Self-Portrait With Pygmy

Beni Hills, Zaire, Africa

Camera: Rolleiflex

The story:  "At 28 years old, my new friend the Pygmy Chief was a man of stature and respect amongst the tribe. Life for him seemed to be very straightforward. There was time spent providing for the basic needs through foraging and hunting in the forest, and the rest of the day was left to leisure. He had time to play with the multitude of children, and time to make more children.

In honor of our arrival a celebration was thrown. The festivities began with the twenty or so tribe members wholeheartedly devoting themselves to the consumption of a pungent smelling banana wine. As darkness settled on the forest floor, the music began and the smell of cannabis filled the air. Clouds of smoke and moonbeams from high above created spotlights on the mass of tiny writhing people. The primal beat of the drums and blowing reeds drove the pace on, as women spun in circles and chanted in vocal chorus. Though the words and meaning of the foreign tongue were lost to me; the merriment of the setting carried me away to a place of timeless ritual and joy. We danced in the moonlight for hours, forgetting where we were, or how we got there.

Exhausted I stopped and viewed the scene from a nearby log. There, in the midst of the raucous group of little people was my friend Andy, dancing as if there was no tomorrow. At that moment it hit me: here in front of me were a bunch of adult children. These small people were frolicking and reveling in the thrill of being alive. My last memories of the night were the dancing shadows cast on my tent wall as the drums beat on. When I awoke I lay there and tried to remember where I was. Did last night really happen? I unzipped my tent door to a multitude of eyes and smiles: "Ah, the one with crazy hair is awake."