Life for a Lens

Photo: A lone man watches the ocean amidst the trash left behind by attendees of the annual Ganesh Chaturthi Festival in Mumbai, India 2009.

As a photographer, I spend most of my time alone. I meet random strangers in airports and airplanes, city markets and hotel lobbies. There really isn't anything glamorous in what I do--it just sounds interesting to the naked ear.

For years, I've tried to compartmentalize my life, separate my work from reality, from career to personal life--find an equilibrium between fact and fiction and filter everything through the membranes of my nocturnal psyche. But lately, I've realized that it's literally impossible--impossible to decipher the difference between what I do behind a lens and what I should be doing when I put it down. Ultimately, there is no difference.

Lately, I've been living out of airport terminals and empty-cold hotel rooms, eating dinners alone and surviving on hope. Talking to my mother on the phone, I'd lose track of where I am, what time it is and what day I'll be home. Sometimes,I'd lie to her by saying I'll be home soon--knowing very well that I have more destinations in between. It tugs on my heart strings--and late at night, I'd sit awake, wondering what else I've missed in life.

Birthdays go unnoticed, including my own. Thanksgiving day was spent eating a bag of beef jerky on a plane. Invites to events I'd get invited to sit rampant in my mail box. And as I read all the status updates of my Facebook friends, I can't help but to envy those who have normal lives--those who have a place to call home.

I miss going to the movies. Sharing a drink or two. Sleeping in on rainy days. Grocery shopping with my mom. Praying with my family.

Sure, there will be many who will read this and say I'm complaining, ungrateful for the job I have or just whining about my life. And to be honest, they have every right to think just that--but let it be known, that this blog was not to glorify what I do or bring to light my career, but rather, to bring you with me behind my lens--to show you what it's really like to have it consume your life.

Blogger Note: I'm currently on assignment in Vancouver, Canada to cover the arrival of the Olympic Flame.

Life in Lebanon

I'm currently in Paris, France en-route to my next assignment in Vancouver, Canada. I've spent the last eight days in Lebanon--in and out of various cities and villages. I went to Lebanon on various assignments--one of which was to train young photographers on how to work in hostile environments. But in a world of contradictions, Lebanon is both beautiful and fragile, yet full of adventure at every turn of the corner. Men dressed in full military fatigue and in the rural parts of the country, M-16 machine guns guard every intersection--but as you'll see below, it's life as normal in one of the most beautiful cities in the Middle East. Instead of showing you the stereotypical image you're used to seeing from a country that has suffered through twenty years of cival war, I'd like to show you the opposite. People here are happy, they live normal lives, and everyday is a new day for them.

Life has been hectic as of late. I haven't had much time to sleep, eat, nor organize my life. I'll be in Vancouver for five days to film the arrival of the Olympic Flame on Canadian soil as they prepare for the 2010 Winter Olympics. Hopefully, I'll be able to post again soon. In the meantime, I hope all is well. Please take care of yourselves...and each other.

Leaving on a Jet Plane...Again.

Tomorrorw morning I depart for Beirut, Lebanon. I'll update you soon.

A World of One

Photo: A single home sitting on stilts, off the coast of Nias Island, Indonesia 2009.
This post is dedicated to my dear friends in Brazil: Fernao Silveira and his lovely wife Bianca, their beautiful parents Antonio Jose Rossi and Teresa Dos Santos Rossi. For they have taught me so much during my last assignment.

Sometimes, when I put my camera down and take just a few steps back, the world before me swallows me whole--finds the rhythm to my heart--and some how, I am able to march to the beat of my own solemn pace. Lately, I've been traversing from city to city, country to country--living a life lost in sublime poetry. A million people pass me by, thousands more rub shoulder to shoulder--yet in a world of billions, I've come to realize that we are all mere mortals marching to the beat of one. One planet. One people.

I've seen the world from one end to the other, ventured into the depths of danger and back and even walked the path less traveled--yet, if you were to ask me which destination is my favorite--I'd be at a loss for words, freeze in the moment--and like an actor without lines, I'd find myself improvising, looking for a way out, trying desperately to slither my way off stage. I've seen so much through my lens, but to see the world without scripts and screenplays,lights and cameras--I must admit that I've seen so little. It's different when you view the world through elements of film and glass. You only see what you frame.

