Under the Tree

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Women of the World, Take Over. ‘Cause if You Don’t…

Kites hover above the fish market near Obunga.

“In 2010, the United Nations celebrated the tenth anniversary of the Millennium Development Goals… to mark the occasion the UN sponsored a poster design competition. The winning entry juxtaposed power (leaders of the Group of 8) and poverty (young Africans in line at a refugee camp). The work may be clever graphic design, but the tagline is heartbreaking. ‘Dear world leaders. We are still waiting.’ A panel of UN judges validated the biggest lie in modern history: that poor and passive Africans exist only in the shadow of Western action.” —Dayo Olopade, The Bright Continent

I was initially attracted to Mama Hope in 2012, while working in Delhi, India. Their film African Men was a unique voice amongst my immediate surroundings of B&MGF, Oxfam, Water Aid, and other large charities. Gone was the strangely detached and analytical voice common in films like Odessa’s Farm. Mama Hope’s output felt like a group of friends got together and made something fun… and that was a large part of its poignancy. The issues Mama Hope helps to address are a collaborative effort, one that both the NGO and communities are engaged and savvy in.

Kisumu in the distance—morning commuters follow tracks from Obunga.

“People are tired of this hopeless story,” said the manager of a Dutch NGO which develops special-needs curriculum for schools around Eastern Africa (whose business card I’ve since lost). “We see sad children, broken buildings, and helplessness,” he told me as we waited for the flight struggle between Tanzania and Kenya to end so that we could hitch a jet to Nairobi. He and I talked about how targeted Africans are generally undermined by the very media meant to support them. David and Erick, who I was on my way to visit, would later remind me of this conversation in an interview, “One of the things that also bothers me with outside funding, foreign aid, is that you find they claim that they work with local communities. Support the local people. But when you look at their management structures they have a CEO or a director from the US or the UK—and they’ll pay them large sums of money to work in Kenya—when there are local people who are qualified to do the same jobs. The reason they say is that they can’t trust us… For us, we really felt that we can be our own directors, you know? We are qualified, we are in the community, we have a vision. We don’t need a leader from outside to direct us, we can lead ourselves. We can work with people who want to support us, to achieve our vision.”

When I finally made it to Kisumu, Kenya, I shared an apartment with Alison and Lexi (who is doing incredible work with the equally incredible OLPS) in the same complex as David and Erick. Best friends, neighbors, cofounders, and both fathers of young daughters, David and Erick made their lives their work. The Akili Preparatory School is an all-girls school located in the slum of Obunga. For outsiders, or those who have never seen a slum, what might first catch the eye is the density, improvised housing, or a lack of sanitation. What’s actually more prevalent, however, is a community that is vital to cities like Kisumu. The people of Obunga run local fish markets, work in hospitals, provide for-hire transportation, and build schools: both David and Erick lived in Obunga at separate times.

APS student Amissa, her mother, and baby sister.

The more Under the Tree is seen as a piece about social entrepreneurs and less about charity in Africa, the better. Early on, I made the decision that I wouldn’t appear at all in the final product. It wouldn’t make any sense otherwise. For example, I can’t imagine how David and Erick must feel as Kenyan men struggling to receive necessary funding for APS while also maintaining their position at the helm. I’ve also worked to remove Mama Hope from the forefront. Their presence is felt (and important), but eventually they’ll become less involved as the foundations of each of these projects is set. At that point of sustainability true impact will grow, independently of Mama Hope and other seed organizations. In Akili’s case, Mama Hope is investing in building an urban farm for the community (food for the students and excess sold) and a boarding house for the school.

APS students and their teacher, Jacinta.

I’ve written about “neutrality of depiction” before, but that was more specific. Here, neutrality of depiction means showing all of the context. Good and bad. Beautiful and ugly. Most importantly, what the work you’re ‘aiding’ actually looks like. In the charity marketing space, what we’re subconsciously used to seeing is a highlight reel of what some (foreign) entity imagines will resonate most with a (foreign) audience. “It’s up to us (foreign) to save these (African) people.” This might sound like the practice of a bygone era, but it’s not. What’s the impact of pity? Of strange recontextualization of global issues? Of selectively cropping reality? Coercion for donations. Or, more frightening, a myopic view of aid extrapolated to a whole continent. How does this induce us to give? A tinge of guilt assuagement? Self gratification? What if, instead, we gave for humility, trust, and learning?

