Photographer switches to Writing

At the very beginning of my trip I noticed, and wrote an earlier post about it, my lack of motivation to photograph the people that covered the streets of Nepal. The lack of motivation wasn't actually due to physical stamina, although I wish it had been, but by the overwhelming guilt that I had for the richness of my life AND the severe poverty that lingered around every corner and crack that I came across.

In those around me, I was painted with an air of wealth and instead of my usual roaming eyes, they stayed secure to the ground in front of me. Roaring with sadness and helplessness I turned off my camera and hid it in a bag in my hotel room. For over a month both camera and heart remained in hiding. Partially due to malfunction, the obvious of what happens to a camera when it sits in rainwater for a night in a leaky tent and partially due to the hardness that took over and the walls that I built in order to keep my tears under control.

No matter where I stepped or what road I traveled down, my pant legs and arms were tugged at by little hands covered in dust and sticky with sweat and fruit juice. They roamed the streets eager to find a foreigner with some extra rupees tucked deep in their pockets. I was once convinced of buying a tattered book after I had stupidly asked to take a look at it while my cab driver sat in traffic. A book that turned out to be fairly interesting but seemed to be lacking pages 130-172 and then consistently being out of order there after. By the way, I highly recommend bypassing buying books from kids selling them in the middle of street lanes, during rush hour traffic in Delhi. While I got accustomed to over tipping rickshaw drivers and buying extra bananas at the local veggie stand so that I could hand them out on my way home, I never could get accustomed to my lack of eagerness to sit beside these people and learn of their stories. And no matter how many times I walked passed the same person on the street to say namaste or give away some food, I never quite got the courage to take their photograph.


Present Day.

The same three smiling men walk or hobble up and down one main street in Dharamsala, India. I walk by them daily in my mad dash to my Thangka painting class. The first few times I smiled, my hands to my heart, bowed, and not out of character, kept my eyes to the ground. The next few times I would walk by them afraid to dig through my change providing either too little or too much of what I had. The other night I knew I had a bill of 500, ran into one of them, told them that I would find them tomorrow, then felt guilty and ran to the nearest store to grab some smaller bills and chased him down.

Today I took a seat next to two of them, names of which I will have to add later, my Hindi isn't the best and I say that with a smirk. There were onlookers and those who didn't notice, but we slowly began talking a bit about their conditions. One, a man who loves to talk to you in Hindi even though he knows I don't have much concept of what he is saying, I can read his gestures. In his broken English he told me he has a little boy of six years who attends school and is looked after by his mother. His hands have been filed away to near stubs as his feet showed the same condition. Leprosy is his genetic curse, a disease that often casts one out of society and leaves them fending for themselves in the street. It's been 11 long years.

The other man had to have his leg removed when he was 24 years old. He was hit by a truck and a very old prosthetic hitches on to the very top of his left thigh baring the little he has left. He is 39 years old. The third, of who I have yet to get his full story from, I find out, had polio at a young age. Bow legged and large square blocks as feet, he moves unsteadily on his crutches. A tin can is always clutched in one hand along with a beautiful crooked, toothless smile. Unable to open or carry an umbrella when the monsoon rains fall, he moves quietly drenched in downpour. He is the one that moves me the most. Hearing their stories I nod in apology as If I had something to do with their misfortunes and then we all nod together in understanding. Such is life.

Feeling like I had just made some friends I asked to photograph them, explaining that I write about my travels and the people I encounter and that I would like to write about them. I told them that once it was up on the computer I would take them into a Internet cafe and show them the "article". Which I still plan to do. The photographs are haunting and graceful. Full of laughter, sorrow and sometimes awkwardness of the camera that seeks to capture something no words or image could capture. (I provided you with a few, there are more in my care which I may or may not share with you.)

I do not have missing limbs and do not need to beg for money on the street, but there is a saying here in this part of the world. "Same same. But different." We are all the same experiencing this life but no doubt in different ways. We have ups and downs, joys and sorrows, mothers and fathers who are still with us or who have passed on. Children in school, brothers and sisters in different towns or on different continents.

If one looked at some of the photographs of these men they would see two ragged beings, mangled limbs and begging for a better way of life. But if one would just look a bit longer, a bit deeper, they would see a story of two beings that are very much like everyone else. We all have a history, a story that goes along with the life that is present. I no longer see poverty and mutation as sad or even hard to look at. These men have made me see the absolute beauty even in all of their pain. They smile with each other OFTEN. They collect money for their families, for their children's education and more food on their plates. And while I once thought that I could never even begin to make a difference within the lives over here, my eagerness to ask them questions and to sit with them, to not just throw them some change but to engage with them, has made all the difference in the world. They have a story to tell and few who will listen. I was able to provide an outlet for that.

Nearing to the end of my trip my walls no longer hang too high. My camera and I have reunited and my sadness doesn't take me by surprise like it once had. I have learned to fight my way around the traffic of cars that crowd the narrow streets, banging on the side to let the driver know I am passing them. I no longer jump when a jeep or bus horn blasts in the back of my head, but move quickly and unfazed out of the way. My eyes no longer search for something more pleasant to keep it's gaze but more often find their way into the soft and kind eyes that sit in contentment on a side stoop.

I can never again judge a book by it's cover. I can never again just hand out a banana or some spare change. My journey has proved successful because I have been forever changed. I have not mastered, but understood that underneath all the pain still lies the beauty and while pages often go missing the overall story stays the same.