Blog moved to new site.
I am moving my blog to a new home – you can find it here now
“Crossing Iceland” wins Film Festival Grand Prize
Last weekend at the 2012 Nomading Film Festival in New York City the short film documentary of my adventure across Iceland with Alastair Humphreys won the Grand Prize!
UNwomen photo
UNwomen has through its offices in New York, Liberia,
Introducing Bushtaxi.org
FEBRUARY 15, 2012: New York, London, Dakar
We’re proud to be launching bushtaxi.org: a tool for organizations and agencies to find talented professionals – photographers, designers, writers, filmmakers – who can meet their communication needs. Global communication is changing rapidly; bushtaxi.org is a vehicle for new, dynamic communication strategies. On the site we’ll also be sharing our stories, projects and experiences.
Explore the site, learn more about the team and check back regularly to hear about our latest projects. You can also subscribe to our newsletter or follow us on facebook.
The opening video on the home page was shot and produced by Christopher Herwig with footage from Peru, Bangladesh and New York, with original music composition and sound editing by Michael Åberg. Additional footage from Mali by Olivier Malvoisin, with voiceover text written by Kate Thomas. Bushtaxi.org is an original wordpress creation by Jim Shannon.
Le Figaro Magazine
Christopher Herwig in Le Figaro Magazine
Aurora photographer Christopher Herwig’s images of burning gas craters in Turkmen Desert were used in Le Figaro Magazine. The gas crater is a result of a Soviet gas exploration during the 1950′s that was later set alight.
Ongoing Project: Rain
An ongoing project by Christopher Herwig.
Inspired by my time in West Africa, I set out to tell the story of our relationship with rain: a force of nature essential to our survival, but one that we cannot control or predict. Photographers often avoid rainy days, as they tend to make dull images. But using camera housings designed for scuba divers, I can enter the heaviest of downpours to look for the beauty and drama of rain, while revealing the hardships and resilience of people living in some of the wettest places on earth. Climate change is exacerbating weather extremes and rain is a major factor in the erosion of economies, displacement of populations and the loss of thousands of lives every year.
Here is some sample footage and photos from chasing the rain in Peru, Bangladesh and Liberia. For more information or to discuss ways your organization can collaborate on this project please contact us.
Background music: Rain, by Jeanette Alexander
For more images both in and out of the rain visit herwigphoto.com .
The Genius of Tim Hetherington
Great video on BBC called the Genius of Tim Hetherington who died covering the war in Libya in April of this year.
Till Dec 2, 2011 you can still catch at the Bronx Documentary Center photos from his last days in Libya. http://www.bronxdoc.org/.
As well I highly recommend checking out his books on Liberia and Afghanistan as well as the film Restrepo.
We knew him from Liberia and he was the sweetest, humblest guy ever and his work was beyond inspirational. We miss you.
- Tim Hetherington over Liberia
Liberian President Ellen Johnson Sirleaf wins Nobel Peace Prize
Here’s a quick tribute with some of my favorite shots of this years shared Nobel Peace Prize winner from while I was in Liberia.
also a link to a photobook on Liberia Women (makes a good Christmas gift)
National Geographic
Happy to see National Geographic again using several images for its Photo Galleries on Seven Stans as well as the Ancient city of Damascus.
Iceland crossing photos and video
In July, 2010, Alastair Humphreys and myself planned a trip across Iceland. The goal was to cross the entire island on foot and by raft, carrying all supplies needed. This unique transportation combination allowed us to explore parts of the country otherwise impossible to normally reach. Our route sampled the incredible geographical diversity of the country with lush farmland, barren highlands, nourishing hot springs, swamps, wetlands, waterfalls, lava fields, and active volcanos. By no means was this an easy trip, as it rained every day for the first two weeks, temperatures dropped near freezing, packs weighed over 40 kilos, winds threatened to rip apart our tent, the food rations never seemed to suffice, the route was unclear, the icy and muddy ground unsure and rivers at times very angry. There are some new images on my website and a short video here of some of the highlights. Read the full story on Alastair Humphreys blog. Special thanks for Go Lite for providing backpacks, sleeping bags and rain gear for the trip.
Poetry – one step at a time
21 days, 350 kms, 2 hikers, 2 classic poems of adventure and restless wandering
Each day while crossing Iceland, Alastair Humphreys and myself recorded one another as our beards slowly grew, and as we lost a bit weight and a perhaps sanity as well.
Product Review: Solar Charger for camera batteries
On this previous trip across Iceland, we needed to figure a way to recharge our camera batteries since we would be at least 3 weeks without electricity. I brought a solar charger on amazon from powerfilm (F15-600). Although it was useless on the countless rainy, overcast days, it could recharge a Canon 5d Mrk ii battery in roughly 3 hours when the sun was shinning. The solar blanket is super light and compact and could be strapped to the back of my pack while hiking. I also had tested the smaller version earlier but it was not successful. If you have the space and the money I would suggest going one level up to allow for charging on slightly overcast days as well. For the charger to work properly with the solar panel you will need a charger that can connect to a cigaret lighter, there are many on ebay for sale for under 20 USD with extra battery.
Now based in New York
A great year of living in Vancouver recently came to an end as we felt it was time to move on again. Just prior to leaving in May 2010, I was happy to complete three courses in publishing design, design for communication and typography at the Emily Carr University for Arts and Design.
I am now based in New York City and my family and I plan on being here for the next few years. I am looking forward to new projects in the future based in and from New York and in finding heaps of new inspiration and people to collaborate with. Phone number in New York: +1 646 884 2299.
The first major project in the works is a month long expedition across Iceland. I am teaming up with British adventurer and author Alastair Humphreys to hike and raft from the North coast to the South Coast using packrafts and carrying all our own supplies. The trip starts already in 3 days and I’ld be lying if I wasn’t a bit nervous of what to expect on this new adventure. If all goes well I hope to share videos, photos and stories soon.
Opening Day of Winter Olympics
February 12, 2010 marked the first day of the Winter Olympics in Vancouver. This series of portraits were taken around downtown Vancouver during the 12 hours leading up to the opening ceremonies as the streets filled with fans, as well as demonstrators, all trying to make the day memorable and significant. Also included in this post is a short video featuring these images and more.
