Through the Lens of a Noob
A wet-ish package of fishy smelling fish-like things…
Contributor's Corner
Written by Rading Nyamwaya | PICHA Contributor
We had been driving up for a while through a thicket we were promised several times was a well-defined path; this one had not seen much traffic but was still visible. Thorny thickets, grass, and shrubs stuck out from the sore cracked earth with only slight traces of murram indicating that this used to be a somewhat busy route. The iridescent view of the lake up ahead, glistening and waves roaring reassured us we were going in the right direction.
The air in the truck was laden with a sense of weariness and a yearning for sleep. Lackluster conversations held amidst bouts of ‘rudia tena? (come again?)’ and ‘ehhhs’ were deployed to cut stories short. On this day we were up at 3:45 AM hoping to meet a man that claimed to own the beach. In most fishing towns or communities, the age-old fishing craft is practiced late into the night, the early mornings were reserved for drawing in the nets to reclaim the shores once the fish were no longer susceptible to the allure of the fishermen's lamps. When the boats touch the land scores of women can be seen dotting the beach in bright colours of ‘kitenge’ and other vibrant colours ready to negotiate the best price for the night’s catch. This time is the most favourable to meet up with our guy.
Earlier in the week, my father and I went to church. It had been a while since I had been to a house of worship, and I wondered what the occasion was. I couldn't think of anyone getting married or having a funeral. I decided that a wedding wouldn't be so bad, but I couldn't rule out a funeral, given the unseriousness of my friends.
We were hoping to meet the man, our next model, a fisherman cum entrepreneur and, soon we discovered, the Bao Beach chief - Julius. It was rumoured that Julius ‘owned’ the beach! a whole beach! Or maybe he was the ‘king’ of the beach? One of those would be correct, but he had influence and was not shy in front of the camera.
We had been instructed that the man of worship was a middle-aged man of average height with a gaily walk and slight wisps of grey hair on his head and chin. He arrived atop a bicycle with the wet-ish package of fishy-smelling fish. On Wednesdays, donned in a two-piece suit and shoes shiny enough to mirror one’s reflection, he would make his usual donation towards the church. We had to catch him before he attended the meeting or we would wait another four to five hours before he turned up again.
We sat in the car anxiously awaiting his arrival akin to lovers about to meet for the first time at the airport. None of our contacts had his number and thus it was like dating in the 70’s where you hoped your date showed up and that you didn’t look too silly holding out a bouquet of flowers for a stranger you barely knew – how romantic!
Suddenly, a young man turned up on a bike hauling fish and we wondered if we had gone back in time, then came Julius behind him a few moments later, true to word, in his fitted suit and shiny mirror-like shoes cycling like he owned the beach. We hopped out of the truck, had an amazing chat, and despite not presenting a bouquet, we were granted a second date.
The views of Naam Lolwe were impossible to ignore; majestic and inviting. The shores were littered with men, women and children alike, there to make a day’s living out of whichever opportunity arose. Various kinds of fish were neatly arranged in mounds on the sand with dirty looks following anyone that knocked over any of the catch.
We found Julius who introduced us to a boat maker that seemed instantly put off by my camera. I engaged him but after a couple of tries I felt like I was interrupting his plans for world domination so I took a few shots of his work and sought a new muse.
Consolate was an amazing find. She was smiling and joyful and most importantly did not mind neither a camera pointed at her face or our incessant questions regarding her work. We met her at the beach, water lapping against her heels, bent over, gutting fish with a few basins and some colanders at her feet; they held several pieces of fish and what looked akin to but was certainly not shrimp. My mother struck up a conversation with her first asking if she wouldn’t mind us taking pictures, that we would not interrupt her day and that we would need her to sign a release form. She acquiesced.
While expertly gutting the poor fish she explained the workings of the fishmonger business and shared her personal experience through it all. Along with her mother, they were the breadwinners of the family and together took care of her father and brothers (her mother owned a tiny hotel by the beach). This was the way of life she was accustomed to. I took a few shots and offered to show them to her but she paid them about as much attention as a government officer did your issues during lunch hour.
We thanked her profusely and proceeded to try to find Julius again. By now he would already have seized his boats and I could take pictures of him before we lost the beautiful morning sun (the one that was non-threatening to the lens).
Catching sight of him reeling in his nets and sorting out his fish was amazing. Here was a man who had worked smart, not hard, employing other fishermen to fish using his boats and sharing the profit without the weariness and the dread of ending up at the bottom of the lake or as a snack for the hippos and crocodiles. What most people would call ‘Msee mtrue’.
Julius was a natural who needed no direction or prompt to be joyful, relax or go about what he was doing so I enjoyed shooting him and everything he did. When I was done I let him know he had made the whole trip worthwhile. Like an over-eager beaver (I am not sure this is a saying as we do not have beavers in Africa) I showed him the pics and he let me take a few more just in case.
‘Kuja na mimi,’ (come this way) he beckoned leading me to a different location through mounds of fish, prawn-like things and a myriad of flies going about their day. My posse followed.
He took us to a house and shared that this was his office. He reached behind a wall and handed me a gift whipping out a very familiar wet-ish package of fishy-smelling fish deeming me the guardian of six soon-to-be deceased adult Nile perch.
We left Julius feeling excited, grateful and fulfilled and I entertained the thought that this might be my best shoot in this series.
I was soon proven wrong.
About the author
Rading Nyamwaya is an artistic, fun-loving alien in love with fashion, design, and clearing huge morsels of food. She finds beauty in being self and expressing the self, all the while spreading raging happiness like a female toreador."
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