I cannot begin to tell you where my favorite locations have been, which country is better to vacation in or where the best foods may prevail, but having framed much of the world, what I can tell you is that the world is much smaller than you think--much the same--as you'd never thought it would be. You'll never hear this from a travel agent, but believe me, the sun rises the same way in Indonesia as it does in Brazil. The Pacific Ocean ebbs and flows, travels between land and sea the same way as the Atlantic. Beauty is all around us. And if you look to where everything begins, you'll see that we all breath the same air, drink the same substance and walk upon the same land that stretches far beyond our reaches. You too will realize that the only thing that divides us--that makes us different and unique from one another are mere lines of latitude and longitude--invisible to the naked eye. Our languages and cultures crisscross and weave into the very fabric that defines our existence. At the end of the day, we are all humans. We all reside on one planet.

Flying out of Brazil, I sat beside two men: one from Israel, the other from Lebanon. Two foes sitting side by side, leaving a country no where close to their home--yet, by virtue of 35,000 ft, they were the best of friends--sharing stories, laughter and fellowship.

I don't know what I've done to deserve to see the world like I do, or what obstacles and challenges may come my way, but the one thing that I will always cherish is the notion that we are all interconnected--marching triumphantly to the tune of one symphony, one beat--in a world of one.

Blogger Note: I apologize for my lack of posts as of late. My travel schedule has been hectic--flying out of Brazil, straight to Toronto and then to New York. I'm back at base for the next few days, then I will be leaving for an assignment in the Middle East next week. I hope all is well with you, my dear readers. Thank you for reading.

No Need For Words

Photo: School boys in Bahia, Brazil, 2009.

In My Prayers: Samoa and Indonesia

Photo: Off the coast of Banda Aceh, Indonesia--March 2009.
Currently in Guarajua, Brazil.

I awoke this morning to the sun peeking through my hotel window. Looking out, I saw the haze setting in, streaks of light glistened and danced through openings in the cloud. The morning traffic had already started without me. Engines roared through the streets of Sao Paulo while I laid still, motionless--looking out at a world that never stops.

I felt empty this morning. Lost. Devoid of hope, jaded by fate. I felt like the world had flipped inside-out, twisted and turned like a kaleidoscope--melting away the very elements that binds us together. I felt sadness and sorrow, pain and displeasure.

I had heard the news--felt a knife rip through my heart. Oceans away, families are torn, people live and people die. It scares me to get up. Afraid of what I'll hear, see and feel. For the first time in my life, I'm afraid to face the world--to accept the truth--because when you live life through a lens, it quickly becomes your mask--a shield to protect you from reality.

My alarm clock went off--but at that very moment, I didn't care--because I knew that a thousand miles away, a different kind of alarm was going off, telling the inhabitants of an entire island to seek higher ground. Indonesia and Samoa hold a special place in my heart. I saw flashbacks of images I had captured, the people I've met and the memories I cherish. It's different when you're a photographer--you see things differently, you learn to cherish moments captured in time like there's no tomorrow. And no matter what type of mask is flung before you, reality some how seeps through the pores of your soul--through the toughest of any skin. And just like that, you're human again, you feel for the people suffering, you pray for their well-being.

I used to capture the world in all its beauty, pain and reward, triumph and tragedy--all without a care for whom was staring at my lens. The shot was all that mattered. The people and their suffering was the cost of doing "business." I was young, ambitious, and naive. Maybe that's why I've changed--somehow, I've turned full circle--and like a vulture turned prey, I've taught myself to love the people I see through my lens.

Sitting on my bed, I began to pray. I hope my friends are safe. I am scared. I am worried and I am desperate to hear from them. I've tried calling, but my calls are answered by a machine--speaking a language I cannot understand.

I've been in Brazil for almost two weeks now. My body aches, my mind is numb and my soul searches for balance. My schedule takes me from one city to another, one village to the next--but no matter how busy I am or no matter how hectic my life may be, Samoa and Indonesia will always be in my heart, in my dreams, and most importantly, in my prayers.

An Artist is Driven By Demons?

Photo by: Fernao Silveira
Filming in Downtown Sao Paulo, Brazil

The days are long and the nights, are just not long enough. Waking up, I'm lost--dazed and confused in a myriad of motion, scrambling for time, searching for reason, settling for the rhythmic beat of life behind a lens. Leaving my hotel room, I run through a gauntlet of vacationers, maids and matrons of wealth and fame. I hear them talk of Champaign wishes and caviar dreams, see the sparkle in their smile--and just when I thought I'd passed them all, another one bumps me from behind--too busy talking on his phone to see the man with the lens--a mere soul trying desperately to capture life thru film and glass.

A mere soul--that's exactly how I feel right now. Life is hectic. My schedule is taking me from one realm to another--an itinerary that stretches far beyond my wildest imaginations.It's daunting at times--but I'm not complaining.

William Faulkner once said, "An artist is a creature driven by demons. He doesn't know why they choose him and he's usually too busy to wonder why." Do you think he's right?