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The Infection of Good Blood by Bad Air

Time passes over Mlali mlima.

Mlali’s curtain, the mlima. From the village below, it looks soft and slow, with its rolling green folds. No hint of the people gathering firewood, cows and goats weaving new trails, quenching waterfalls, or the valleys and encampments beyond the sill… I'll never be able to donate blood again. After gestation, the effects of malaria come on swiftly; from the time it took me to walk from the neighboring church to my host family’s home I was already cold and dizzy. I remember beautiful colors, strange dreams, and then depression. But I was lucky, I had anti-malarials on hand and an incredible, caring host-family at home. A few days after it was all over, I relapsed. The second time it hit me in the cassava fields, where many from the village grow both their income and sustenance. I laid in the burning sun, under Hannah’s blanket, freezing cold.

Malaria once blighted most of the world. It took centuries to develop what are now the simple and relatively affordable pill-form cures. Suffering from Mal Aria, bad air, was a long and frightening process, but with pills and a minor infection, I had it relatively easy. Even now, it kills 1-2 million people a year; mostly children under the age of five. The most affected areas are all in the continent of Africa: Nigeria, Democratic Republic of Congo, and Mozambique.

A pause in sermon at Kanisa la St. Stefano.

As generally positive as my writing has been so far, my trip hasn’t been without its tragedies. The problem with telling you this story (or others) is that I’m worried it will begin to define the people I’ve visited. At this point, I haven’t revealed much. A lot of what people outside of the continent of Africa hear about Africa are generalizations. Of course, how could any one statement apply to so many diverse nations? This lens radically simplifies issues (and peoples) and removes context (including our own). Rampant statistics become more recognizable than languages, foods, or customs. Frankly, life is more fragile in the three countries I have visited. However, that story isn’t relevant or even be possible to encompass in this project. Under the Tree is meant to be a portrait. An invitation into the lives of the people I’ve met. A project about whom. Things like malaria, instead concern where and why.

While economies in the West recovered after WWII, malaria dwindled in places like my home country. The disease was able to be effectively rounded up at the cost of draining wetlands and spreading poisons like DDT. Do we, as a culture, even remember this? Malaria lingers elsewhere for many reasons, but partially because approaches by western nations have now made it harder to replicate its eradication e.g. pesticide resistance.

Isaya and Selemani gaze over Mlali.

Mlali, is gorgeous. Even without the influence of my heavy head, the perfect split of the green-blue horizon envelops the gaze. Kilines Elizabeth Sekwiha, with the profound support of her parents, continued her education through to a doctorate at Edinburgh University in Scotland. During her studies, she decided to begin to use her hard work and good fortune to manifest similar opportunities for children not so different than she was. Started seven years ago, the Queen Elizabeth Academy now has 100 students. With the help of Annie and previous advocates it’s now building a boarding house to support even more. The time I spent at the school was mirrored by time in and around Mlali. With views so inviting and possible to explore, it felt like entering a landscape painting. We hiked over the mountain with two shepherds. Watched the father of two QEA students paint bullock carts. Spent a (shortened) day in the infinite green and gold of cassava fields, sunflowers, and maize. As much of a hit as malaria was, the loss of days, optimism, and weight certainly won’t define my trip. Let this be a reminder to myself.

Teacher Ammon administers the mid-term exams at the Queen Elizabeth Academy.

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The Senses Reverse

The beginnings of the rainy season in Uganda.

“The sounds. The sounds are the hardest things to remember. I don’t know why. Because I think, in the end, without the sounds we don’t have anything else.” —Requiem for My Father, Isaac Green Diebboll

Boniface Menyang smiles, as usual, despite having one, gloved and bloodied hand in the mouth of a patient. “Good morning, Ryan!” “Wasuzé otyá!” “Haha! Wasuzé otyá!” He greets back. We’re both learning Lusoga, the local language in and around Budundo, Uganda. I’m here visiting Liz, Kyla, and the Suubi Health Center. The center was founded by Bernard Mukisa and his family less than a year ago. This month, it has already served 70 patients from Budondo and surrounding villages. Its trained medical staff of fourteen (three of which are part of the Mukisa family), come from all over Uganda. Patients are drawn here by extraordinary medical care. Staff are drawn here by Mr. Mukisa’s work ethic and bright vision for rural healthcare. Boni removes the rotten root and smiles again, he’s no exception. Later he would tell me, “Nothing makes me happier than seeing someone, who has reported to me, grinning and walking home laughing. No one can pay me money equivalent to that joy.”

