I took the train across the country once, alone, before I had children. I sat in the lounge car for hours, staring out the window, and discovered I had a choice about what to look at. I could either look through the glass at the scene unfolding in front of me, or I could look into the glass and find my reflection. A barely-perceptible flicker in my eyes was the difference between seeing the country or seeing myself.
You leave out the part about the jeep.
Instead you tell him about the crowded bus winding up the narrow mountain road, the curtain of green outside the windows, how the driver stopped at every hairpin turn to let more bodies squeeze aboard while the wheels spun in the mud. You tell him about the old woman next to you, face like a walnut and no shoes, carrying a plastic bag full of mangoes. You mention the sloth hanging like dirty laundry from a tree limb.
The camera is an instrument that teaches people to see without a camera
– Dorthea Lange