This is a guest post from BBC Cameraman and Editor Luke Winsbury. He details his 2009 embed with French Troops in kapisa Province, Afghanistan. It’s an interesting and entertaining look at operating as an embedded journalist with a Foreign Army. To watch the film he made click on this link.
It’s 4am when I’m woken up in a large hangar-come-tent. I’ve barely slept because it’s freezing and there was heavy machine gun fire all night. That makes it 3 nights in a row with barely any sleep. We’re in Tagab, a French forward operating base (FOB) in Kapisa Province, North of Kabul. I have no idea what it looks like because we arrived in darkness and, because the base gets rocketed regularly, it is entirely unlit. You’re not even allowed head torches, except dim red light ones which I’m smugly pleased I have.
Nijrab Base, Northern Afghanistan.
We’re bundled into a VAB (armored vehicle). It’s so totally disorientating when you’re this tired and you have no idea where you are or really what you’re about to face. Not even the red light head torches are allowed at this point. I had taken the decision, much against the advice of the French, to take my full size DSR500 camera on patrol. They wanted to take something smaller but I explained that, like them with their guns, I use a DSR reflexively and quickly.
We travel for about an hour in the dark – and it really is pitch black in the back of the VAB. I use my small A1 camera to get some night vision shots of the soldiers in the back. Their eyes glow green and stare blankly into nowhere. They have no idea I’m pointing a camera at them. Ironically I am the only the one in the back of that thing that gets glimpses of anything.
We’re in a Pashtun area where the French had a three hour contact (Army terminology for a Gun-Fight) the previous week, on a joint patrol with the ANA (Afghan National Army) delivering clothes and medical supplies to the main village of Tagab.
French Troops on patrol near Tagab villiage, Northern Afghanistan.
Emma Jane Kirby, the BBC’s Paris Correspondent, and myself are here to see what the French are up to now in Afghanistan. They’ve had a lot of stick in the past for not doing their fair share in Afghanistan but in the recent years they’ve increased their troop numbers and taken control of the strategically important Kapisa Province, the Northern Gateway to Kabul. We’re with the Chasseurs Alpins (Mountain Hunters), the elite mountain infantry troops of the French Army.
The VAB stops, the back door swings open revealing the half-light of dawn. In my haste to get out and actually see something I make the mistake of not grabbing my spares bag. We know we’re going off on foot but don’t know for how long – could be hours. I start filming but immediately get told to start moving through the village. It has suddenly become very tense – something had changed – I don’t understand what or why. I don’t even have time to grab my spares bag from our VAB. I only have the battery on the camera and the tape inside it then. Idiot. Luckily Emma Jane is already wearing her Radio Microphone.
We’re at the back of the patrol, which is the worst place to be, both for filming and for our safety. The Taliban favour ambush tactics where they divide a patrol into smaller groups and pick them off. Moving through the village you can see how easy this is – all the houses with there walls and ditches could hide anyone.
I start running forward to get shots looking back at the soldiers. We stop a lot behind walls, in ditches, while the route forward is checked. We have to cross open ground quickly and with a low profile. We see few villagers – it’s too early. Dogs are barking.
We end up in a deep ditch running through some fields on the edge of the village, facing the mountains on the edge of the valley. This is where the Taliban hide and this is exactly where the French had a 3 hour gun battle with them last week. There’s a white house about 300m away where the Taliban were hiding so French and ANA troops move cautiously up to it. I suddenly notice the guy in front of me is a US Marine – where did he come from?
Gradually the tension eases. Maybe it’s too early for the Taliban. With this perimeter secured, we make our way back into the village to film the ANA handing out blankets and medical supplies. It’s a chaotic scene, but friendly and full of humour. I roam around freely and feel no threat at all, albeit knowing there are many French keeping an eye on things. I have tea with some of the ANA soldiers, one of those moments of serenity you have to take and it gives me a chance to catch my breath.
Later that evening we return to our main home for the week, the French base at Nijrab, home to about 700 troops. Nijrab is a Tajik area and as such is relatively peaceful. The base is set up on a plateau surrounded by huge snow capped mountains – it is incredibly beautiful. When this country finds peace it will be a haven for climbing, walking and skiing.