Jessie from Langley up early to photograph the torch as it enters Vancouvers via Lions Gate Bridge
Sylvia from Richmond watched her brother carry the the torch along the Stanley Park Seawall
Curtis protests the lack of decent social housing as the Olympic torch passes Main and Hastings in Downtown Vancouver’s eastend.
Bryce from Nanaimo, Vancouver Island enjoying the pre Olympic’s fever.
Dominque from Quebec, a volunteer with a community based art project
Billy, flat land BMX rider, under the Cambie Street Bridge outside BC Place Stadium
Luam from Eritrea joins anti-olympic protest
Charles-Henri, cameraman for Eurosport
foto jakta
I am pleased to be contributing to a festival of creative and documentary photography which will take place in the several cities in the Czech republic from the end of March to the start of April. Click on the link below if you will be in the area.
http://fotojatka.cz/en.php
Happy New Years!
Wishing you all the best in 2010.
A great year and a fun decade has passed for which I am thankful for all the brilliant memories. For the moment we are still in Vancouver but will likely be on the move again somewhere new soon, but no real plan yet. I looking forward to new adventures and more challenging projects. If you have any suggestions or want to collaborate, I am eager to hear about it.
Here’s some shots from today’s Polar Bear Swim at English Bay in Downtown Vancouver where thousands of people every year welcome in the New Year with a chilly dip in the ocean.
Liberia photobook
New Portfolio online
After months of playing with different designs I have redone my website. http://www.herwigphoto.com
In the past I have done the designing myself but found that it took too long to update so I have gone with a template from http://www.cmdwebsites.com. Other services I checked out which I liked included photobiz, portfoliositesz.
If you haven’t visited already check it out, would love to hear what you think.
Best of the Decade Honours – Asian Geographic
Asian Geographic Magazine recently celebrated its 10th anniversary and pick its favorites from the last decade. Great to see that my series on Central Asia published in 2007 was honored as one of the best photographic contributions of the decade.
Calendars for 2010 and prints for your wall
Here are three new calendars available using some of my favorite images from the last 6 years of living and traveling in West Africa and Central Asia. You will also find a selection of images available for printing to decorate your walls with.
Trip to China
September found me in China traveling 7000km across the country following the shadow of what some would call the Silk. This was final section for me after 6 years of trips which stretched from Shanghai to Istanbul and focused heavily on Central Asia. Starting in Shanghai then trip went through Xian, Lanzhou, Bingling Si, Xiahe, Jiayuguan, Dunhuang, Turpan, Tuyog, Urumqi, Kashgar and Khotan. Compared to my previous two trips to China I couldn’t help but notice how quickly the country is developing and how much tourism was exploding, especially Chinese traveling at home. Everywhere I seemed to turn were tourists, so instead of getting frustrated that they were in my shot I decided to include them because quite frankly often they were more interesting and quirky than the sights. Sand dune sliding, inflatable goat skin rafting, archery, and the usual camel rides are some of the tourist activities in the series here.
Back based in Vancouver
After almost 9 years of travel and living abroad in Central America, London, Sweden, Kazakhstan and Liberia, I am back in Vancouver for a little while. I was happy to work on Lonely Planet’s new encounter guide on the city which help me refamiliarize myself with my hometown sites.
Book Cover from Sierra Leone
Cover shot from Sierra Leone
Here’s a shot that I took in Sierra Leone on the road to Bo while traveling with Leonard Pitts from the Miami Herald in 2006. Just recently the image was reused for cover of “The Lassa Ward” by Ross Donaldson.
Book Description:
Ross Donaldson is one of just a few who have ventured into dark territory of a country ravaged by war to study one of the world’s most deadly diseases. As an untried medical student studying the intersection of global health and communicable disease, Donaldson soon found himself in dangerous Sierra Leone, on the border of war-struck Liberia, where he struggled to control the spread of Lassa Fever. The words, “you know Lassa can kill you, don’t you?” haunted him each day. With the country in complete upheaval and working conditions suffering, he is forced to make life-and-death decisions alone as a never-ending onslaught of contagious patients flood the hospital. Soon however, he is not only fighting for others but himself when he becomes afflicted with a life threatening disease. The Lassa Ward is more than just an adventure story about the making of a physician; it is a portrait of the Sierra Leone people and the human struggle of those risking their daily comforts and lives to aid them.
Liberia from the air
My last week in Liberia and my last ride for now in a UN helicopter. I will miss the noise, and the being able to hang ones head out the window like a dog with wings. I enjoy to play with shapes , lines and space in my photography and from the air the simplicity of the far away objects makes this really rewarding.
I was tempted to add Bet Midler’s “From a distance” to the slideshow below but then I realized there would obviously be copyright issues so I kindly ask the viewer to sing along yourself. (maybe i could make a karaoke version).
It's a chopper baby
A day with the women of Ghanbat 10
This photo series follows Sergeant Dora Doroye and her fellow female soldiers serving with the UN peacekeeping force from the Ghanaian tenth battalion based in Buchanan. It follows them from morning worship, leading group exercises, and going on patrol.
Layout and design work
Here are some recent cover shots for publications for Liberian Government and UN in Liberia.
One of several images as part of a billboard campaign against Sexual Exploitation and Abuse
Common Vision
At Work Together
PRS cover
‘And still I Rise’ photo exhibition
Women's Colloquium
SKD Stadium
Monrovia proudly hosted an International Colloquium for Women drawing participants from all over the world including prominent female leaders. I was pleased to have the opportunity to participate and showcase 50 portraits of both prominent and everyday Liberian women at the entrance to the event. This was the second time the exhibition on women of Liberia was shown, the first being in January at a concert celebrating women sponsored by UNMIL at the Centennial Pavilion in Monrovia. A printed version of the exhibition is available.
Teaching at the University of Liberia
Photo Class
From 2007-2009 I had been helping out at the University of Liberia and teaching the Photojournalism class. Remembering back to when I was in college in Vancouver with computer labs, fully equipt studios , darkrooms and a variety of camera equipment to experiment with, textbooks, desks… I couldn’t help but think how lucky some of us are. In the photo above we didn’t even have a classroom, so the three hour lecture was done outside. When we did get a classroom, I was amazed when students were carrying their desks all day from class to class with them as there was not enough to go round and they would not be guaranteed otherwise a seat in their next lecture.
