what do you think you are doing?
“Of course, taking photographs!”
“I can see that, but I don’t see any historical castle, or obelisk, or wildlife, or any natural wonder worthy of pictures. What kind of tourism is yours preying on poor people who…”
The guy would probably complain of harassment with something like, “Hey, this guy is giving me a hard time!” it might be time to test your years of hitting the running machine in the gym.
Look, this is not about me pulling the ‘patriotic’ card which uncomfortably too many people appear to be doing lately, (‘Reading between the lines’ never made more sense than it is doing these days. There is so much of the melodrama thing, fact, indeed, is stranger than fiction!)
In another incident which happened sometime back this woman, probably here for a visit, was taking pictures in a part of the city. Of course, the capital doesn’t have any Gondar castle or Axum obelisk, nor does it have wildlife, literally speaking, that is. So, her picture- taking didn’t have anything to do with such things. She went about her mission with the widest smile you could imagine; playing that well-mannered ferenji with a soft spot for the unlucky. I doubt a Trevor Noah or a Jimmy Fallon could have managed to make her smile so radiantly. However, what specially catches attention of anyone taking a second look was that identity of her subjects. She was photographing beggars – the most mutilated the most physically and mentally broken! Why! What kind of tourist would go back home and boast, “Look what a good time I had in that country!” flashing pictures of souls who could be described as ‘the wretched of the earth,’ One becomes a little bit suspicious of her real motifs when one notices she was throwing ten birr notes to each one of them. Ten birr! That was ‘a lot of money’ at the time. Why did she have to go to through all this trouble if her presence was just to have a good time! Not asking, just wondering! One thing to be sure of is that she wasn’t going to petition the UN for more funds to eliminate poverty once and for all in Ethiopia. No way! I remember a very suspicious telling us; we’re targets of international conspiracies we don’t know about.” Well, about this conspiracy thing, I wouldn’t dismiss it altogether. After all, we’re not in a very nice world, neither are we in nicer times.
(A slightly touched up version of an older piece.)
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