The bottom of the passion fruit garden in the morning fog.

Islands of thick foliage float between layers of morning fog. The faint sun will soon puncture the blue and orange veil and heat will come. At 6 AM, Mukisa’s silhouette is a taut reflection of his gravely likeness in shade. Above him are wailing, vibrating wires grounded by a grid of long bamboo posts. He collects ripened, fallen passion fruit from the 2,000 vines that his son, Charles, has planted and cared for so long. Near the top of the bamboo and wire crosshatched hill, a rainbow of uniformed students file along the road. The bouquet of color becomes monochromatic streams as children section off to their destinations. Further still, a water pump squeaks. Around it, empty gerry cans are drummed on, conducting the pulse of water into those at the front of queue.

Charles Mukisa stands above a sugarcane field just before sunrise.

Can sound affect what we see? The way our senses (the 5 and beyond) conglomerate to provide us with our perception of existence is a darned thing. Manipulate or falsify one and where does our total perception now stand? Until smell-o-vision comes back into popularity, I’m limited in my means for this story, but I’m not too worried. Under fortunate art-school-film-class tutelage, I remember that Rob Parke, Elaine Chew, and Chris Kyriakakis did an interesting study called Quantitative and Visual Analysis of the Impact of Music on Perceived Emotion of Film. They took scenes from films like Amélie, Maria Full of Grace, Three Kings… and played them for subjects, only with entirely new soundtracks. Based on their responses, you’d think the participants had seen entirely different films. Amélie + Radiohead = anxiety, substitute Chopin and get contented. Parke, Chew, and Kyriakakis see an emotional equation/dimension as the result of the study. To me, the much more interesting product is what viewers literally made up about story lines. In Amélie, she “finds a box hidden in the wall and opens it”, but based on soundtrack, viewers experienced anything from giddy excitement for her, to fear that the contents were her “last hope”.

This study sounds obvious, but what it made me wonder is which is really the “film”? If simply changing soundtrack can make us see something so different, then which is more important? Which are we truly watching? According to Genevieve Rose Angelson, Pictorialism is “a stylistic device in which carefully composed shots function as individual units of information derived from the film’s plot or themes.” This definition is in the context of describing the legendary director, Terrence Malick. Malick has an incredible visual sense; connecting scenes, themes, and even philosophies, with pictorialism. But Malick’s other skill is voiceover narration. He uses it in droves, so much so, that I’d argue that his soundtracks are the real story. The real substance. His images, or pictures, are merely gorgeous context for the film that you are hearing.

Chairman Titi Ali enjoys a bite of sugarcane on break from driving the Suubi ambulance.

Here’s some confidence for you: spending my time filming is new to me. It has been exciting and interesting, but acclimating to the various technical and artistic challenges of filmmaking is tough. Thinking about sound has opened the door to a new challenge… One I’m more comfortable with. For my first documentary project, sound was the main character. I used photographs as a means to help viewers identify and sculpt the sound—cue cards to bring you back to a character or place. As I near the end of my time traveling, I’d like to lean more and more into this notion.

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“Picture Me Gone”

Mt. Kilimanjaro looms above travelers on their way to work at the sugarcane fields of Moshi, Tanzania.

“Frankly, isn’t it stupid to tell people, like they teach you in film school, not to look at the camera?” —Sandor Krasna, Sans Soleil

The camera lens. Anyone within binocular eyeshot is roused with excitement or fear. I have now become the cyclops of a space-age Homer.

Moshi, “Smoke” in Swahili, the city that lies beneath Kilimanjaro—the highest peak in Africa and the tallest free-standing mountain in the world. From the town center and the main road that bisects it, dirt roads spoke in all directions to various villages. After miles of sugarcane and Christmas Trees (because they blossom around Christmas), one such road leads to Newland the home of St. Timothy’s Primary School. Pastor James and his wife, Beatrice, founded and now co-run the school that serves 123 boarding students, 350 total students, and 8 class years. It’s also ranked 5th, out of 927, in its district. When I visited Advocate (and Google coworker) Brandie Heinel, she was busy distributing bicycles and planning the construction of two new classrooms.

Beatrice at the St. Tim’s office.

