My own camera, sadly, was pick-pocketed in early July, and Zach's replacement was a very welcomed surprise — but it came at a price.
He told me that he would give me the camera, but only if I agreed to do a project. A portraits project of the people in my life here in Peru.
I'm not a photographer. But a deal's a deal. So, I present to you the first of many faces. (And thanks, Zach.)
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Sheick, age 6, first-grader“Do you want to read a book with me in English?” I asked. Sheick nodded, chin to chest, face to sky, and back again.
I showed him my hand, and he took it, walking with me to the back step. We crouched down to face the banana trees and crowing roosters.
“Do you like Winnie the Pooh?” I asked. He nodded, vigorously again, until I was afraid his head would fall off his neck.
Laughing, I started at page one.
Sheick didn’t speak English. It didn’t matter. By page two, he ran his playground fingers across the page, shouting the names of the figures he saw.
“Weenie-poo!” … “Tigre!” … “Abejas!”
“Yes, bees,” I said.
By page three, he grabbed the book from my lap and declared it was his turn to read to me. With careful concentration, he sounded out the English words on the page in perfect, first-grade Spanish. It made no sense. He didn’t care.
At page four, he returned the now-smudged book to its prior place in my lap. We read on, trading pages. English to nonsense. Until all was well in the Hundred Acre Woods.
He looked at me. I looked back. I closed the book, and he grabbed it, flipping pages and running his palm across the drawings. Suddenly, he shoved it back into my hands.
“Again!” he demanded. “And this time in Spanish.”
I showed him my hand, and he took it, walking with me to the back step. We crouched down to face the banana trees and crowing roosters.
“Do you like Winnie the Pooh?” I asked. He nodded, vigorously again, until I was afraid his head would fall off his neck.
Laughing, I started at page one.
Sheick didn’t speak English. It didn’t matter. By page two, he ran his playground fingers across the page, shouting the names of the figures he saw.
“Weenie-poo!” … “Tigre!” … “Abejas!”
“Yes, bees,” I said.
By page three, he grabbed the book from my lap and declared it was his turn to read to me. With careful concentration, he sounded out the English words on the page in perfect, first-grade Spanish. It made no sense. He didn’t care.
At page four, he returned the now-smudged book to its prior place in my lap. We read on, trading pages. English to nonsense. Until all was well in the Hundred Acre Woods.
He looked at me. I looked back. I closed the book, and he grabbed it, flipping pages and running his palm across the drawings. Suddenly, he shoved it back into my hands.
“Again!” he demanded. “And this time in Spanish.”
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