Black Diamond book cover
From a photo shoot with Black Diamond in Monrovia, early 2008, here is cover of her book, due out at the start of 2009. amazon
Book Description
At sixteen, Ellen was a normal young Liberian girl. Her father called her ‘Black Diamond’, because she was so precious to him. But Liberia was being torn apart by civil war, a war that would destroy almost everything she loved. Government soldiers murdered Diamond’s parents in front of her. Diamond herself was then brutally raped, stabbed, and left for dead. Miraculously she survived. When she was strong enough she made an astonishing decision – to return to Liberia and fight on the side of the rebel forces. Rising quickly through the ranks Diamond became a leader of her own battalion of women. Many believed ‘Black Diamond’ must be a myth or a supernatural being ? but in fact she was just a young girl, fearful but determined to create a better future for her country. This is her dramatic and heartbreaking true story of survival and courage ? and of her struggles to create a new life both for herself and the women who fought with her.
Human Rights Day
Night out with the ERU
A night out in Monrovia on patrol with Liberia’s newly trained Emergency Response Unit taught by UN police.
Liberian kids try filmmaking
15 Liberian children from Monrovia participated in a workshop we ran in participation with UNICEF. They learned how to make short video clips. They worked in pairs practicing basic techniques and filmed their messages on peace and human rights to be shared with the world on International day of Peace on September 20th.
The video was then edited and shown on CNN’s ireport.
Young filmaker working the angles
Talking about peace
Moses Swaray
CD cover for Moses Swaray’s hit CD cover for Liberia’s 2007 Star is Born Winner. You can hear his song here.
Ganta cassava farmers
Photo series of a project sponsored by Unifem showcased on BBC. Click to view
Fulltime position with the UNMIL
After two years of working as a freelance photographer in West Africa, I have now received the opportunity to work a full time position with the United Nations Peacekeeping Mission here in Liberia as their main photographer. First assignment: a visit by Secretary General Ban Ki Moon.
Ban Ki Moon
Arasan Banya, Almaty Kazakhstan
Arasan Bath House in Almaty
Wearing only a felt hat, oven mitts and flips flops a Kazak man dripping with sweat picks up a 2 meter long rod with a bucket on the end and uses it to open the metal door to the banya’s (sauna) oven and shovel in water. The upstairs loft of the banya is packed with mixture of ethnic Kazaks and those of Russia decent. All of whom go instantly quiet as the hot burning steam fills the large room. No one dares to move or speak, knowing the intense heat would make it very difficult, and instead everyone waits. Slowly the room cools slightly and movement is again an option. The silence is broken with the crack of bundle of branches from a birch tree (venik) against one mans sweaty back. Slowly others join in with the whipping practice which is said to improve circulation and is done by a friend or to oneself. The once quiet room becomes loud with the noises of the whipping sounds which eventually synchronize into one common rhythm as if it was an army marching band.
The Arasan Baths lies in the heart of Central Asia’s most cosmopolitan city, Almaty. It was built during the Soviet Union in the the 1970’s by the Party Secretary at the time – Kunayev. He was said to be well liked by the public but his extreme over spending on the Bath complex got him in trouble with his party superiors, by whom he was fined for. The complex is said to be partially inspired by the ancient bathhouse in the Kazak city of Turkestan, which are much smaller and more modest in comparison. The complex houses Russian, Finnish and Turkish baths as well as several private suites for group rental. As people are mostly naked in the public baths they are separate men’s and women’s sections. The Russian style banya is the most popular section in the building and allows access to 4 saunas, a large palatial swimming pool and a changing room resembles more a fancy hotel lobby complete with a bar, couches and chandeliers. Naturally massage serves are offered throughout.
Banyas are said to rejuvenate, cleanse and energize your entire body. To some locals there is nothing that a good banya and shot of vodka can’t cure. For some it’s a much needed escape from the outside world – relaxation for mind, body and soul. Puskin himself said “….the banya is like the Russian’s second mother.” Although the Russian Empire and the Soviet Union is slowly becoming a distant memory to the Kazaks in Almaty, the banya remains as popular as ever. Throughout the cold winters tickets sell out most nights, and for New years day one has to buy ticket days in advance for the privilege to sweat away the dirt from the previous year and whip yourself into shape for the next.
Here are some photos of the Arasan Baths for Steppe Magazine. With temperatures off the charts I had to preheat my camera (old school Canon AE1) in the oven and leave it in the sauna sealed in a dry bag so it would not condensate when exposed to the extreme temperatures.
Kazakhstan roadtrip video
Road Apples
London to St. Petersburg by bike
September – November 2002 – Exhibited Galleri Kontrast, Stockholm, September 2003
After having my fill of living in London and a long distance relationship with my girlfriend in Stockholm I made the decision to move to Sweden. For as low as $20 (plus tax) I could fly with Ryan air to Stockholm. To take my bike would cost me almost an extra $100, instantly the wheels in my head started spinning, how unfair, there must be a better way. Why should I be taking the bike to Stockholm, when the bike should be taking me. As usual the idea started in the Pub over a pint and by the time the glasses were all empty the plan had evolved and gone slightly off course; So I took my bicycle and camera on a cycling vacation 3000km across Europe from London to St. Petersburg. I did it for the exercise, a complete workout of mind, body and soul. Losing myself on quiet country roads across Holland, Germany, Poland and the Baltics which provided seemingly endless opportunities for reflection and day dreaming. Creatively as a photographer the journey helped me erase some preconception of what my images should look like. As the season changed drastically around me so did my ability to recognize beauty . With a fresh curiosity and a new perspective everything looked new and exciting.
In a way I was lucky. Riding from Shepherd’s Bush in West London, across and out of the city was extremely nasty. No respect for cyclists at all. But it was the first day of the trip and I was just happy to be finished work and carefree. So I couldn’t complain. It turned out that riding across London was the worst traffic I would encounter on the whole trip, so after London everything was rosier.
Lacking the time to overly plan the route before my departure, I had to figure it out along the way. Part of me was probably thinking the route was a given, like the Trans Canada Hwy, just get on and go east. On a bike however highway riding is not so much fun. It’s dangerous, usually boring, noisy, and since the roads are bigger I feel like I am travelling even slower than I am. On a peaceful country road, everything is tighter and the scenery can wizz by up close. Finding the right roads was a challenge at time but a fun one.
