PAKISTAN FLOODS: DON'T LOOK AWAY

Last night I listened to an OXFAM director saying the call to aid Pakistan flood victims has not received a good response, something I find hard to accept, even given the multiple world emergencies of recent times.

I have travelled the length and breadth of Pakistan, a rugged, vibrant country with spectacular scenery and some of the oldest sites in the civilised world and wherever I went - from Karachi to the Khyber Pass and the mountainous Northern Areas, I was well received although it is also true to say - not without a degree of curiosity!

I found the average person friendly, courteous and kind, especially the poor rural villagers of Sindh the southern province, my favourite part of Pakistan, facing inundation by the swollen Indus river.

Hospitality was a second nature, even if it was a family's last drop of lassi. And well I recall an occasion when my suitcase wouldn't close at Karachi Airport and an observant porter whipped out the rope supporting his trousers and strapped it around the lid.

Sindhis number the Indo-Aryan tribal peoples known as Jats and the Mohanas of the preceding blog, to the urban elite in Karachi, but your typical Sindhi is a hard-working peasant, usually mortgaged to a wealthy landowner, living in a mud-house with his animals - chickens and a few water buffalo - all now lost in the floods.

Can anyone watching the desperate images beamed nightly into their living room imagine what it must be like to have nothing? And be denied because you happen to be of Muslim persuasion with an odious government accused of supporting terrorism.

Those among you who have not dug into your pocket may answer somewhere deep, dark and guarded by Cerebrus, the three-headed guardian dog of the entrance to Hell.

An Insight and Guide by Christine Osborne (Longman Group) 1983.

WAITING FOR THE FLOOD

The Mohanas on the river Indus in Sindh have a novel way of fishing when bad weather prevents their boats putting out. They keep pet birds to do it for them.

The birds, mainly herons, cranes and cormorants, perch on a plank suspended from the gunwale. A length of string attached to one leg allows them to dive, but not to escape with a fish. When they break surface, they are robbed of their catch until the family has enough to eat. At this point the birds may swallow their prey and satisfy their own hunger.

Several hundred Mohana fishing families work the Indus where it flows past Sukkur, an historic town in upper Sindh province of Pakistan.

They live on bulky wooden houseboats, 60 feet long by 12 feet broad. The khasti`s most characteristic feature is a bluff prow to deflect the shock should a boat strike a submerged sandbank when it swivels around and gradually becomes dislodged by the current.

Kashtis are made locally. Craftsmen take special care in carving decorative motifs and inserting small tiles, shells and tiny mirrors in the pattern. Some older vessels may display rose-patterned crockery stacked neatly in the galley - china once used by British civil servants manning the Indus canal posts.

An average Mohana family numbers 6-8. All the relatives moor together in a group with their domestic stock- water buffaloes and chickens - kept beside them on the bank.

Women are responsible for the usual chores. One of their first tasks is to draw fresh water from the middle of the river, away from the banks where people defecate.

Mohana men fish from a smaller boat, paddled with a single oar, towed behind each kashti. Working together, in good weather they may net 30 kilos of fish a day, the Indus river catfish being greatly prized.

Meals are cooked over a small charcoal fire on the open deck with everyone sitting around the dish, digging into the fish and rice with their fingers.

Following this year’s monsoon which has devastated NW Pakistan, the Indus is running at an all-time high. But while Sindhi farmers are packing and leaving the riverbanks, the Mohanas can only sit on their boats as water levels rise.

Images: www.copix.co.uk

TOURISTS RULE!

Last week I went to the British Museum to have some coins from the lovely Swat Valley, in north-west Pakistan, identified by numismatic experts।

I knew they were old, but not from the 4th century AD! Coins from the Kushan Empire: King Vasishka in front of a fire altar on one side and Shiva with Nandi, the bull-god on the reverse.

I was delighted by this news, but walking through the museum, I was appalled by visitor behaviour. Thousands of tourists hogged every showcase, blocking the view for everyone else, including many British pensioners on a cultural outing.

I waited for an American family to provide space for me to view artefacts from the royal tombs in Ur. But would they budge? Not likely! The woman planted herself in front and there she remained. When she did move, she glared as if to say, it`s my right. I`m here from Des Moines!

The behaviour was equally bad in the Etruscan Room and the crowd gathered around the Elgin Marbles was impenetrable. A tour-guide was lecturing her group of Italian tourists - bugger everyone else!

It was the same in the Egyptian Galleries. And to make things worse, everyone was wearing a backpack so they were taking up the space of two!

Does anyone hate backpacks as much as I do?

There is no admission charge to the British Museum. The Coins Department is open weekdays for a coin identification service 10.00-13.00 and 14.15-16.00 except Wednesday mornings.

c.Christine Osborne

Images: www.copix.co.uk

FUTURE OF TRAVEL PHOTOGRAPHY

Christine Osborne, wonders about the future of travel photography as it grows increasingly difficult to record lifestyles in the developing world.

Camera equipment has always been a prime target among the poor citizens of developing countries and after more than twenty years of travel photography, I was expecting my number to come up. But I was caught off guard when a knife was pressed between my ribs in The Gambia.

I`d just taken some pictures of a fisherman pedalling along the broad Atlantic beach. Until now, it had been an exhilarating walk -blue skies, few hustlers, no tourists - until finally I had the stretch of sand to myself.

Sitting down on a log, I took a soft drink out of my bag which also contained a classic Pentax, veteran of travels to more than fifty countries, a jacket, and my bikini for a final swim.