French JTAC – Forward Air Controller – in Afghanistan
Our accommodation in Nijrab was a large overflow tent – very basic and very cold – and we had to share it with soldiers passing through. At night the temperatures dropped well below freezing. My Icebreaker thermals were magic – I wore them day and night for days and they still didn’t smell (or perhaps I got used to the smell?)
Over the next few days we go on more patrols with the Chasseurs Alpins but mostly in the safer Tajik areas. One day we go with the JTAC (Joint Terminal Attack Controller – in other words the man who calls in Air-Strikes), climbing high up the side of the valley the French are operating in to secure the high ground and provide cover. Their guns face both ways, into the valley below and high up into the rocky peaks. The French have been discovering increasing numbers of large arms caches recently. The Taliban are relatively inactive during the winter (it is said they go for winter training across the border in Pakistan) – but everyone is predicting a counter-surge from them following the large increase in US troops numbers. The arms caches being found by the French seem to indicate a spring offensive.
Although the French do not see as much ‘action’ as the Americans and British in Afghanistan, it is worth keeping in mind the enormous public opposition in France (about 80% of the population) to their presence there – which must constrain their activities there. It is a democracy after all.
Luke has just returned from another trip to Afghanistan, this time with BBC Newsnight’s Mark Urban, click here to watch the film from kandahar.
The World Cup is finally over. It’s been an amazing month in South Africa that has seen my team travel from Rustenburg to Cape Town, Port Elizabeth and Bloemfontein. I’ve been working with Correspondent Andrew Harding and we’ve been lucky enough to have many films commissioned for the BBC News.
In Thokoza park, Soweto. 11/06/10
As Bafana Bafana took on Mexico in the opening game we headed into Soweto to capture a taste of the atmosphere and to see what it all meant to the Sowetans. It was a day I’ll never forget, the atmosphere of excitement and togetherness bringing me close to tears more than once. The film we made really captured a sense of how people felt and reflected the fact that this country would never be the same again.
Soweto welcomes the World Cup – World cup begins in Soweto from caparkinson on Vimeo.
After the first day our priorities temporarily shifted to covering the England team and their fans. We headed to the sleepy village of Phokeng, just outside of Rustenburg for the England vs USA match. It’s an odd place to host such a big game and we made a film reflecting the clash of cultures between the hard drinking fans and the bemused locals. Just after we finished editing I shot this film on my i-phone to give a taste of the neighbourhood. And yes we did use that bizarre camper van as our edit vehice 
As the tournament progressed and England were knocked out following that disastrous showing against the Germans we moved on to cover Ghana’s big game against Uruguay. The night before we produced a piece that really gives a taste of the spirit that helped the Ghana team to do well. Here’s two clips I pulled from the rushes that you might enjoy. In the first Ghana’s biggest supporter gives his match prediction and in the second the fans sing a song about me:
With Ghana crashing out to Uruguay on penalties we concentrated on putting together two end of tournament legacy pieces. The first looked at South Africa’s improved image abroad and the second was a deeper, more thoughtful piece that examined how South Africans themselves saw the impact of hosting the World Cup. I had an idea to use “postcards” to introduce each character in our film rather than the more traditional set up sequence. I feel it worked.
South Africa World Cup – final film from caparkinson on Vimeo.
Covering the World Cup has been an exciting, nerve wracking and tiring experience. Although I’m glad it’s over it has been a pleasure to see this much-maligned country step up and impress the rest of the world. I hope it can keep it up.
teenagers performing at the Asec Mimosa Academy, Abidjan
The humidity was unbearable and the sun beat on the top of my head like Rio carnival drums. I couldn’t believe that these young kids could play football at such a blistering pace in these conditions. The teenagers at the Asec Mimosa Academy are some of the most gifted and hard working footballers in Africa. The Academy has been described as the “Crown jewell of African football” and offers players not just coaching but also an education.