The actual bike riding took a little to get used as well. Getting conditioned mentally and physically was challenging at first but once I found my happy place and my legs figured out which way to spin, it all became second nature. My happy place was found mentally after overcoming the fear that the task at hand was overwhelming. Part of the problem was that the map I set out with covered most of Europe. The lack of fine detail not only got me often lost on my little country roads but was also demoralizing. It made me always look at the big picture and the fact that I was only travelling 3 cm a day towards my goal was not encouraging. Upon this realization I prescribed myself the necessary placebo, very fine detailed maps. Soon I was averaging almost a map a day and travelling up to half a meter. My goal had become where I would have lunch that day, and then the next break etc, instead of Leningrad. Friends are often astonished when they hear how far I rode and I try to explain to them that it actually easier to go 3000 km than it is to go 400 km. Like pushing a car it , may be difficult at first but once its moving its much easier to keep up the momentum.
My route ended up taking me from England to Holland via the ferry between Harwich and the Hoek von Holland. Holland is often regarded as one of the most bike friendly places on earth and its true. Smooth bike paths seemed to form a tight web over the country connecting every town and community together. Naturally I got the most lost in Holland because I couldn’t always figure out which was the next little community or town I wanted to be heading to. Why they don’t mark there signs with a simple “this way to St. Petersburg, Chris” I don’t know. But most of the time the bike paths were like cruise control, just put your feet up on handlebars and watch the greenhouses go by. Once in Germany and for the remainder of the trip I mainly kept to side roads, trying desperately to avoid the shoulder’s of busy highways. The route was primarily flat, with mainly farmland with the occasional forest and broken up with week ends in Amsterdam, Hamburg, Gdansk, Kaunas, Riga and Talin.
With this series of photographs I wanted to produce a more honest representation of my trip. In the past my “travel photography” consisted mainly of interesting looking people and attractive attractions. The typical makings of a splendid vacation. This time the journey itself was the vacation. The land rolling by was my tourist attraction. The travel guide telling me what to see was to be replaced with a set of curious voyeurring eyes looking for the lost gems.
To accomplish what I wanted photographically I knew that I had to force myself to change my way of looking for a photograph otherwise I would be halfway to Russia with very little to show for it. To accomplish this I played a game with myself. With every hour on the bike I had to take at least one photograph, no matter how boring the area seemed to be. It was very difficult at first. I was still struggling with preconceived notions that around every corner I’ld find weird barns, or rustic looking farm equipment or dramatic scenery. I needed to let go and let my eyes surprise me. Slowly I was able to erase these envisioned photos and was able to accept what the rolling scenery had to offer. Joy and genuine entertainment was eventually found in the simple and everyday things that were previously overlooked.
I can recall ten years ago borrowing Uncle Bruno’s orange Opel Cadet and spending 10 months driving around Europe. I would curse every power line that ran across my viewfinder. Thinking “this would be such a great angle to photograph the castle from if only that damn power line wasn’t in the way”. Now the power line was king.
From early morning to late in evening, my days were spent on the bike with nothing else to do but slowly and carefully watch the world go by and let my mind go on a vacation of its own. As I rode towards Russia, I also rode towards winter and I noticed the landscape gradually changing around me. Not changing so much in its basic appearance, for I found farm land looks very similar across Europe, but changing in seasons. The further east and north I rode, I was riding into the cold and dark weather and architecture. Putting more and more layers of clothing on every day till there were no more and I would struggle then to keep good circulation as temperature dropped sometimes to minus 10. Shorter days, constant grey weather, bitter cold, and the death of fall was here. Bright colours sliding into autumns hues, and then all colour itself seemed to fade away. All that was left was barren frozen fields, and skeletons of trees, and fallen rotting fruits. Abandoned soviet factories and deteriorating square apartment blocks accompanied the weather everywhere I went. The cities of Riga, Vilnius, Kaunas and Tallin seemed however oblivious to the seasons and bubble over with life, and growth and big colourful ads selling everything you want and nothing you need. In the cities my cycling legs were replaced with my dancing, drinking legs, which in Baltic countries proved to be a harder than the cycling.
In many ways the trip was a very solitary experience. With long days alone on the bike, I sometimes went weeks without a real opportunity to have a conversation with anyone else. Especially in eastern europe people didn’t seem to know what to think of me. Everyone would just stare blankly. I’ld smile and nod, and they would stare. Of course sometimes people would be friendly and chat. In Germany a sweet retired couple put me up for the night. Dogs gave me plenty of love along the way. When ever they saw me coming they’d talk up storm. And if I looked a little slow and tired, they were always willing to give me a kick start and run along side eager to get a piece of my well exercised buttocks. As a result the photos didn’t contain any people, I wanted to convey this feeling of peace and solitude in the series, and take a break from soul stealin.
In the cold and snow at the start of November I rolled into St.Petersburg. All of a sudden it was over. Yes I was exhausted but I was ready to celebrate, dance and drink like a fool, have a drunken conversation with someone else than myself. St. Petersburg is a perfect city for all that and more. For many a night to come I ‘ld close my eyes and go to sleep convinced the road was still rolling underneath me.
My route:London,
KM TOTAL – DESTINATION
30km Upminster
110 Harwich, Hoek Von Holland
210 Den Hagg, Amsterdam
317 Harlingen
127 Groningen Nordladen
557 Odenburg
630 Tuschendorf
750 Hamburg
830 schwerin
980 Teterow
1140 Swinoujscie
1265 Kolobrzeg
1386 Ustka
1510 Chielno
1550 Gdansk
1655 Frombork
1800 Ketrzyn
1900 Goldap
2000 Marijampole
2060 Kaunas
2170 Seduva
2210 Siauliai
2360 Riga
2440 Cesis
2585 Otepaa
2630 Tartu
2830 Narva
2985 St. Petersburg
P.S. – If you think this is at cool – you have to check out a cyclist who had a true adventure which makes my ride look like a dash to the shop for milk – www.roundtheworldbybike.com
Short story from India
I wrote this while traveling in India in 1998, it was fun and therapeutic writing it at the time as I had time to kill while recovering from a stomach bug and had some issues to work out on the motives of street photography.
