Back in Awassa

After the project for the Zany Umbrella Circus, I was supposed to stop in Kenya for a week to do some free documentary work for a tiny orphanage. Things got really shakey with the organization. For months I had worked on communications and given project plans to the board members. On the day I was to leave for Africa I got a bizarre email from the orphanage that nearly accused me of trying to set up some kind of smear expose on them. This was of course after I had spent MY OWN MONEY to arrange the extra transportation. I was a little freaked out, and extremely insulted. It could have been a really powerful gift for their fundraising efforts. I looked back at my documentation to try to figure out what had made a 180 degree turn in their attitude. I could not find anything. I had done my part correctly. I tried to communicate with them while I was in Ethiopia. Time was running out. I changed my flight at the last moment to stay an extra week in Awassa. I felt angry at the agency who had irresponsibly squandered my goodwill. But I had straightened things out. Mostly, I felt relieved.

In my week in Awassa I had the opportunity to make some media that orgs there really used. I shot for a grass roots NGO for women with HIV/AIDS called "Tilla" which means "umbrella". They were putting together a book of biographies. They needed portraits of the women. I was honored to help out. I shot for an afternoon. My set up was pretty simple. In the first location things were easy, rainy season there produces soft, beautiful light—nothing else needed. The second location was a bit harder. I threw a tarp (I carry it in my pack for emergency shelter) over a door for a backdrop. Then the fundraising director from Tilla assisted by managing a small reflector that I used as a fill light. I was nervous before the shoot. Ethiopian women generally keep to themselves for a lot of good reasons. I was concerned that they wouldn’t open up for the portraits. I was happily wrong. These women are brave. They have fiercely faced disease, poverty and ostracism. They have looked at their own mortality and told death, “Not today.” So a geek with a camera was no problem for them. I wanted to share their images with them by showing them the review screen on the back of the camera. Each of them said “konjo” which means “beautiful.” I thought about how few American women react with that kind of acceptance and kindness toward their own image. I learned something that day.