We were here to make a film about football in Ivory Coast. With their appearance at the 2010 World Cup imminent and Ivorian Striker Didier Drogba claiming the English Premier League Golden Boot it seemed the perfect time to visit. I’d never heard of Mimosas before but they are one of the top Club sides in Africa and have been supplying talent to European leagues for a long time. Former players include Saloman kalou, Emmanuel Eboue and brothers Yaya and Kolo Toure.
Mimosa Academy training, taken using hipstamatic on my i-phone
So what is the secret of their success? Well, there are many. Firstly it is well funded by local investors and its sponsor, Sifca – one of West Africa’s biggest agro-businesses. This funding allows excellent facilities including two well kept pitches, a fully functioning school and a dorms for the kids to stay in. They also have a busy team of scouts who scour Ivory Coast looking for potential.
The problem though, and this goes for all of Africa, is keeping hold of their talented youngsters. Nearly all of their National squad play in Europe and all of the young players aspire to move abroad at the first opportunity. There is still little money to be made in local African leagues, the average first division player in Ivory Coast earns just two hundred and thirty Euros a month. Attendances are tiny, even big games struggle to achieve a crowd bigger than a few hundred. These problems mean it is unlikely that in the near future an African team will be strong enough to win the World Cup, but they are developing quickly and from what I saw at Mimosas the next generation promise to keep pushing the boundaries of what the continent can achieve.
As the training came to an end I filmed as the kids removed their boots and began a series of drills using a tennis ball. Amazingly they were able to perform keep-ups without dropping it. They then did a co-ordination routine that involved a series of complicated dance steps. I couldn’t imagine English players being able to maintain a straight face while clapping and dancing but to the Ivorians it is an important aspect of their skills training. It seemed to be working.
For our finished film on the BBC then check out this link. . .
The text message woke me up. It was just before midnight on Saturday 3rd April. I grumpily grabbed my phone from next to the bed. It was my boss: “Eugene Terreblanche murdered on his farm, pls be in work at 7am.” So much for my relaxing long Easter weekend. I set my alarm for early in the morning and tried to go back to sleep.
Eugene Terreblanche was the leader of an Afrikaans group called the AWB (Afrikaner Weerstandsbeweging). They class themselves as a cultural movement whose goal is to ensure the survival of “White tribe of Africa”. They are heavily armed and have a penchant for Nazi style uniforms and insignia.
Early in the morning we rushed to the scene of the crime at his farm just outside Ventersdorp in the Northwest Province. The local and international press were already camped outside the gates alongside many of his followers and a big Police presence. Myself and Reporter Karen Allen were up against it and filed this film for the BBC Evening bulletin.
The papers were filled with speculation that the murder could spark a resurgence of racial tensions in South Africa. The Daily Star in the UK even ran the headline “world cup machete threat” and claimed that “machete gangs were roaming the streets.”
Many whites in South Africa speculated that the murder was a direct result of ANC Youth League leader Julius Malema singing the controversial song “Shoot the Boer”. It’s an apartheid era song that the ANC claims is an important part of its heritage.
In the rendition below Malema jokingly sings “Kiss the Boer” as the song has now been banned by the Courts here in SA.
On the Tuesday after the murder, the two accused were brought to the local Courthouse. A large crowd of AWB supporters were there to demonstrate their anger while a similar sized group of black residents came to show their solidarity with the accused. The Police were forced to separate the rival crowds after small scuffles broke out. Myself and colleague Jonah Fisher captured the atmosphere in this film for BBC News.
AWB spokesman Andre Visagie then went onto E news to take part in a debate that ended in a sinister though rather amusing showdown with the other members of the panel:
The next day, just to add to the growing storm Julius Malema got riled at at a Press Conference by my colleague Jonah Fisher. malema’s resulting outburst made it onto TV and radio around the world and temporarily made Jonah the most talked about man in SA:
Eventually on Friday 9th April Terreblanche was laid to rest in his local Protestant Church. Thousands of AWB supporters turned out to show their respect. I was there with Correspondent Karen Allen and after a very busy day we quickly put together this report for the BBC six o’clock news (Please bare in mind that most of the pictures were from Agency feeds as I was the only BBC crew there!) Below I’ve posted some of my shots of the funeral that unfortunately never got an airing on TV:
And if you look very closely at the photo below (from www.timeslive.co.za) you can just make me out filming the opening shot of our package:
It was strange to be surrounded by so many people proudly brandishing swastikas and giving the Nazi salute. It’s been a difficult story to cover. Feelings on both side of the racial divide have been high and I can only hope that with Terreblanche now buried South Africa can move on and again begin to close the still deep rift between communities.