City of Divine Light
Varanasi, India, Dec 1998
In the thick haze over Varanasi, an exhausted Sun lowered her wiry head. A dim orgy of oranges, reds and yellows slid unnoticed and neglected behind the chaos of the city. As Noah dodged the rickshaw, and tuk tuk traffic to cross the street, the fading sun was the last thing on his mind. A tuk-tuk squeaks out a honk as it narrowly missed him in the middle of the street. He spun to watch it drive off. He was tempted to wave his fist and yell something but soon forgot that it almost ran him over.
It’s hard to describe a tuk-tuk to someone who hasn’t seen one. Otherwise known as a motor-rickshaw, it’s a kind of cross between a Vespa and a sardine can. Tight, cramped, gutless and sometimes smoky. But hey, somehow they sit up to three passengers and will get you where you’re going and cheap.
Noah had gotten almost used to the sight of the constantly honking tuk-tuks by now. Except this one was different. It had the same round miniature look to it and had to dodge cows and crowds like everyone else. But what made him notice this particular tuk-tuk was that it had a body strapped to the roof. Wrapped in a fancy gold embroidered fabric, it’s legs, that were hanging over the back, flew wildly in the air with every bump and twist to the road. God! That would make a wild photo Noah thought to himself.
The vehicle could only drive so far. Even it’s tiny shell was too much to fit down the narrow alleys of old Varanassi. The body was carried further by family members who carefully negotiated the maze of alleys towards the Ganges. A drum played an eerie yet upbeat rhythm alongside. Upbeat enough that one could dance to it, but due to the circumstances it seemed out of place.
In the dark alleys cow shit was everywhere and took on the personality of land mines. Hiding in the shadows, working in conjunction with other piles forcing you away form one and right into the next mountain of warm love. The climate in India can be ideal for sandals but nobody likes cow shit between the toes.
Noah eventually ended up on the banks of mother Ganges.The most sacred river in India and cremation goal of millions of Hindus. An indifferent moon raised his head to face the darkness. Noah was not alone here. He wouldn’t have come to the burning ghats at night by himself. The body from the tuk-tuk was there already for a while. A Scottish girl named Sharon whom he had met at his hotel was with him. And there were others in the shadows and in the fires burning. No he wouldn’t have come here alone. It spooked him. He definitely wouldn’t have smoked a joint here alone either.
The ancient burning ghats at night along the river created a timeless scene. The dirt, the smoke, the primitive smell of burning flesh mixed with the sweet smell of sandalwood. The body had been laid on a stack of burning wood. The gold fabric was almost completely replaced by a warm blanket of fire, which clung tightly to the skin. Soon layer by layer the body returned to ash. The bones required ample encouragement to eventually follow. A local appointed himself tourguide and told them about the ghats. The price of wood; normal wood/sandal wood, how much wood it takes to fully consume an adult male and the cheaper budget alternative of electric cremation further along the river. He also told Noah not to take any photographs, but he could stay as long as he liked. Meanwhile a bell from a temple, lit in the glow from the fires, rang out a hard and steady beat. It’s an easy place to loose touch with reality, fall into a trance set by the ringing and drift away in time. Especially if you’re stoned. There was nothing to pull you back to 1998, to reality. No fancy suits, or designer shirts with text, no electric lights, no cameras, no powerboats in the river. Nothing. The local continued on explaining about the different meanings of the various colors the dead are burned in. How they signify the age and sex of the deceased. But Noah’s attention was elsewhere and he didn’t care for the background info. The desire to preserve this moment was strong in him.
He felt like he was a time traveller. In a time and place where he was definitely a foreigner. He felt very alone in this world.
In a smoky daze Noah looked at Sharon beside him. He wanted so very much for her, at this moment, to hold him and reassure him all was well. A gentle pat on the head would have gone a long way. But how does one go about requesting some mothering. He felt as if his bones had gone brittle on him and he needed to be kept together before they shattered. He didn’t want to sleep with her, not really. He just wanted to be held and had no clue of how to ask for it.
The previous day she was the one who needed to be told everything was O.K. They were in an up-scale sari shop together. A wealthy Indian family was busy spending a small fortune outfitting a wedding party while the two of them in another part of the shop had countless saris
laid out on display. Noah was well into the fabric and marveled at the intricate patterns and bold color combinations. Even trying one on himself just for a laugh. Sharon ended up buying one, which hugged he small body exquisitely, Noah thought. But before she bought it they were talked into sampling some opium in a back room by the shop owner’s son. The young man seemed to take immense pride in selling only the best. He asked Noah repeatedly, “Do you like quality?”. Unlike the sari, which seemed to agree and compliment every aspect of her body, the opium only made her ill. Subsequently and to the horror of the quality merchant and to the amusement of a disoriented Noah, she vomited all over the store.
From an abandoned stone building they watched the fires glow below. The Ganges floating by. The shadows coming alive. People were everywhere. In the darkness of the decaying building old bodies lay sleeping, waiting to die by the Ganges.It is considered good Karma to die by the Ganges. Be burnt there and have your ashes spread over the water. He couldn’t see them all but he knew there were many. Death was everywhere and seemed like an everyday thing. Just another part of daily life and an accepted part of the city’s architecture. In Varanassi death isn’t the end, it’s the beginning of a new and hopefully better life. Healthy souls in worn out suits waiting to move on, in the hopes of getting some new threads.
A week earlier he arrived in Varanassi with a group of friends he’d been traveling with for a couple of months. After a few days in Varanassi they all moved on and Noah stayed on to learn the Tabla, Indian drums. He figured he’d stay for perhaps 3 weeks. At the time 3 weeks seemed like an eternity away. It wasn’t that he had fall madly in love with the city, but for some strange reason he couldn’t picture himself leaving. In a way this spooked him.
Twice, while his friends were still there, they took a boat ride on the Ganges. As the sun rose across the river and bathed the banks in a warm quiet glow, the young travelers crawled out of bed. In a small rowboat they joined the hoards of other tourists drifting alongside the ghats. Several dozen tiny green boats each pressed out of a single leaf and roughly the size of a teacup were also set loose on the river. They were filled with flower petals and a tiny candle that sparkled down the river. On the other side of the boat a dead cow, heavily bloated, scraped alongside. All this time the early morning worshippers gathered along the holy river, welcoming the rising sun and commencing their daily rituals. Women out washing. Naked yogis chanting.
