Chronicling the moment in Burundi

So my brother is an irritatingly exposed man, who speaks about the intricacies of Rundi culture as easily as discusses post modernist swedish furniture. A list of some of the things he has dabbled in and achieved competence(in no particular order), guitarist, human rights advocate (complete with run in battles and brawls), traditional drummer, antique restorer/dealer, journalist and more recently photographer.

While he has been good at all of them, he has excelled at photography. Bear with my skewed and probably incomplete picture(pun intended) as this is only the perspective of a sycophantic younger brother.

He has excelled because photography has become a natural extension of himself, as what he is, what he stands for and what he does. As far as I can remember, he has longed, managed to and found purpose in being at the center of changing times as an active agent. And the pictures he takes reflect what he believes in. That there is beauty out there, that our history and times need a more permanent anchoring in our memories so we may look back and reflect, and that Burundians are able to look at their present world in stark, sometimes accusatory black and white to form an idea of a future which is not written as per the custom, written for them. More importantly that someone needs to tell the story.

So there it is. 

Ugly and Pretty, Past and Present, Peaceful and Warring, Black and White, This is Burundi trapped in a lens by Teddy Robert Mazina. My brother.

Visit. And have an Opinion.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/mdmexpo/

Holy Scents

I was surrounded by smells. The eucalyptus resin that permeated the whole area; the incense clouds that wafted every three minutes or so from the incense burners, engulfing me and blanking out the world around me for a few seconds; the smell of people with its warmer tones of sweat, garlic and spices and sandalwood (as I found out later is used in traditionnal cosmetics), the rich and strong smell of my freshly purchased small leather-backed Amharic bible and something that smelled like a rose in full bloom was being held under my nose.

I was in the church courtyard of the Entoto Maryam church on the Entoto hills (or mountains, the jury's still out) towering over Addis.

And it was during Lent, a time when the devout Christian orthodox fast, eat only special lent food (fast food ;-) ) and abstain from what they like most, but most of all they pray. They pray all over Ethiopia at churches like EntotoMariam for hours, reciting psalms, chanting in a way that made me aware of the power of faith, of ritual and of the institution. The Ethiopian orthodox take this way more seriously than any catholic I know. Special lent food all over restaurants, the nightlife all but dead and a church attendance that goes through the roof.

The crowd of many hundreds was dressed predominantly in white, with the women veiled in white shawls, a powerful sight in the intermittent incense fog that was kept coming and going. The crowd was facing into the church, following the cues that were issued from inside via large loudspeakers. The church is octagonal, standing on about ten steps up from the courtyard, with alcoves on its external walls that house huge elaborately adorned icons framed in glass, objects of the faithful devotions in the form of touch, kiss and the occasional spray of perfume-the rose smell from earlier on.

It would have been difficult, even for the hardened atheist, not to recognise that there was a power at work there. God was there. Now whether God brought those people there and inspired them or the power of their collective faith imagined, willed and CREATED God, to me is quite irrelevant. And to top it all, this is a faith that is meshed so intricately with the culture of the land that they are virtually indistinguishable from one another.

I felt an energy that was positive and kind and caring and ancient, something so potent and trustworthy as to promise to carry all the worries and all the hopes in the world and give back an answer sooner or later. I felt peace, harmony, compassion, strength and love. And looking down into the valley, towards the lights of Addis in the distance, with the crisp breeze in my face, I felt special, I felt blessed.

Entoto Maryam was commissioned by Empress Taytu Betul, Consort of Menelik the 2nd on a group of hills that were considered to be strategic. Addis grew around the court that subsequently settled in the area. First it was a private chapel next to one of the imperial residences, a nondescript museum building nearby(It was too late visit it). It is said that Selassie used to retreat there.

I could imagine him standing looking over his country and making decisions he knew History would either laud or decry. I have said before that I am fascinated by Haile Selassie, the man and the myth. And standing here looking down on Addis in the already cold evening breeze, I did not for one second envy the loneliness and worry that come with the job of emperor.

In the setting dark we drove back down to the city on what seemed to be the steepest, quasi vertical winding road I had ever seen. And whereas I had had visions of death (by-plunging-backwards-off-the-cliff-because-of failing-brakes-and-engine) on the way up, now I had the comfort of being able to see my demise when it came at me. On the way up, the small Lada taxi had revved and strained and clawed its way up the hill valiantly, with the driver totally unaffected, as he kept describing the sights of Addis. I was positively constipated by the time we were on top of the hill. Now, the drive back down, was giving me the very opposite effect. It had been a great day if only i could get back to the hotel and have a drink. Spirituality makes me thirsty.