To view the film we made on this trip to Akobo, follow this link to the BBC website
The UN airstrip in Juba looked identical to every other UN establishment I’d seen in Africa. A maze of blue Porta-cabins protected by a bored contingent of Asian soldiers – this time Bengalis in their distinctively bright green camouflage. We were traveling to the small town of Akobo in Southern Sudan alongside the NGO Save the Children and the UN Resident Humanitarian Co-ordinator, Lise Grande and her team. They were keen to show us the poor humanitarian situation and flag up a potential famine – a new report says 46 percent of children under five are malnourished.
We all piled into the ex-Soviet era Helicopter that had been painted in UN colours and began our long journey. We followed the Nile out of Juba and then headed East toward the Ethiopian border passing low over huge tracts of desolate scrub and dry river beds. It was a boneshaking two-hour flight but I was next to an open window and kept myself entertained by filming and taking photos.
A view from our UN chopper on the way to Akobo
As we came in to land at Akobo’s makeshift landing strip I filmed the ramshackle mud and straw houses that seemed to make up most of the town.
We had a couple of hours on the ground and were told that the Russian chopper crew had instructions to leave without us if we late – something that both myself and Correspondent Andrew Harding doubted they would do. A fleet of four by fours waited for us by the Air-strip and rushed us off to the Hospital to film malnourished children.
Outside the clinic there was a hive of activity with babies being weighed and food being handed out by harried staff. Screaming kids and scared, hungry looking Mums cued up waiting for their turn to take the handful of high energy bars on offer. I grabbed as many shots as I could before being bustled off to film inside with the kids who were considered to be in the worst state.
Inside I filmed a close up as one baby was given milk via a plastic syringe – his body too wasted to keep anything down. Another, called Dwal, had the glazed, sleepy eyes of someone who has given up hope. After gathering a few shots I left, realizing that my presence was disturbing Dwal who began to wail as if in pain every time I tried to film him.
We then rushed off to film the families who had been forced to flee from recent fighting. 2009 had seen a dramatic surge in ethnic conflict and many displaced families had been forced to flee to the town. We found one family living by the river, sheltering under a tree to keep out of the oppressive mid day sun. Despite their problems they seemed relaxed and friendly and didn’t seem remotely put out by our presence. I discovered that the South Sudanese are generally unphased by TV cameras, a fact that made my job much easier.
Traveling on a speedboat to find IDP’s near Akobo
Time was now short. We had a three PM deadline to meet back at the Airstrip. Having to rush in the heat of South Sudan isn’t good and I was beginning to feel very dehydrated. We hooked up with the local Commissioner – Goi Jooyul Yol, a fascinating guy who had been living in the US for many years – he took us to the local Army base and convinced the Colonel in charge to show us all the guns they had confiscated from the local tribesmen to stop them stealing cattle and abducting children from one another. It was an impressive, if slightly rusty, haul. About 400 weapons, mainly Ak-47′s were piled almost to the ceiling in the old and peeling shipping container.
At three PM exactly we emerged from the Army compound and ran over five hundred meters of rugged waste ground to the waiting Chopper. Sweaty and exhausted I downed a bottle of water and a whole packet of glucose biscuits before throwing myself onto the awkward canvas bench in the back of the Helicopter. It had been a tough day both mentally and physically. As the aircraft took off I dozed awkwardly hoping that our film might be able to expose the problems of the region and help to avert a disaster.