Is it the mark of a good camera operator, or rather, the mark of a good actor to allow a scene to appear natural? I wonder this as the children on the bus to St. Tim’s smile, laugh, yell, and generally focus on my camera. As anyone who has tried to take pictures of children who haven’t grown up inundated with technology knows, these kids love having their picture taken. I’ll spare you the GB’s worth of evidence…

This bold acceptance fits nicely into a chart, I’ll let you imagine, which could be titled “Figure — Picture Being Taken, Reactions” It’s a spectrum, but in my limited experience as a documentary photographer, there are three main vertices, or extremes, making a triangle of reactions. The first vertex, Yes, generally occurs before the photographer can even ask to take a picture. The duty is intercepted by the subject, “Take my picture!” They demand as they strike a pose. The trick back to natural interaction is simply to wear them down before they do the same to you. Eventually bored by an unmoving camera, life goes on.

Children, on break, invited me into their classroom to photograph them.

Still within the consent area is the next vertex, Faux. This can range anywhere from embarrassed resignation to overacting. Someone hides their face behind a hand or a laugh. Someone sees you, you know they’ve seen you, yet they (try to) return what they were doing with a change in character. This reaction is just north of the ideal on the chart, but in terms of preference, far from it. Discomfort is a ratchet, not the far end of a cog. It can increase and increase, but there’s no going back. The ideal lies in the center and is what I’m calling Brando. Subject acknowledges the camera, gives permission to film and, completely unhindered, continues with what they were doing. This takes a very strong willed person, or more often, a person whom the photographer has a relationship with… Noted.

Students in Newland, on their way to school.

The final vertex is No. No, you may not take my picture. No, your interjection does not fit my narrative. No, you are not a welcome presence. No. This happens and it makes filming difficult. Do you still capture the scene? If yes, how do you creatively remove that individual? On my second day at St. Tim’s I asked Rachel, one of the staff, “Nikupige picha?” She half-turned to acknowledge me, but shook her head. “Hapana?” I asked. Hapana. I panned left and resumed filming. However, after that refusal, she was everywhere. Every time I began to setup a shot, I would have to reframe it to respect her wishes. Hmmmmm.

Later, I heard an electronic rendition of a camera shutter. I turned and saw Rachel talking on her cellphone. As I packed my bags for the day, I heard the sound again. “Picha!? Mi mi!?” I yelled. I had caught Rachel in the act of photography. She smiled and began laughing, heartily. Was this payback or curiosity? I wondered. I laughed and then drew my own camera on her. With the tables suddenly turned, she ran away. Still hapana, I suppose.

Besides some relief, this event made me feel that I had heavily influenced the proceedings of what I captured that day. Inevitably, no matter where a reaction falls on the Figure, you have changed the scene. How people react. How events pan out. People see a camera and their flow is momentarily or permanently thrown. Yet, I’m trying to hide my presence from you, the viewers. Is that honest? Is it important to document that I’m documenting? Eye contact with the camera was once accused of breaking the fourth wall, the sealed membrane of another reality. The performance. To me, absolutely obliterating this wall is essential to documentary. This isn’t a separate world. No yours and theirs. As you watch, can you imagine what that person is doing at this moment? Now?

Neutrality in depiction and influence is certainly a goal, but it’s akin to creating a frictionless surface. Impossible. What you seek instead is its closest approximation. Or, sometimes, an ownership of it’s absence. You are free to trade glances with the camera.

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Scripting Real Life

Curtains and smoke in the breeze in Mlali, Tanzania.

“I will have spent my life trying to understand the function of remembering, which is not the opposite of forgetting, but rather its lining. We do not remember. We rewrite memory much as history is rewritten. How can one remember thirst?” —Sandor Krasna, Sans Soleil

There’s a story that I want to tell you. I know how it starts, but it can be told in an infinite number of ways. It’s path will depend on the next two months. Only you will know how it ends.

