There is a fine line to walk when traveling with a camera. On one side of the spectrum, you have a machine that can capture memories and portray a unique perspective of the world. On the other hand, pointing a camera at someone can completely alter your interaction with that human. When is a photo beneficial? When is it best to let a moment slip away into the past undocumented?
My dad, who studied photography, always encouraged me and my brother to include human subjects in our photos. They were more interesting, he would tell us. And I get why. Generally speaking, I find that the intrigue of my thousands of landscape shots wanes over time. But the photos that include humans portraying emotion are often the ones that tell a story, withstand the test of time, and become my favorites.
But shooting humans can be hard and/or awkward. The best portrait photographers know this balance well. There is so much more behind framing the image and clicking the button. You have to identify the photo you want to take and allow the human emotion/spirit to be displayed naturally — not distorted by the presence of a camera. In some cases, you even need to evoke the emotions. That usually requires some people and/or cross-cultural skills as you ease your way into a relationship with another human.
I see so many travel content creators on social media who enter a foreign land with ‘guns’ blazing — two or three cameras pointed at people to capture every aspect of their journey. I half-admire their confidence, but by being in photographer mode from the get-go, I can’t help but imagine that the relationships and interactions that they attract might be completely different than if they had been cameraless, keen on striking up a conversation with someone and learning something new.
I am an amateur photographer who prefers the nimbleness/subtleness/practicality of my pocket-sized, Panasonic point-and-shoot camera because photography is just a hobby for me. But during my travels, I often find myself debating the balance of what needs to be documented and what doesn’t. I had a recent experience on top of a mountain in Morocco that epitomized this mental debate.
After hiking all morning, I had gained the nearly 3,000 feet of elevation necessary to reach the peak of El Gouz, which overlooks the Moroccan port city of Agadir. I thought I was alone, but as I reached the fenced-off weather station at the top, I saw a donkey tied to a tree. Soon thereafter, I met the man who used said donkey as a porter to bring supplies to a little cement dwelling perched on the peak.
He emerged from the cement hut in a camouflage shirt, a green hat, and an equally green jacket. His thick ash-grey mustache and wrinkles told me he must be between 50 and 60 years old. As I approached the peak, he walked towards me, apparently having heard the sounds of footsteps outside.
I greeted him with “Salam-alaikum,” the classic Moroccan greeting that translates to “peace be upon you.” He waved back with the corresponding response, “Alaikum-salam.” (Please don’t quote my Arabic.) I told him my name and he told me his, although I cannot remember for the life of me what it was.
I tried speaking French with the stranger but got a blank stare in response. (As Morocco was formerly colonized by France, many Moroccans speak French to varying degrees.) Then I tried English and got an equally blank stare. I had to dig into my bag of very elementary Darija — the Moroccan dialect of Arabic — to communicate. After three weeks in Morocco, I’ve learned how to ask someone how they are doing, respond to the same question if someone asks, and count to 10.
I got his hopes up because once he heard me say, “Ki dayer?” — How are you? — he started rapid-fire Darija, of which I obviously understood nothing. Identifying the predicament, we began speaking slowly in a mix of French, English, and Arabic accompanied by rudimentary sign language. And we actually started making progress.
I learned that he was in the army and spent days at a time living in this small hut at the peak of the mountain. He was there to man the weather station, which belonged to the Moroccan military. I was proud when I understood the Arabic word for “bread,” (one of the few words in my vocab bank) as he wanted to offer me something to eat. I had to respectfully decline since I was already well-provisioned with food and I didn’t want to empty the food supply that he would rely on for who knows how many more nights on the mountain.
The man invited me into his little hut where I saw his mattress and rudimentary kitchen. He dug around his pack and pulled out his military-issued binoculars and handed them to me. I used them to peer around the various mountain ranges on the horizon.
Finally, I felt like the moment had arrived: I wanted to get a photo of this man to archive the memory of this moment. I purposely had not taken out my phone or camera up to this point because, as I mentioned, it would have totally altered the interaction.
Now that we had established a rapport, I asked in French if I could take a photo. He enthusiastically agreed, simultaneously pulling out his phone because he also wanted a photo. The barrier had been broken and photography was now fair game. We took our selfies, I took a few shots of him using his binoculars, and he video-called one of his army colleagues to show him the foreigner who had paid a visit during his watch. I assume he doesn’t get company often up there.
As I was sitting on a rock enjoying the Atlas Mountain scenery, the man retreated to his hut and emerged with a five-gallon bucket full of trash. He dumped it off the side of the mountain as I watched in horror. I poked my head over the cliff to see that today was not the first time he had sent his waste tumbling hundreds of feet down the mountainside. Oh well.
After about a half hour of labored communication, I bid farewell to my new friend. It was a reminder of the chance encounters during trips that are completely impossible to plan, but oftentimes the fondest or most educational moments. And, back to the original point, it made me think about taking photos while traveling. In this case, I felt the moment was more than suitable for a few quick photos.
My routine half-day hike in Morocco ended up being highlighted by this mustached army fellow. And I got photos to remember it.
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