To view the film we made on this trip to Akobo, follow this link to the BBC website
On the same trip to South Sudan we also shot an excellent (if I do say so) election preview film. Unfortunately due to the changing situation in the country our film never had the chance to run in the UK. So that the pictures aren’t lost forever I’ve edited some of my favourite sequences together into a short “voice free” film that I hope will give you a small taste of Southern Sudan:
Halis, our Fixer in Timbuctu
Our Fixer, Halis, was waiting for us as we clambered down the steps of our Air Mali flight. He wore his Tuareg regalia with obvious pride – his bright blue robes flowing in the gentle breeze and his nine meter head scarf perfectly wound around his head and chin. He had gentle eyes, softened even further by the small round glasses he wore perched on top of his nose. We shook hands and he quickly sent some men to go and fetch our luggage. I immediately liked Halis, he was friendly, quick witted and incredibly well connected around the area. He was a local, born and raised in and around Timbuktu.
Timbuktu is one of those places in the world that you never expect to see. Even its name sounds mythical, most people associating it with the end of the world, the most distant place on earth. It is in fact a real, though somewhat impoverished backwater in the West African state of Mali. The City is actually disappointingly easy to reach, regular direct flights link it with Bamako, the capital of Mali. The flight we took was, bizarrely, crewed by South Africans.
My first impression of the City was that it was a dusty, monotone, decrepit place that looked remarkably like Southern Afghanistan. I was quickly perturbed by the number of middle aged, European tourists wandering around shopping. It shattered my illusion that this trip was pushing the boundaries, that we were on assignment to a dangerous, remote place.
We’d been planning the trip for some time and there were a number of stories we were hoping to cover in the area including the spread of Al Qaeda linked militants who had moved south from Algeria and were now operating in the region. Our first story though was about climate change and the fight to reverse its effects. We drove for two hours west of Timbuktu to Lake Faguibine, a large area of water that had been rapidly drying up since the 1970’s, leading to hundreds of thousands of people having to leave the area. We met up with the United Nations Environment Programme (UNEP) and filmed the work that they had been doing to restore the former glories of the Lake. We stayed in the town of Goundam, a small place famous only as the site of a military defeat for French Colonial forces in 1894. There was no Hotel but Halis had brought tents, sleeping bags and enough food for everyone. He had even brought a number of staff from the hotel he ran in Timbuktu to cook for us and help with anything we needed. They say in the British Army that amateurs think tactics and professionals think logistics – Halis was definitely a pro.
We spent two nights sleeping on the roof of the UN compound and filming some amazing sequences of the local villagers digging out dried up river beds and fighting to hold back the spread of the sand dunes. It was heaven for a cameraman – everywhere I looked there were great shots. With our first piece finished we packed up our tents and headed back to Timbuktu. Over the next week we shot three more films – one on Al Qaeda in the Sahara, one on the dying camel caravans that bring salt from the mines in the desert and one on the manuscripts of Timbuktu. It was a long, hot, tiring trip but it was one that I wont forget. On the penultimate night we trekked into the desert and slept under the stars at the traditional Toureg camp that Halis managed when he wasn’t guiding journalists. As I lay there sipping a cold lager and eating fresh baked bread I looked up the star-filled sky and realized how lucky I am, in what other career could a lad from Leicester see and experience the things that I have? As I rolled over to warm myself by the open fire Halis appeared in front of me, “Another beer Chris?” . . . Truly the best fixer I’d ever worked with.
Timbuktu climate change from caparkinson on Vimeo.
Congo Mines, 2009. from caparkinson on Vimeo.
The Democratic Republic of Congo is an incredibly difficult, complicated and dangerous place to work. Large parts of the country are essentially lawless and armed bands (including the National Army) roam the roads and jungle tracks looking to shake people down for money or cigarettes.
I first worked there as part of a team with Orla Guerin and Producer Tara Neil in October 2008 as the Tutsi militia commanded by General Nkunda advanced to the gates of Goma, in the East of the country. The Congolese National Army (known as the FARDC) was in a rapid retreat and hundreds of thousands of civilians flooded into refugee camps to escape the carnage. It was a terrible introduction to one of the toughest parts of the world for a TV crew to operate in. The army threatened and robbed us on our first day and the refugees were hostile as they believed we were going to sell their pictures to the militias.