Hannah and I are approaching the last few days of our introductory journey. After that, she will stay in Moshi and I will retrace our steps, only with my camera on this time. Mlali has been the perfect last stop; both relaxing and challenging. Between the local language Kikaguru and the national one, Swahili, English is rare. My limited phrases paired with ample facial expressions seem to have won me a few friends (mostly children). Days begin with hot chapati and kahawa, maybe a hike up the cow paths of Mlali Mountain, and a cold bucket bath. Afternoons are spent between shade trees at Queen Elizabeth Academy where Annie helps plan the boarding house and garden. By the evening, the sky is big and the moon is full and we are sweating, dancing with the kids to drain them of energy for bed. Afterwards is when I have time to think about the project…

What’s more real, I wonder, describing an event to you or attempting to recreate the impression it made? “Remembering thirst” or instilling something like it? In Under the Tree, I’d like to break events into their essential quality… Quality meaning the “direct experience independent of and prior to intellectual abstractions”. Abstract, yeah. And given the medium—documentary—difficult to boot. Despite the unbiased nature of the term, a lens is a lens, physically and editorially. I should explain. I don’t mean that film can possibly replicate direct experience, but I do think that it can induce feelings and invite audience abstraction and therefore a less prescribed experience.

Admittedly, this whole line of thought is heavily influenced by a book that was given to me by an important person days before I departed the USA: Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Sure, I’m nodding toward Pirsig’s Metaphysics of Quality, but I’m even more interested in his ideas for relating them—the Chautauqua. “…that’s the only name I can think of for it—like the traveling tent-show Chautauquas that used to move across America… an old-time series of popular talks intended to edify and entertain, improve the mind and bring culture and enlightenment to ears and thoughts of the hearer.”

Mlali at sunrise, from the top of Mlali Mountain.

To attempt to provide a ‘safari of quality’ for you, before I begin filming, I have been working on a set of principles to guide my approach to filming and editing Under the Tree. Though one can never anticipate real life and the narrative it will provide, these rules will influence the quality of the building blocks available for me to construct the final experience:

1.  Sanctioned, recording must always be approved by those portrayed 2.  Impressionistic, provide the essence of reality, not the word of it 3.  Limbic, appealing to our basic instincts, not our intellectual bias 4.  Folkloric Feel, this is a tale, not a documentary 5.  Ghost written, a present, but hidden author

Folkloric is my favorite, and the most apt. To me, proverbs and tales ride an important line between fact and fiction. They suspend reality—inviting personal abstraction–to get to a more essential truth or moral. I want to educate you, the audience, but I want to do so in a way that feels as magical as my first-hand experience did…

Two months is an instant for an undertaking like this, but the intimacy with which I’ve been engaged by each partner, their families, and their communities keeps me optimistic. I’ll update you next from Moshi, the home of Kilimanjaro.

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From Over the Clouds to Under the Tree

Water boils under a mugasiya tree at the Mukisa family home in Budondo, Uganda

Under the tree where the shade falls, a pot boils. With night, the family will come, and dinner will be served.

Under the Tree was initially meant to be a working title. The idea came from my experiences living and working in Bhubaneswar, Orisha and a series of poems by R.K. Narayan entitled Under the Banyan Tree. However, after putting it to paper, I discovered just how apt it was.

“The Mandala is an Ethiopian symbol of peace and interconnectedness. The hearts are the profiles of two Giraffes that represent vision—being able to see your feet but also far beyond. Trees are community because that is where communities in Africa meet to discuss; under trees. Seeds in the middle are the seeds of peace. Mama Hope = interconnectedness + vision + community + peace,” goes Nyla Rogers’ explanation of Mama Hope’s logo.

Whether it is literally fruit, shade from the sun, or a landmark for meeting, trees bear their nourishment to their surroundings. Similarly, our project partners provide functions which help grow their communities. To be under the tree is to partake in this sustinence, to be a part of the family… Suffice to say, the name has stuck.

Our itinerary across Eastern Africa

I left San Francisco two weeks ago today. I’ve spent a week in Moshi, Tanzania and am now finishing up a week in Budondo, Uganda. Over the next two weeks, I’ll see Mama Hope’s three other project locations in Eastern Africa. “Reconnaissance” as Hannah Clyne, field coordinator to Mama Hope and my travel partner, jokingly put it. While she checks in on each project, my goal is to meet everyone and familiarize myself with what makes each project unique: from geography, languages, and food—to challenges and aspirations. Spending this time unadulturated by the pressure of having to take pictures has allowed me to see what these projects mean, rather than how they look.

In just a few hours, Hannah and I will take a bus to Kisumu, Kenya where we will meet Lexi and Ali on their first day. From there, we will travel to Mlali, Tanzania, our final destination. By the end of this trip, I'll profile each partner and the projects they have built.