Blogger Note: I'm currently in Brazil. The country is absolutely amazing. I'm sorry I haven't had much time to post, but I do promise to write soon. I hope all is well with my dear readers.

I'm Tired of Being Blamed!

This is what happens when the graphic designer at work gets a hold of your profile picture. Pretty good, eh? I sure would love to read that article entitled "I'm not a womanizer, I'm in love." Anyone happen to pick this issue up from the newsstands?

I'm currently on foreign assignment--writing to you from Dallas, Texas, en-route to Sao Paulo, Brazil. I'll update soon when I'm on location.

Be well!

-Ron

What Will Become Of Me

Photo: In the jungles of Honduras, December 2008.

After every major assignment, my boss and I have a sit down meeting to discuss the mission, debrief on the events that unfolded and catch up on loose-ends. I sit at one end of the room, he sits at the other, and eye to eye, we talk story, logistics, the economics of our trade, and most of all--life in general.

But after this past assignment in India and Pakistan, he asked me a question that he normally doesn't ask: What do you want to do?

At first, I thought he was referring to my vacation time, where I wanted to stay during my next assignment, or what equipment I needed to replace. But the question was beyond that, far beyond the realms of what I had anticipated. Caught off guard, my mind began to ponder, the air got thicker, and in the synapse of a moment I saw my youth flash before my eyes.

It was like being twelve again when I sat face to face with my guidance councillor--nervous and light headed, I had to decide whether I wanted to become an engineer or a doctor, a teacher or a cop. Slowly tilting my head from the ground, I looked at him, noticed the custodian cleaning behind his shoulder and replied, "I want to become a janitor, sir." My voice shook 5.2 on the richter scale.

But this time was different. This was seventeen years later--and believe it or not, I'm a bit smarter now--more confident, too. After a brief moment to let the question sink in, I knew what he meant. He was simply looking out for me. It's not a secret--it's inevitable that one day I'd have to put my camera down, smell the roses and maybe even build a white picket fence of my own. There's more to life than traversing the world, going in and out of hostile zones, or surviving in jungles and rainforest's. There's more to it, I know.

But for now, I told him this is all I know. This is what I'm good at--and to be quite honest, this makes me happy. It's a sacrifice I'm willing to make, a step forward I'm determined to take. I don't know where I want to be five years from now, who I want to become when I'm distilled and wrinkled, or why I've decided to take the road less or most travelled--but what I do know is that everyday is a new day for me, every morning is a new destination, a new background and new people to meet. And to me, right now, at this very moment in my life, I'm richer because of it--wealthier than any silver lining to hug the contours of my soul.

You know what, I wake up every morning in amazement--sit on my bed and wonder to myself how lucky I am. It still brings a smile to my face when I realize that people actually pay me to do what I do. Wow...who'd ever thought?

Come to think of it, I still don't know what I want to do when I grow up.

Behind the Scenes: India/Pakistan

When it's too crowded to set up shop, you improvise.

Smiling for my camera.

My extended family.

More than one ass here.

He who wears a hat like Ed is askin' for trouble.

Call them if you have problems.

Into The Heart of Darkness (Pt 3 of 3)

Blogger Note:
I'm not a war junky, nor I thrill seeker. I'm not a writer nor poet, philosopher nor philanthropist. I'm just an average guy off the street, a fellow tax payer, common citizen, and a disgruntled Walmart shopper. I am just a man behind his lens--trying desperately to tell a story--a story that cannot be left untold. It is my duty, my calling and my obligation to tell these stories--to live up to the gift that is bestowed upon me--even if it means going Into The Heart of Darkness.

Finding Salvation
A man once told me that by becoming a photographer, I'll be throwing my life away. He looked me in the eye, put his hand on my shoulder and said it straight to my face--point blank. He called me a fool, a lost--unguided soul. I was in eighth grade at the time.

I wish he'd see me now--throwing my life away head first--traversing the world from one country to another, from coast to coast, end to end. And like a lost and unguided soul, I have no limits, no boundaries to tell me where I can and cannot go. If he was here right now, I'd stick my middle finger in his face, tell him to fuck off and eat my shorts.

I don't know why I'm telling you this, but in Pakistan, this was all I could think about. I guess, when you're down to your very last drop of energy, you find ways to dig deep into the depths of your soul to find that sliver of hope you have left. You bring it to surface, and with every breath, you savour it like it's your last.