Sunday Church Service in South Kivu, DRC.
I finally returned to the DRC at the start of August (2009), this time to Bukavu in the Province of South Kivu. The various factions were still fighting but the FARDC backed by the UN has finally gotten the upper hand and the rebels (mainly the Hutu FDLR this time) were on the retreat. Myself, Correspondent Karen Allen and Producer Tara Neil were working on a story about the militarization of mining and the tough conditions endured by those digging up the mineral Coltan that goes into many electrical products. To illustrate the story we had to get to some of the most remote areas in the world. Places rarely visited by foreigners. We were forced to charter a plane to take us to an airstrip in the middle of the jungle, near the small town of Lilungu. Due to the nature of the terrain and lack of roads were forced to travel on the back of motorbikes. Out of necessity I decided to film on a Sony Z1 and leave my DSR 500 at the Hotel in Bukavu. Despite testing the Z1 thoroughly before the assignment it decided to stop working the minute I began to film. Luckily I do though always carry a spare DV camera with me. It is a consumer camera I picked up on London’s Tottenham Court Road for about six hundred pounds. The Canon HV 30 is small and versatile. It shoots on tape and you can switch between DV and HDV. The reason I chose this as my personal camera is that it has a mini-jack microphone input and a headphone socket meaning at least I can get decent audio with it and even use it with one of my Radio mics. I quickly ripped the camera from its pouch, attached my small wide angle adaptor and began to film.
All kitted up for the Motorbike journey through South Kivu
I hadn’t expected to have to use this camera for the whole trip and so my spares for it were minimal. I explained the situation to the team and we agreed that we would only shoot what was absolutely necessary. As we headed off to find the mines I prayed that I had enough juice to see me through the trip. After a long and incredibly uncomfortable journey we finally reached the mines and filmed our sequences. As we finished our piece to camera the red light began to flash and my camera died. Although I could have done with more footage I was relieved that we had got the key pictures in the bag. There was still though more shots that the team were hoping to get. I had one last option available – my stills camera. The Canon G10 is a 14.7 megapixel stills camera that also has a movie mode. I’d never tested the video option but had read a report that said it gave a pretty decent image. With no other option I resigned myself to finishing the shoot on my G10 and keeping my fingers crossed that the image would be usable. I decided that should we need to record decent audio I would ask Karen to record it on her marantz hard drive recorder and we could post sync it.
After another day of shooting we finally returned to the airstrip and met our flight back to Bukavu. The first thing I did was to switch on my Mac and load all of my pictures into Final Cut Pro. It wasn’t the disaster I’d feared. . . The shots from my HV 30 were actually not too bad (at least nothing some Post production couldn’t fix) while my video taken on the stills camera was surprisingly usable. Although I was unhappy not to have been able to film with my big camera and make the piece much stronger it was simply a relief to have gotten anything at all. I like to think that it was a case of improvising, adapting and overcoming. I hope the Ten o’clock news feel the same way when they realize half of their film was shot on a three hundred and fifty pound stills camera.
As we climbed out of the tiny ten seater aircraft and stepped onto Somali soil I was nervous. We were in territory controlled by the Islamist militia Al Shabab, a group with ties to Al Qaeda and a reputation for beheading those who didn’t agree with them. We were the guests of The World Food Programme who, thanks to their pragmatic approach and willingness to talk with Al Shabab, were still able to operate in the region. Their base was just outside the village of Buale, a surprisingly green and fertile place on the banks of the River Juba. Before we could film anything we had to meet the local Al Shabab Commander – if we started filming without his permission it could mean a death sentence for our team.
With our guards in Somalia. Very nice guys.
We met him in the shade of a small tree, he was a solidly built man with a neatly trimmed salt and pepper beard and a surprisingly benign look on his face. I’d expected someone terrifying, clutching a Kalashnikov and festooned with grenades. He was friendly and made jokes. I liked him, he seemed like a human being. He agreed to let us film the work of WFP but refused to be interviewed himself or allow us to film his men.
