They Still Owe Him a Boat
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OD Photo Prize 2022 Winner
Jono Terry is a documentary photographer born in Zimbabwe and currently based in London. His focus is post-colonial Africa, researching questions of belonging, the effect colonialism and history have on society today, and the possibility of creating an impact to change the future. Jono was selected as the Grand Prize Winner of the OD Photo Prize 2022 with his recent series They Still Owe Him a Boat. In this project, Jono portrays certain layers of the history of his country of birth, Zimbabwe, and works to decipher his and his
family’s sense of belonging to the place, as white British immigrants to the continent, through researching the complicated colonial past and opening a conversation about the present. Jono describes his interest in Lake Kariba and the building of the dam wall in 1960 as emerging from his father’s wish to scatter his ashes in this location and from the value of family albums and memories connected to the place. The series will be presented in the Photo Book Cafe between 1-3 December in an OD Photo Prize Christmas pop-up.
In this interview, we speak with Jono Terry about his winning series They Still Owe Him a Boat. We discuss the inherent interest in the topic chosen for the project. We touch on the subjective experience of the place and history, its effect on the present, and the experience of researching the topic for four years. Jono speaks about the theme of the series, “As a white man in post-colonial Africa, I have always had a particular interest in the politics of belonging. It has been my way of understanding and unpacking the colonial history of Zimbabwe while simultaneously locating my own position, past and present, within it. I think it’s important to question the narratives of our history and our collective identity.”
Publication Details
OD Photo Prize 2022 Winner
Judges:
Tim Clark
Cécile Poimboeuf-Koizumi
Professor Steven Macleod
Efrem Zelony-Mindell
Bill Shapiro
Bindi Vora
OD Photo Prize
Hi Jono, congratulations on being announced a Grand Prize Winner of this year’s OD Photo Prize! How does it feel?
Hi! Absolutely thrilled. It's the professional highlight of my career so far, so yeah, over the moon. I've been working on this project for about four years, so it's really nice to receive this recognition from all the judges and everyone at OD Gallery. The belief in my work, in this story, and the feedback I’ve been receiving from not only them but from people reaching out across various platforms has been amazing. It's been a lot of hard work, stressful financial juggling, and more than a few periods of self-doubt, but ultimately a lot of personal fulfilment and an immense privilege to contribute to the rich history and story(ies) of Zimbabwe.
‘My initial interest in making work about Kariba was sparked when I found out my father wanted his ashes scattered there. The concept of returning to the land, even a land to which we didn’t necessarily belong, struck me as quite powerful.’
They Still Owe Him a Boat
Let’s speak about the project They Still Owe Him a Boat. You explore the Zambezi Valley, the two sides of Lake Kariba, and the effect the construction of the Kariba dam wall in 1960 had on the population by researching the local culture and your personal experience of the place. What ignited your interest in this specific topic, and how was the project started?
As a white man in post-colonial Africa, I have always had a particular interest in the politics of belonging. It has been my way of understanding and unpacking the colonial history of Zimbabwe while simultaneously locating my own position, past and present, within it. I think it’s important to question the narratives of our history and our collective identity. I’m particularly motivated by creating new collective memories that represent a more honest relationship to the history of our country.
My initial interest in making work about Kariba was sparked when I found out my father wanted his ashes scattered there. The concept of returning to the land, even a land to which we didn’t necessarily belong, struck me as quite powerful, even though it leaves behind a lot of big questions. The lake, Kariba, is one of my favourite places in Zimbabwe. It is perhaps where I feel most at home, and for as long as I can remember, it has always resonated with me in a deeply spiritual kind of way. It, too, is where, one day, I would like to finally return. As most of my work centres around the concept of belonging and the idea of home, it felt rather natural that I was drawn to make work about this place.
While undertaking research for this project, I was asked to contribute to a book celebrating the 60th anniversary of Lake Kariba, which really drove home how much of Kariba’s history was a white man’s history. For example, much more was made of the rescue of a few thousand animals in ‘Operation Noah’ (despite culling more than the total rescued amount in the years leading up to the flooding of the valley) than was made of the relocation and destruction of large communities, and a rich cultural history that had existed and thrived in the area for centuries. So that really became the catalyst for me to start making my own work about Kariba aimed at questioning some of these narratives.
‘I wanted to challenge my own relationship with Kariba in the hope of bridging some of the gaps between white history and the original history of the Zambezi Valley before the construction of the Kariba dam wall. This is essentially a story of the land and the cultures that were born from it.’
The Experience
You discuss the experience of the white and the black populations in connection to the Zambezi River, its history, and the beliefs connected to it. Could you speak of the duality in the experience of the place you depict in your project from your personal perspective as someone who was born and lived in Zimbabwe?
I have had (and in many ways still have) a very specific relationship with Lake Kariba. Growing up as a relatively privileged white Zimbabwean it is where I have experienced some of my most formative and fondest memories — my first fishing trip with my father, holidays with my best friends, a place of adventure, a rite of passage. There is a reason why it is one of our favourite places, and I like the idea that we all have the same family photo album of Lake Kariba — containing similar images and the same photographic tropes: the sunsets, the wildlife, the drinks, the petrified trees, the portraits of a triumphant fisherman proudly displaying their catch. We all seem to have the same (white) collective memory and understanding of the place, which in turn became ‘our’ culture, ‘our’ traditions, and ‘our’ narrative of Kariba. It was this idea of the family album that really made me start to question what the family albums would look like without colonisation or the flooding of the Zambezi Valley. Yes, Kariba is a magical place but for whom, and at what cost was this achieved?
