Growing Up in Zaire

It was difficult to get candid shots of Zairian children because I -- being an outsider -- was the center of attention anywhere I went.

It was a lazy Sunday. Most of the villagers had gone to the rude mud church a dozen doors down, and, that afternoon, the men were relaxing in the shade, while the village women were gossiping while they prepared the evening meal.

Our team had been working in this village for almost two weeks, and the people had gotten used to me and my camera. They had also gotten gifts of Polaroids, which was necessary, if one ever wanted permission to take pictures in the first place (one never took a picture without getting permission).

That Sunday afternoon, I watched out of the corner of my eye as a group of kids lounged on some broken chairs, and watched me as though I was television. I had spent hours taking pictures of the most mundane sort around the encampment -- trees, the thatch roofs of the houses, our work table, my own mosquito bitten feet, termite hunting ants, the chickens, the outhouse, and so on.

I continued to move about, pretending to take pictures, for fear of running out of film. Finally, the children got bored with my activities, and they began to play. At last, I turned about and snapped a few shots. The little boy was giggling in surprise as if it was a joke that I stopped to take his picture.

Photo by: D. Messinger