We only stayed around Buale for one day. It seemed safe but we did have twelve armed guards with us at all times. They were local guys, clad in black and casually swinging their AK-47’s like umbrellas. I shared one of the Toyota Pick ups with them, bouncing around and filming the country as it sped past. We were meant to overnight in the town of Wajid but we were forced to change our plans when three men were beheaded there that day. Instead we crossed back into Kenya for the night and then in the morning flew to a town in central Somalia called Dusamareb.
Filming from the back of a Pick-Up. Somalia, June 2009.
Dusamareb is a dusty, drought stricken town that is currently home to the Militia group, Ahlu Sunnah. They, like most Somalis, are Sufi Muslims and as such despise the Saudi inspired Wahabism that Al Shabab represent. We arrived on Independence day and the main square was full of flag waving locals. The women wore bright green and yellow Chadors and the men sang the Somali national anthem. It was perfect for TV and I spent twenty minutes roaming the square filming as much as possible.
We interviewed a number of fighters, all of them were very young, some looking no more than fifteen. It struck me that if you are a bored teenager in a poor, starving country what else is there to do but join a local militia? Carrying a Kalashnikov is like a sign of acceptance, a symbol that you have power and are part of a group. In England we join the local football team here they go and shoot people up. I laughed out loud as one baby faced fighter told us with a smirk on his face that he had single handedly killed one hundred and thirty Al Shabab fighters.
Ahmad and his colleagues from Ahlu Sunnah.
They have a saying in Somalia: “It is good to trust, but it is better not to trust.” My team and I had no choice but to trust the Somalis while we were there. They didn’t let us down, I found them friendly and open people, quick to smile and keen to make sure that as their guest I was comfortable. Although I’m not in a rush to return I do now have a more positive opinion of Somalis and once the country is more stable I will be happy to return.
Into Somalia from caparkinson on Vimeo.
“Hay my friend, why are you taking my picture?” I looked up to see the six Congolese soldiers standing over me; they seemed inquisitive rather than angry. I’d been filming Displaced people carrying their belongings along the road that lead north from Goma in the Eastern Congo, people who had left everything except what they could carry on their backs, desperate to avoid the fighting.
A Congolese Family walking into Goma
It was my first day in the Democratic Republic of Congo and I felt relaxed. I wasn’t taking their picture I assured them just filming the road, I smiled and went to walk away only to find myself surrounded. Suddenly the atmosphere changed, the Commander became more agitated, “Show me the picture,” he shouted, his eyes yellow and bulging from the sockets. He was clearly on drugs and unstable. By now B. our French Security advisor and Jack the local Fixer were with me, they told me to do as he said. I cued the tape back ten seconds and showed him what I’d filmed. It was a low angle shot of the road, heavily laden displaced people filled the frame followed by the silhouette of his unit against the sky. If he had concerns about his face being on International TV he needn’t have worried. He still wasn’t appeased. “Give me the tape,” he screamed, spittle flying in all directions. I hesitated unsure what to do. This was the cue the soldiers were looking for and as one they raised their weapons and stepped back menacingly. My calm left me as all the locals who had been watching inquisitively suddenly ran. They’d seen these guys in action before and knew this was a dangerous situation. I glanced at B. and he nodded at me, “lets give him the tape and get out of here,” he whispered. I popped open the tape compartment and pulled out the cassette handing it over as quickly as I could. He snatched it from me still shouting incoherently in a mixture of French and English. Still he wasn’t happy, he had a point to prove and ordered me into one of our Four Wheel Drive vehicles placing three of his heavily armed soldiers on the back seat behind me. He and another of his men jumped into the other vehicle with the rest of my team. We set off back toward Goma. I had no idea what was happening, where we were going or what I should say.
Mount Nyiragongo as seen from Kibati Refugee camp.
I sat in silence as we drove in convoy. I was afraid to look around at the men behind me. I stole glances in the rear view mirror and was annoyed that one of the men wore British style Commando flashes on his shoulder. I’d been embedded with the Royal Marine Commandos in Afghanistan and resented some of the world’s worst soldiers mimicking some of the worlds best.