Noah was a photographer, and though of late he had not taken many pictures he stills saw them in his mind’s eye. In Varanassi they were all around him. The streets, the ghats, the river; they’re all filled with action and life. Not to mention the timeless city as a backdrop. In early Hindu scriptures Varanassi or Banaras was referred to as The City of Divine Light. This soft, warm and embarrassing light is still present today. When he would see something, someone unique, different, odd compare to Western standards he was torn between the guilt of missing a shot and the bad taste he got more and more now from going somewhere with his camera that he felt he shouldn’t. It would have been just too easy for him to sit back, relax and enjoy the magic of traveling just for the moment and for all it’s worth. We can sometimes worry so much about preserving a moment that we miss it’s true essence. One eye closed looking through a two dimensional viewfinder lacking depth completely.
The two most intimate and personal times in one’s day; bathing and talking to God, has somehow become an international spectator sport in Varanassi. Long telephoto lenses bring faces in worship full frame. Nothing is left in privacy. The camera becomes a shameless weapon possessing the same offensive power as a pointed gun. And like a game safari spotting lions and tigers, fellow humans are put on display and images are sought after like game trophies to be hung on the wall. Never to be truly understood or fully appreciated.
“ Check out the dude win the funky g-string washing himself , did you get him?”
“Did you catch the Sadhu with the white stripes all over his forehead.”
“My Gosh is that man masturbating under his sheet along the river. No please,no?!”
Noah didn’t take too many shots. He was starting to feel disgusted by his presence there among the floating tourist packs. Not to mention he only had a wide-angle lens with him nothing compared to the others in the boat and deep down he surely was a bit jealous. For in his mind he could see the pictures. In his heart part of him wished he was capturing it all. But it was a bit of his own soul he feared he was loosing with every photo he took. Even the ones he saw other people take. He knew he was just like them and felt responsible for the invasion. Slowly the guilt ate at him.
It wasn’t always like that for Noah. Years back he can recall the taking came much easier. While travelling in Mexico, he wanted to take a picture of a Tiawanan prostitute in the sleaziest brothel he could find. It was in B&W and was intended to be very raw, gritty, and full of life and character. The words dignity, pride, privacy and respect never crossed his mind, yet. And it confused him why it was so much easier for the women to give themselves sexually for ½ hour than allow to be photographed for even more money. He’d even let her keep her clothes on; he thought what’s the big deal. He just didn’t get it. Yet.
The times he really felt it now was when watching other packs of traveller/tourists hoard around some hardworking peasant woman or group of ragged children. Snapping furiously they claim there trophies of the third world and move on as quickly as they came. It seemed so cheap and degrading. He always saw himself in the pack and more and more he wasn’t liking what he saw.
He always tried to be respectful and ask first. But as time went on that didn’t ease his conscience one bit. He felt he was doing it all for the wrong reason. Like he was a disrespectful outsider. More and more he was realizing that as long as he was behind a camera looking through the viewfinder he could never be in the picture. He’d always just be a curious, nosey voyeur trapped in the constraints of the viewfinder.
Noah was never the luckiest cat on the block however in Varanassi his luck seemed to crash altogether and he started to joke to himself if he’d ever get out of Varanassi. At the end of the first week he decided his dark windowless stuffy room could use some incense to spice it up. He placed the stick in a crack on a ledge, which had the remains of incense from previous guest. Before the incense burnt out completely, Noah already had and slipped into a deep dreamy sleep. And as he dreamt away a small burning ember of sandalwood sweetness drifted done and landed on his pillow beside him. What a charming pillow it was. A stained and faded yet still giggly Minnie Mouse on one side. A sly looking Mickey on the other side and under Noah’s head drowning in drool which probably saved his two dimensional 2D life. The pillow smoldered for hours into the night. Slowly the synthetic stuffing burned until Mickey was a widower. It’s unsure whether the pissed off Mickey woke Noah or the heat from the fire but he finally awoke to a dark smoke filled room with a pillow that glowed every time he exhaled. He jumped up and quickly put it out with a bottle of mineral water. He was shaking. The fact that he had no windows was driving him insane enough and now he had this nightmare to deal with.
Over the next couple days he continued with his lessons and desperately trying to get a grasp on his fleeting nerves. He returned one afternoon, tied and weak. Within an hour a boiling fever came upon him while he still had to wrap himself in blankets and his sleeping bag. Circulation left his hands and feet completely and went numb. He started shaking uncontrollably almost to the point of thrashing. His head pounded with a blinding headache. He was convinced there was a party going on inside him and he wasn’t invited , even though it was his house. The music was so loud the speakers were screaming with feedback. In a drunken rage the party goers started moshing to the music; stomping on the floor and bouncing off the walls. Furniture was flying through the air, bottles smashed and the toilet seat ripped off.
“Make the bad people go away”, he mumbled aloud.
The doors needed to be opened and the guest needed to leave. And that’s just what happened next. With a vengeance all the doors seemed to be ripped off there hinges, and the bad people were on there way out. But not without a fight. Noah began to alternate between vomiting and diahrea. Sometimes he couldn’t alternate and just made good use of the tap at the corner of the Asian style squat bathroom to clean the floor in front of him.
Over the next 24hrs he didn’t sleep a wink; making over 70 trips to the bathroom. The vomiting stopped but the shits continued swiftly like a river swelling from monsoons. He had been squatting so much his legs hurt, and he was becoming far to familiar with his once trusted left hand. He got into the habit of sitting backwards over the squat hole so that he had a chance to inspect his waste as it slithered down the trough and towards the hole. Thinking he could figure out what was wrong. Someone needs to publish a travellers color illustrated guide to stool interpretation. Kind of like a how to read tea leaves book or even like a bird watchers guide. It would make a delightful coffee table book.
‘This extremely quick fowl is characterized by it’s blood red speckled green plumage and bubbly personality.’
He didn’t dare estimate how much weight he had lost and was frightened by the constant sight of blood in his shit. Not to mention the smell, a healthy shit doesn’t hum like that he thought.
“ That’s just not right ”, he said to himself aloud. By now he was certain he had earned the right to talk aloud to himself. “That’s wrong”, he concluded as he filled a film canister with a sample that he wanted tested.