With the crash of the surf, I didn`t hear the two men creeping up. An arm grabbed my camera-bag, the knife was withdrawn and before I could say `good morning`, the thieves were sprinting off.

Having protected my gear in Nairobi, Havana and Djakarta (all notorious spots for thieving) I stood up dismayed. Not only had I lost my old mate, but they had taken my notebook recording every photo I had taken.

Were the robbers locals, or did they come from the dissident region of the Casamance in southern Senegal? The only certain thing was that apart from my equipment, a watch and around 700 dalasi - about $70 - they were now the wealthiest men in their village.

Like everyone who came to hear of my misfortune, the police wanted to know why I hadn`t taken a guide? But after two weeks of paying a boy to accompany me, I had grown tired of the patter: could he have my address, could I take him back to London and would I marry him (!) that I had decided to spend my final day alone.

It was a lesson well learned, but what can one do, about countries dependent on tourism? I should be able to provide an answer, but in truth I do not know.

What I do know is the problems of the developing world : foreign debt, AIDS, unemployment and the effect of inappropriate tourist behaviour, are making it increasingly difficult for a photographer. In my own case to photograph a text book for an educational publisher.

You`ve only to see the numbers of western women walking hand in hand with local youths to understand a of respect. In Egypt I was propositioned by a driver taking me to Luxor airport at six o`clock in the morning!

And `Go to hell!` a boy had shouted when I no thanks, I didn`t need another guide.

Tourists have also thrown so much money around the markets that it has become impossible to even photograph a basket of peanuts without being asked for baksheesh.

And while the problem reaches a peak in winter-sunshine destinations in Africa, many people in developing countries marketed by Western tour operators, now earn a living exclusively by posing for pictures.

Don`t think the Ifugao women wearing national costume in the Philippines are sitting on a wall above the rice terraces for the sake of nothing to do. They are waiting for a coach to pull up and for tourists to take their pictures, the financial reward being split with the driver.

Pretty children playing flutes in the Andes, the camel-men at the pyramids, fishermen in Zanzibar - what photographer has not been terrorized by water-sellers in Marrakesh who are convinced they`ll appear on a postcard, and want a cut of the profit.

Even my own project - to photograph primary schools in The Gambia - made no difference to some people. `I don`t care what you`re doing. You`re making money out of us!` screamed a woman selling cassava in Banjul central market.

While tourists are wrong to consider it is their divine right to photograph local people, it is sad and worrying that confrontation has reached boiling point.

Underlying the problem is need and supply, but the travel photographer moving quietly about, and in my own case often spending a lot in local restaurants and on guides, is the one who suffers when the coach-door slams and the tourists move on.

Travel insurance enabled me to replace my equipment, but I still lament the loss of my notes. If someone had been able to translate them, the thieves would know that as well as my picture captions, I had addresses of the people who, instead of demanding money, had asked me to send their photo - a schoolboy who had shown me the stone circle near Georgetown, the chief of Juffure, the village made famous by Alex Haley`s novel “Roots", a woman winnowing groundnuts and a group of men who had allowed me to photograph them playing bao under a baobab.

To them I am the photographer who broke her promise and they`ll never experience the thrill of getting their picture in the post.

c.Christine Osborne

Image: Street corner Banjul, Gambja

Source: www.copix.co.uk

WATER NOT MOON WALKS

I remember sitting around a television in Sydney watching man walk on the moon, yet as we acknowledge this achievement, forty years on, 20% of the world`s population still does not have access to a safe water supply.

Since the moon landing in 1969, the population on Earth has nearly doubled with one child estimated to die every 25 seconds, due to unsafe water quality. Yet now a chest-thumping NASA official speaks of new Space endeavours. I am not a luddite, but is this not hugely offensive to the millions of have-nots in the developing world?

Women in Africa, India and Yemen still have to walk, sometimes up to 4 miles a day, or to climb 1000 feet down a mountain, to fetch drinking water. You can visit places such as Manila and Colombo, capital cities no less, where tourists can soak in a hotel spa-bath while outside people are still washing under a stand tap.

Further spending on space trips, either to the Moon or to Mars, cannot be justified until such anomalies are rectified and everyone on Earth has clean water which is a basic need, as well as a right.

c.Christine Osborne

Image: Washing under a stand tap, Colombo

Source: www.copix.co.uk

THE MAN FROM SUDAN

I came home on the bus this morning with a man from the Sudan.

I had seen him many times, herding long-horned cattle, or playing an oud with long fingers that now clutched a cheap plastic briefcase. And clearly he did not know where to go.

`Can I help?` I said, touching his elbow gently.

I noticed a trace of orange henna at his temples, as he turned towards me. Many Muslims dye their beard with henna when they have performed the hajj. His beard has been shaved off, but the trace of henna and the zebiba (prayer mark) on his forehead, tells me he is a good Muslim. A good Muslim with one wonky eye.

`Clapham Common,` he said in an almost panicky voice, bending down, all six feet six of him, to look anxiously out of the window as we crossed Vauxhall bridge.

`Yallah,` I said getting off at the inter-change. But he was far too concerned about Clapham Common to realise that a strange `English` woman had uttered a word of Arabic in the heart of Vauxhall.

`Bus 88 Clapham Common, over there!` I tell him.

`Thanks you much!` he said, evidently knowing the way.

I watched him hurrying along the road in his new brown leather shoes until he disappeared on a traffic crossing and was out of sight.

It could have been me, a thousand times over, struggling to find my way around Sana`a, Salalah or Khartoum.

c.Christine Osborne

Image: Prayer by the Blue Nile, Sudan

Source: Liam White: www.worldreligions.co.uk