After about ten minutes the lead vehicle pulled over and B. got out and ran back to me. “Right” he said, “he’s calmed down now but you need to go and apologize to him, explain it’s your first time here and that you are very sorry. He’s taken a bribe from Jack and just wants to keep face by having you apologize.” I nodded; I was still scared and reluctantly climbed out of the vehicle. The Officer stared hard at me as I approached. I put on my best guilty, apologetic face and apprehensively walked over to him. “Hallo Sir, I’m very sorry for filming you. It was a mistake and I’ll make sure not to do it again.” He nodded and dismissed me with a lazy wave of his grubby hand, trying his best to play the gracious monarch. It seemed to do the trick and the atmosphere began to ease. He decided he was happy now but that we should drop him and his unit back where we found them on the road.
On the return journey the meanest looking of the soldiers in my vehicle began to talk to me. He was a big guy and looked menacing in his wrap around black shades. He spoke to me in Portuguese, I replied in Spanish and we had a surreal conversation as he explained he was Angolan and what a beautiful country it was. By the time we had returned to our start point he was my new best friend, enthusiastically shaking my hand and giving me a thumbs up and a smile. It was only after they’d gone I understood why he was so happy. . . Correspondent Orla Guerin had left her rucksack in the back footwell, when she came to collect it her purse and hundreds of dollars were gone. My first day in the DRC had been an eye opener. This was a country without rules, without law and where you could be killed by anyone at anytime. Welcome to hell I thought as I put the camera on my shoulder and headed into Kibati Refugee Camp.
Taking a rest during a tough foot patrol
I’d always wandered how it felt to be shot at, to hear the crack of bullets breaking the sound barrier above my head and to feel the adrenaline flood through my body.
When it happened it was strangely surreal, like it was happening to somebody else. My heart rate barely seemed to rise above its normal level. It was Christmas day 2007 and I was in Helmand Province, Southern Afghanistan with the Royal Marines. I was embedded with Delta Company 40 Commando based at Forward Operating Base Gibraltar.
When the Taliban began their ambush we were crossing an open field between two large mud walled compounds. One of the Marines spotted something unusual and we went to ground. I thumbed the record button on my DSR 500 Sony Video Camera and began to frame up on the Marines who were poised and ready for anything. Immediately there was a distinctive bang and whistle from the trees to our front, “RPG” screamed one of the guys next to me. I buried my nose in the dirt at the bottom of the shallow ditch I was hiding in. The explosion was close, maybe ten meters behind us. It was followed by a number of single shots from an AK-47 that I could clearly hear whipping through the air above my head. The Marines began to return fire under the direction of Lieutenant Atherton, a baby faced young officer, incredibly calm for a man experiencing his first taste of battle. Jonesy, a black guy from Wales was next to me and he quickly opened up with his weapon. The sound of his Minimi machine gun was vicious as it went into action spraying controlled bursts of fire into the Taliban positions. “Incoming” screamed someone close as another RPG round exploded nearby. For a minute I’d forgotten why I was there and was too busy tasting the Afghanistan dirt to film. Eventually the Bootneck next to me asked if I planned on filming any of this, I laughed and began looking for shots. I felt detached, like I was watching the entire scene play out through somebody else’s eyes. The battle soon steadied and the frantic back and forth of small arms fire slowly died away, the Marines picking their shots looking to minimize damage to the surrounding village. After some time it appeared the Taliban had withdrawn, no more fire came our way and slowly we began to move back across the open ground and into the cover of an empty compound nearby.
50. Cal machine Gun FOB Gibraltar
I’ve thought about that day many times since. Every sight and sound is seared into my memory. It was the closest I’ve ever come to death, one of the few times I’ve ever had to consider my own mortality. But it is also one of my best memories, one of the highlights of my life. Looking back I felt more alive on that day than at any other time before or since. I guess that’s the addiction of combat, it’s that feeling that Soldiers and War Cameramen live for, the buzz that keeps them going back into hot spots again and again.
