The camera-toting NGO field worker: Cliché or communicator?

At first, the group of children looked at the small square of glossy white paper like I had made a mistake. It is not entirely unusual, after all, for visitors and staff from NGOs to come to their village in northern Bangladesh brandishing cameras and politely asking to take their pictures. The visitors, so the pattern goes, then turn the camera around and show the picture on the small screen to the kids assembled. So this blank piece of polaroid paper I handed them was met with skeptical glances and uncertainty about how to respond…but only for a moment. Slowly, shapes — then faces — emerged on the small 2-by-3-inch paper. Within minutes, dozens of children, mothers, and young adults appeared, shaking, fanning, and blowing gently on their own small polaroid photos, trying to speed up the all-too-slow “instant” developing process. Every few seconds they would check the glossy side of the page to make sure it was still working. Digital cameras have become as essential to the modern aid worker’s field kit as hand sanitizer and Imodium. Pictures of small clusters of smiling children, hamming it up for the camera, or dignified, stoic elders make their way back to home offices, and then onto Facebook profiles, NGO websites, and multimedia databases. The camera-toting NGO field worker is at times a cliché, but I work in communications, and so having a camera — if not two, plus a smart phone — when visiting a programming area is part of my job. But cameras can also be a tool to break down the barriers between an outsider and community members. Arriving in an isolated, rural community in Nepal or Cambodia or Bangladesh, a camera can be an icebreaker. After politely asking if you can take a photo, usually via hand gestures, being able to then show people their own photos begins to bridge the divide and break down some of the hesitation and wariness that some may have towards foreigners, particularly those who have just arrived with a small entourage in a white SUV. When the camera comes out, children start to cluster around to see their photos, laughing and pointing. Soon the village matriarchs arrive, demandingly tapping you on the shoulder to have their picture taken. However, the subjects of these photos almost never see their pictures again. Aside from the brief glimpse as they gather around the photographer’s tiny screen, these photos are then consigned to SD cards, hard drives, websites and fundraising materials. Whether a photo gets published in an online newswire or is erased on the drive back to the field office, the subject probably won’t ever know. Often, I’ll hand my camera over to the children themselves, give them a very brief introduction on how to use it, and leave it with them while we visit. This results in a very different collection on my camera when I get back to the office, with much more fun photos of kids being kids. But in the end, the photos still leave with me when I drive away. This led me to the idea of using polaroid cameras. While still largely a retro fad for millennials to tote along to house parties, Polaroid cameras may also have a place alongside the digital SLR and granola bars stuffed into an NGO-workers’ backpack. On a recent visit to Plan International projects in northern Bangladesh, the emergence of Polaroid photos led to several women in one village gathering up their babies, quickly changing into their best clothes, and coming to get their photos taken. As word spread, more and more women appeared, all eager to have a photo of their young babies that they could keep. For many of these families, this is their first, and only family photo. Children get the most excited. As the image slowly comes into focus, so too does their energy. Elders are the most rewarding people to sit with as you hand over a blank piece of film. The slow wonder and excitement that builds in a face most often made stern and serious by age is heartwarming. This is what happened recently in Bangladesh, when a grandmother asked for her photo to be taken after seeing pictures that were being passed around. As I handed her the blank photo, she looked at me with a mix of annoyance and incredulity: Why was I giving her this blank piece of paper? Her face quickly changed when I encouraged her to blow on it gently and look again. The film is expensive — about $1 per picture— and the photo quality hasn’t improved from the Polaroid’s heyday in the 1980s and ‘90s. But it’s not really about quality or composition. It’s about connection and offering a small thank you to those who have made time to speak to you and share their story. At the end of the day, it’s about leaving behind a memory and photos in the hand of an individual who has taken the time to pose for them. Our mission is to do more good for more people. If you think the right information can make a difference, we invite you to join us by making a small investment in Professional Membership.