“The Mother Ganges is not polluted”, a slightly offended sounding Sadhu corrected him days before. “ She is troubled! ”The holy man wore Rastafarian deadlocks down to his feet which looked so extremely dry and brittle one might think that they’d been flowing as long as the river has. His head was decorated with the phallic symbol of the lignam, indicating the sect he belonged to. He washed and drank directly from the sacred river which has the arduous task of carrying all the human, animal and industrial waste that it accumulates over it’s 2500 km journey from the Himalayas to the Bay of Bengal.
“Yes, troubled indeed”. Noah felt the same. Lacking the energy to leave the hotel he had a doctor called for. The doctor was quick and arrogant with his diagnosis and ignored Noah’s request to have the contents of his film canister examined. A smorgasbord of drugs were prescribed and the doctor was off.
The following morning he was out to find the pharmacy, 5 minutes away. The directions to the pharmacy seemed simple, “ turn left at the Ganga Fuji restaurant and straight to the main road and it’s on your left.” Straight, Noah thought to himself as the alleyway wound around like a snake forking in all directions. They’ve got a pretty perverse concept of straight he thought to himself. I guess the boys at the cinema last week were considered straight as well. The previous week he went to a Hindi movie with some friends. A Bollywood flick looked like it could be fun and for the most part it was. He got separated from the group he was with before getting in. Unfortunately they had his ticket and before he was kicked out of the theatre he had the misfortune of getting crushed in a mob of young male moviegoers. All pushing against the gate Noah became sandwiched up against it. The young boys jeered at him in
Hindi and as he was squished and unable to move he had his bum aggressively fondled. The crowd completely aware of what was happening roared with laughter and heckled him. It was unsure who was doing it and there was little he could do but try to ignore them. Content on seeing Noah snap someone goosed him swiftly between the legs taking his nervous and somewhat startled testicles into their hand. He tried to swing around but again there was little to do. This was repeated till the gates finally opened ending his horror. “Straight my ass”
Weak, confused and tempted to start crawling he finally found the drug store. The following day he thought the medication was working and he was feeling slightly better. He ventured out to tell his drum teacher, affectionately known as Baba he’d be back in a few days. A tall slim man with long thinning hair and sharp facial features. Baba was always chewing beet root. A filthy addictive habit that discoloured his teeth, forced him to be constantly drooling red juices and talk out of one side of this mouth. But boy could this cat fly on the drums.
”Dha-dha-ter-ket-tak-tha-tha-tu-na”, he’d rap, as his fingers vanished mysterious in a blur above the drums.
Not only was he a brilliant tabla player but he had a heart of gold and seemed genuinely concerned about Noah’s health. “ You have a quick motion, yes?”, he asked about Noah’s symptoms. Motion ,Noah thought, and for a brief second he was confused before he realized Baba spoke of the shits. “ It’s loco motion down there my friend, crazy shit I tell you”, he responded. They laughed and he made his way back to the Golden Lodge.
As he walked he felt fragile and awkward in his body. It was like clothes that didn’t fit properly. A sweater shrunk in the dryer, or a shirt that was made by a blind drunk tailor. Too tight in some places and so loose in others you could trip on it. Along the way, one of Varanassi’s many street cows took an out of character charge at him and hit him with his head. Dazed and distraught he headed on only to get knocked by a cycle rickshaw into a crowd of people minutes later. Just before arriving back to the relative safety of his room he was aggressively stopped by a shop owner.
” Silk, incense, change money, hash, opium cookies, supperdooper marijuana? “ Then the man paused and looked closely at Noah who was fading rapidly. “ You second time in Banaras, yes?” Oh great, Noah thought to himself, I am never getting out of here. And at that like a flash of lightning he shat himself and humbly walk away to find rest and cleansing.
Back in his prison of a room he waited as the fluorescent light flickered for a minute before coming to life. He laid down and stared at the fan going wild on the ceiling, it was the only thing to look at. The walls were bare and plain and the bed filled the small room. Otherwise there was his camera equipment. A glance in it’s direction only brought upon guilt and confusion. Guilt for wasting his talent and not taking any pictures and guilt for taking photos. The little voice were talking up a storm.
It was a curse for him, he didn’t seem to be able to win and it was tearing him apart. If only I could understand my motives, he thought. Surely not all the photos I took were ill-intended. Many were of colorful unique people taken with care for the subject who was in turn proud to be photographed and to share with the viewers a slice of his or her culture. But it wasn’t those photos that ate him up in side it was the ones he took where the motives involved seemed out of focus. His motives, the subjects motives and the viewers interpretations of it all. He wished it was all black and white but knew like his photos there were many shades of grey.
‘I see an old man on the side of the road’, he pondered, ‘his mouth hanging open wishing he could drool but was too parched. I want to take this photo, but why? His 2.4 teeth on the left side of his mouth sparkle from the light coming through the crumbled building beside him, but there is no smile. The right side of his mouth is nothing but darkness, an empty abandon lot. Oily thick jet black hair grow 2 inches out of his ears as if in search for answers, that couldn’t be found inside. Wrinkles and groves that have seen more weathering than the coast of Scotland. One eye, hanging one to catch the end of the show. Do I find this man beautiful or do I actually find him just so ugly that I can justify taking his picture (along with his dignity) by calling it character.’
He recalls back to trekking in Nepal and coming across two young Nepalese girls. Clothing tattered, barefoot and carrying baskets on their backs that were almost as big as they were. In the name of social awareness he asked to take their photo. Their cuteness contrasted heavily by the hard lives set upon them. They really didn’t want to get their photos taken. They knew they appeared poorer and different to the fancy backpackers who came through spending more money on dinner then they see in months. But they also knew that there was a chance for gain in it. Money or candy or something.
The photos were empty and lacked emotion and were quickly followed by an outstretched hand and the words “rupee, rupee, sweets ?!” They wouldn’t have otherwise given of themselves. Just as a prostitute won’t sleep with you for free, pride has a price. And like having sex with a prostitute, taking someone’s picture whose allowing it only for the money can feel as cheap and as sleazy. And it shows on the film.