When the Kariba dam wall was officially opened in 1960, its construction was compared to the Great Pyramids of Giza and symbolised the conquest of the untameable, the ‘advancement of civilisation,’ and it is perhaps because of this that white Rhodesians and later white Zimbabweans developed some sense of ownership of the place. This ownership necessarily excluded the people originally rooted in the land. The primary purpose of the lake was hydroelectric power, which all of Zimbabwe has benefited from but following its construction, large numbers of indigenous populations were forcibly relocated, losing access to their livelihood and their way of life along the river and the things that Kariba subsequently become most known for: the landscapes, the scenery, the wildlife, and the fishing were all geared towards the white industry.
In a time before Kariba the Zambezi Valley was home to a rich tapestry of mythical beings and sacred rituals of which NyamiNyami, the Zambezi River god, is the sole remnant (now a widely reproduced tourist gimmick) — and although these extensive folklore tales are not mine to tell there was another side, another history, and another experience that was less acknowledged and less appreciated which was arguably more important for me to include in this work. I wanted to challenge my own relationship with Kariba in the hope of bridging some of the gaps between white history and the original history of the Zambezi Valley before the construction of the Kariba dam wall. This is essentially a story of the land and the cultures that were born from it.
‘Being part of a culture and living a relatively sheltered life within that culture meant that for large parts of my life, there were a lot of things I was completely blind to, and so some distance between myself and Zimbabwe helped me become aware of the themes I wanted my work to centre around and the ideals I wanted to challenge.’
The Identity
You gained your BA in Journalism from Rhodes University in South Africa and an MA in Documentary Photography and Photojournalism from the University of Westminster in the UK. Experiencing the culture, people, and history from within the society is distinct compared to continuing to learn about it from afar and gaining a fresh perspective. How do you think living and studying in two different countries affects your approach to the topics you choose and the exploration of your identity?
I am extremely lucky to have lived and studied in two different parts of the world — both places have taught me a lot about myself and my place in the world, and both degrees taught me very different approaches to making images and navigating the world as a photographer.
Coincidentally, both South Africa and the United Kingdom are of huge cultural significance to Zimbabwe, probably best explained by one of my favourite Zimbabwean authors, Peter Godwin, who described Rhodesia as a fragment of a fragment — the white population saw themselves as British imperials imbued with the sense of the South African frontier, the South African mission, and the South African cultural idea. So rather conversely, both places have also distinctly contributed to my feelings of rootlessness and inspired me to question my belonging.
Being from the place, and being afforded time away, definitely highlights certain disparities, and once you become conscious of them, they are very hard to unsee. Being part of a culture and living a relatively sheltered life within that culture meant that for large parts of my life, there were a lot of things I was completely blind to, and so some distance between myself and Zimbabwe helped me become aware of the themes I wanted my work to centre around and the ideals I wanted to challenge. I think my approach necessarily must be more sensitive and intimate because of my relationship to Zimbabwe. I am not only critiquing cultural and societal issues, I am critiquing myself as part of the system, fully aware that my own identity as a white Zimbabwean exists because of British colonialism. The work is about me, but it is also very much about Zimbabwe, and I am solely motivated in creating work that starts some long overdue conversations and examinations of our past. As naïve and idealistic as it sounds, I want to contribute to the story of Zimbabwe in the hope of contributing to a better Zimbabwe.
Perhaps because of my position and the themes I try and address in my work, I often get asked if my work is motivated by white guilt. I guess if using my position of privilege to question my history and our history, then yes, I am absolutely motivated by white guilt, and I am undoubtedly more driven by this because I have spent time away outside of Zimbabwe.
Process
What did you discover in the process of working on this project on the personal or professional levels? What was the most touching part of the experience, the one that, perhaps, you didn’t expect?
Well, leading up to this project, I was dealing with a serious case of imposter syndrome, so professionally, spending four years working on what was to become They Still Owe Him a Boat taught me a lot about perseverance and belief in my own ability as a photographer and storyteller. Working on this project allowed me to develop my photographic practice and hone the necessary skills I needed to tell the stories I wanted to tell. It was undoubtedly the most beautiful office I will ever have, but it was also the hardest I have ever worked and the most time I have spent focused on one thing, so I guess there was a realisation that this is what it takes.
Personally, the genuine interest and joy I experienced from people wanting to contribute to the story of Kariba was incredibly humbling, and seeing it all come to life slowly has been richly rewarding. All of which has profoundly reinforced my love of Zimbabwe, the people in it, and the desire to make work about my home.
It is very hard to pinpoint the most touching part of this experience, as I can quite honestly say that the past four years have been the most beautiful journey of my life. There have been numerous occasions I have pinched myself: be it the serendipity of a chance encounter or the surrealness of an event unfolding before me but perhaps the close friendship I formed with Solomon, who I had initially picked up as a hitchhiker was the most unexpected. Solomon typifies the generosity of the Zimbabwean spirit with a big smile and a loud laugh, he quickly became my fixer, my confidant, and my connection to all things Kariba. There are times when I question if I’d be able to finish this project without his help. He fondly refers to me as his long-lost brother, and saying goodbye to him at the end of my final trip later this year will quite possibly be the hardest part of this journey.
