As a special little gift to CruxForums, SkatingJesus has created a 104-pic Barbara-Moore-in-peril story and invited me to provide text. We are calling it "Kartomga Terror Pit" and will post the collaboration here in serialized form over the coming days. Watch for it and enjoy!
Kartomga Terror Pit
1. It was a close run thing, getting through airport passport control. The duty officer seemed skeptical, but I managed in the end to convince him that I was entering the Republic of Kartomga on a freelance photo journal assignment for a holiday tourism company that hired me to do a feature story on the country's natural beauty.
Luckily for me the officer was more interested in looking down the front of my half-open shirt than he was in running a full check on my credentials.
So here I am, sweltering in the midday heat, wandering about the oddly deserted streets of Kartomga City, looking for evidence of human rights violations reportedly perpetrated by the country's brutal new revolutionary regime. My assignment is to gather photo evidence as quickly as I can and get it out to Amnesty International.
Everywhere I go, I smell the stench of putrefying corpses. The massacred bodies of members of the former ruling tribe litter the doorways and interiors of buildings throughout the capital. I am incredulous of the fact that the revolutionary regime hasn't even tried to remove the bodies and cover up its crimes. I get out my camera and begin taking incriminating photos.
Over the next hour or two, I take hundreds of shots, and am so completely appalled by the scene and absorbed in my work that I fail to notice the red vehicle pulling up behind me or the heavily armed men closing in a on me from all sides ...
... and I am therefore quite startled when a deep voice suddenly booms out from behind to accost me in heavily accented and broken English, "Hey you! White bitch! You with da camera! What da fuck you think you doing?"
I spin around to see who is shouting at me just as I am surrounded on all sides by men leveling their automatic weapons at me.
"N ... N ... Nothing," I stammer. "I am doing nothing wrong here. Just taking a few pictures. My name is Barbara Moore. I'm a photo journalist on assignment ... here to promote the potential of your lovely country for attracting international tourism. Why are you asking? Who are you?"
"Shut up bitch! You no take more pictures and you come here. I no fool. You under arrest and I, not you, ask da questions here!"
Kartomga Terror Pit
1. It was a close run thing, getting through airport passport control. The duty officer seemed skeptical, but I managed in the end to convince him that I was entering the Republic of Kartomga on a freelance photo journal assignment for a holiday tourism company that hired me to do a feature story on the country's natural beauty.
Luckily for me the officer was more interested in looking down the front of my half-open shirt than he was in running a full check on my credentials.
So here I am, sweltering in the midday heat, wandering about the oddly deserted streets of Kartomga City, looking for evidence of human rights violations reportedly perpetrated by the country's brutal new revolutionary regime. My assignment is to gather photo evidence as quickly as I can and get it out to Amnesty International.
Everywhere I go, I smell the stench of putrefying corpses. The massacred bodies of members of the former ruling tribe litter the doorways and interiors of buildings throughout the capital. I am incredulous of the fact that the revolutionary regime hasn't even tried to remove the bodies and cover up its crimes. I get out my camera and begin taking incriminating photos.
Over the next hour or two, I take hundreds of shots, and am so completely appalled by the scene and absorbed in my work that I fail to notice the red vehicle pulling up behind me or the heavily armed men closing in a on me from all sides ...
... and I am therefore quite startled when a deep voice suddenly booms out from behind to accost me in heavily accented and broken English, "Hey you! White bitch! You with da camera! What da fuck you think you doing?"
I spin around to see who is shouting at me just as I am surrounded on all sides by men leveling their automatic weapons at me.
"N ... N ... Nothing," I stammer. "I am doing nothing wrong here. Just taking a few pictures. My name is Barbara Moore. I'm a photo journalist on assignment ... here to promote the potential of your lovely country for attracting international tourism. Why are you asking? Who are you?"
"Shut up bitch! You no take more pictures and you come here. I no fool. You under arrest and I, not you, ask da questions here!"
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