On the rising roads that lead to maize fields and cattle pastures of wildflower and national parks of the second tallest waterfall in the world, I rolled down the window.  Near the mud and corrugated iron huts I poked out my head, snapped a picture of a woman.  Her face turned towards me beneath her brown head-kerchief blur looks angry, shocked, violated.  I considered not taking the picture.  But, moments later, beside a field where men worked the maize, I zoomed in and snapped.  They turn towards the lens, with a body language that gives that same angry expression as the woman’s face.  One of them points at me.  He is only pointing back, at the photographic finger I point at him.  Every time I look at these pictures I feel guilty, criminal.