It was all becoming too much for Noah. He was weak and just wanted to relax. On the roof he found refuge in a novel. His mind drifted with the countless kites battling for airspace over Varanassi. Female monkeys flying from roof top to roof top, sometimes with one or two babies clinging to their belly. Proud male monkeys strutting along ledges swinging testicles so large it was no wonder why they never evolved like man into walking upright. The trade off didn’t seem worth it for them. Noah had a keen eye for detail and was distracted easily, slipping into the calming world that is the roof tops over Varanasi.
He was spending too much time alone and the demons in his head were working overtime. He needed some tender human contact and knew only one place to buy such intimacy in India. The barbershop.
Noah found that going for a shave was rather a treat. He hated shaving himself for he always hacked up his face. Getting someone else to do it on the other hand was sweet. The lathering and warming up the face. The gentle tickle of the blade. The way the Indian barbers pinched and stretched his skin to get a clean shave. The slapping on of disinfectants afterwards. It all appealed to him, especially the bizarre face and head massage which include various forms of slapping, pounding, hair and ear pulling and sometimes even eye ball rubbing. He’d always come out smacked around looking like he went through the spin cycle, but feeling thoroughly refreshed from it. Sometimes even a little bruised and confused.
The following week back on the streets of Varanassi the noise of the constant honking and bike bells were reaching over saturation. Still he saw photos all around him, he couldn’t escape it. He felt he had to get out of Varanassi before he went completely mad. He booked a train ticket and checked out the following day. He had only been 19 days in Varanassi but it was time to go.
The next morning he replaced the burned pillowcase. Sewing a new case over the burnt pillow and then another over that. The black charcoal still came through the fresh white layers. His train didn’t leave till midnight so he left his bag with the hotel management and spent the day in the restaurant reading. As nightfall came he went for a walk and bought a hat. He liked it. He didn’t normally wear hats but this one work, and he instantly grew attached to it.
Proudly wearing his new hat and giddy with the concept of leaving he went for a thali at a restaurant near the river. Before his food arrived the front of the restaurant burst into flames, starting with electrical problems in the brightly illuminated sign above the entrance. It quickly spread to the clothes hanging outside the adjacent shop. The restaurant was cleared and Noah wandered on unfazed by it all, thinking someone has got some nasty karma to deal with.
His wanderings found him again by the ghats overlooking one last cremations. It felt different this time no longer timeless as before. Tourists with Jansport day bags sipping Coca Cola held him securely in 1998. And as he joined the mourners silently and seemingly emotionless gaze on the fire as it cleaned the body layer by layer, it happened.
An tourist who happened upon this bizarre cremation scene thought he wanted to preserve this moment on film. He took out his point and shoot camera, walked toward the fire, bent at the waist and FLASH! Took a picture. In the dark of the night the flash was so overwhelming that the world seemed to freeze for a bright instant. The outraged relatives of the deceased grabbed the camera and threw it in the fire.
Noah turned quietly in embarrassment and horror. He couldn’t believe what he had saw. His breathing became rapid and he felt light headed all of a sudden. That one really hurt. Being a photographer and a foreigner he felt responsible. He would have never taken the picture himself but deep down still felt the urge to capture the raw nature of the scene. And again it was his soul that was dying as a result.
He gathered his strength and his bags and took a tuktuk to the train station. While waiting on the platform he realized the hotel had gone through the trouble of getting to the bottom of his bag and stealing his expensive German sandals. Knowing full well he wouldn’t discover them missing till after leaving Varanassi.
“ Cheeky little bastards” he mumbled aloud to himself “ stealing a man’s footwear. No respect. They were perfectly broken in. I was one with those sandals.” But he really didn’t care that much he was just tired.
A group of mourners returning from a cremation carrying an empty stretcher entered the packed train before him. He made his way climbing from ladder to ladder down the passage to find his bunk. Walking on the floor was impossible as it was filled with men, women and children crammed together. In his compartment, tightly designed for eight passengers, more than twenty found refuge. But again he didn’t care he was just tired and glad to be leaving Varanassi.
He laid down his head on his bunk and immediately slipped into a dream. In the dream he was seeing the world through the tight narrow minded constraints of a camera viewfinder. Images he had taken flashed by. An uncomfortable prostitute smoking a cigarette looking at the stained 101 Dalmatian curtains that hung in the room. A young African boy wearing a small rag around his waist, a few flies on his head and his baby brother on his back. All starting empty into the camera as if it contained the truth. A man dripping with sweat, breaking his back, barefoot in a job he’ll do his entire life blankly glances up at the camera with a face that looks 94 years old but in reality he’s probably five decades younger, only rapidly aged by a hard life.
More images, more eyes, more vacant holes where dignity and pride had fled from. Not only the photos he had taken but others as well all with one thing in common. They lacked respect. The final image to appear was of a fire peeling back the flesh and meat on a body exposing the bone. The viewfinder suddenly goes bright white. There’s yelling and then it goes into a spin towards the fire. Dark sky. Crowd of mourners. Fire lit temples. Row boats on Ganges. They all go spinning past in a blur before crashing with fire works into a hot sea of bright white. Complete and total overexposure.
As the overnight train rumbled out of Varanassi Junction and under the single light, that was dimming due to power surges, a man passing by stole Noah’s hat. Slowly and cautiously he pulled it from under his head as not to wake him.
‘Cheeky little bastard, no respect I tell ya. Stealing a man’s hat and while he’s sleeping at that. I loved that hat. I was intimate with it damn it, we had chemistry together.’ Noah would have said if he noticed it missing. But he didn’t nor did he curse the fellow who would pinch his watch from the bag under his lifeless legs an hour later.
You see after having the last of his soul burnt out of him earlier that day along the river, his heart had no choice but to follow. Of course there are those who can live without a soul but only to their benefit. Evil, nasty folk who thrive on wrongdoing and don’t respect even themselves let alone others. But Noah wasn’t evil or at least he didn’t want to be.
Meanwhile the sun was busy preparing for yet another days work and soon the banks of the river would be flooded in divine light. Dhobi wallahs began work as usual pounding, scrubbing and beating the dirt out of heaps of laundry. Their soap subs mingled with flower petals, waste and ashes of the dead. A cow rubbed his itchy head against the wall. Large black birds were diving at things that bobbed in the river, while a purple kite climbed higher and higher into the sky. In the kaos of the city, cows were still shitting, relatives were being burned and children were being born. Just another day along the Mother Ganges and perhaps another chance.
HerwigPhoto 
