Nov 13 2012 A photo

• Maputo

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  Every day I have to put forward a picture in this magazine and I guess surprise many of my readers from as far. Every day I walk through a world of markets that smells of dried fish and a strange life which spreads before me.

Avanzo y miro, I move and look from the window of my car. I do not carry my photo equipment, only a small Canon manageable for my time and space. Long since stopped watching the journey, life and, eye of the photographer who tries to capture his curiosity in certain. In part I guess I've lost the ability to surprise and partly try not to open the gap that inevitably brings the camera. After a photo there is a language, which shows that not belong here. Nobody leaves home every day and start shooting with your camera doorman, Mrs. selling bread, waiting for the bus and crossing executive unconcerned by your side with a newspaper in his hands and a phone cable hanging from your ear. Do not do it because you do not see. No picture to make effortless, profession without reason, nothing.

The lady selling is an African bread lying on the floor with breads that are piled on a cloth gnawed

The peculiarity here is that all this routine is photogenic. What is different. The lady selling is an African bread lying on the floor with breads that are piled on a cloth on the ground gnawed; the goalkeeper is a guard holding in his hand a thick tree that serves defense, skinned shoes and dress shoes and t-shirt pants long rotted; the bus stop there, is a clearing in the middle of nowhere in which dozens of people make a hole to get into a place where there are dozens of people and agglomerated into something similar to a van; the triumphant executive is a man who walks with a immaculate black suit and leather shoes, thick flourishing. In him there is no picture, there is in your environment, in the world through steadily as opposed to its Figure.

But I do, not portrait. I simply see it when I see it, which ever is less often. I contemplate from my shoulders; life increasingly less travel. Every day I have to put forward a picture in this magazine and I guess surprise many of my readers from as far. Every day I walk through a world of markets that smells of dried fish and a strange life which spreads before me. Me to Sunday River, my snuff salesman who bought a blue plastic, that would heat and zero degrees and here you are around 40, and sweating in their official price list hanging from his jacket sales chief market snuff. When he approached my car and taught and explained his new position, with an innocence that makes you hooked to this place, all his fellow black market sales were thrown on the floor laughing at a hilarious scene. What picture are you doing there? You could make a thousand, but you'd miss the reality of the moment in focus.

Suddenly, I see a scene you've seen a thousand times but it strikes me: there is a man with his head in a garbage

Avanzo y miro, avanzo y miro. Suddenly, I see a scene you've seen a thousand times but it strikes me: there is a man with his head in a garbage. I pull out my small pocket camera and make a bad picture. Then, in the following kilometers that lead me to the border with South Africa, a donde with dirijo, I do other few bad photos. For a moment I miss my team with 200mm lens. For a moment I have a certain need to re-do some decent picture of a place that still continues to amaze me. At times I miss the photographer who for the past two and a half years came to Africa.