Not In Kansas Anymore
During the day I walked the beat of a scavenger, hunting for shots to tell a story. I'd pay close attention to where I'm standing, who's around me and why that person a hundred feet from me is doing what he's doing. I question every move, every detail and every fragment of my inner psyche. Like a lion on the prowl, I watch my prey, slowly creep up to it, find it's weak spot, and in a synapse of a moment, I decide whether I shoot it--or be shot. Sometimes, the hardest thing for a photographer is to decide whether the shot is worth shooting--whether its worth paying your life for. I've been told by many that no shot is worth it--but when you're in this profession, you take the risks.

Being covert in a hostile environment is different from being an embedded photog--the technical term journalists use to tag along with the military. In Pakistan, there are no such programs that exists, you're simply here on your own. In many ways, it's much more dangerous than being with the military. There's no one else but you and your team, alone and desolate, left to fend for yourself. And if you some how go missing, no one will know. Scores of journalists and photographers go missing every year in Pakistan and surrounding countries. Some will make it out alive, others will end up on the streets--stuffed in a garbage bag--cut up to pieces. But if you're lucky, you might make the cut of a highly acclaimed video of you being beheaded.

In Pakistan, the cities are owned by government forces, loyal to America--but by being so, they face a constant threat of attack from Muslim Extremists who are against the western world. In the villages outside of the city, Mr. Taliban rule the people. So no matter where you go, you're constantly surrounded by danger. There's no way out.

Mr. Al
So there he was, looking into my lens. Through light, we spoke. Through sound, we listened to the tune of fear thumping through my heart. I turned around, started walking to our car. My team quickly followed suit. It was an orchestrated melody without the quartet--just the glance of each others eyes, and we knew it was time to leave.

Through miles of dust and debris, I looked back through the window, saw a faint shadow of a man in uniform--dressed in signature white, long beard and a distinctive head ornament that clearly proclaimed him as a member of his country club. There was no doubt he was a member of al Qaida. Our fixer later confirmed this.

Laying in bed that night, I played back that vivid moment in my head. I remember his black hallowed eyes, the way he stared at me, ripped through the chambers of my chest and choked every drip of blood streaming from my heart. It skipped many beats. But for a brief moment, while trying to put myself to rest, the fear within me had subsided--and instead of being afraid, I became utterly angry. Flashbacks of the September 11 attacks played back in my head, images of planes crashing into the Twin Towers billowed in my nocturnal haze.

And within the blink of an eye, I wanted to kill the coward. I wanted to go back there and strangle him with my bare hands, pull his eye-balls from its sockets and make him eat it whole. I'd burn him alive, drop his body from a thousand stories up, and watch him suffer a million times more than the thousands of Americans that perished that fateful day.

The devil had taken me over. I slept great that night.

All is fair in love and war, right?

Afterword:
To my readers, thank you so much for your kind words of support and for the prayers that you've said for me and my team. You are more to me than a name, a picture or a blogger. You are a friend--and beyond the virtual networks of this inter-galactic universal web(try saying that five times), we are a group of strangers that are united towards a common bond, a common belief and a common foundation of love and freedom, the pursuit of happiness, and the notion that we are all truly grateful for each other.

Many readers have suggested that I one day write a book--etch onto printed pages a collection of my stories, my moments of sheer adrenaline and aftershock. I thank you for the compliment, but believe me, I am not a writer. I spend hours articulating my thoughts, finding the right words to describe emotions that I don't even know is real, reading over and over again to make certain I am still within the context of what I started to type three hours earlier.

Originally, I had wanted to post on a daily basis while in Pakistan. But for security concerns, I decided against it. I went into the country without a laptop. Please excuse me for posting on events that had already unfolded. After leaving Pakistan, I was assigned in India for seven days. Based out of Mumbai, I posted part 1 and 2 of this series. I am currently home now, desperately trying to put my life back on track, readjusting to civilian life, and sleeping in a managed routine. But life for me will never be the same, it will never be like that of a many who enjoy the freedom to walk the streets without having to worry about check-points, incoming fire and being ambushed. Getting rid of that mentality is the hardest part of coming home.

I'll be at home base for two weeks--preparing for yet another assignment. I will keep you posted.

Twelve Days to Next Departure.

Into The Heart of Darkness (Pt 2 of 3)

Blogger Note:
Landing deep into the tribal regions of Pakistan, producer Ed and I are greeted by a team of locals that will take us to our final destination--a remote village to cover a story that will forever linger in my mind, kept alive in my prayers, and cherished in the chambers of my heart. It's a mission that remains classified online, but if you were to one day look me in the eye, I'd spill to you the very essence of why I accepted the job, why I believed my camera would make a difference, and why I ventured Into The Heart of Darkness.

Under Cover:
There was a time in my life when I'd sprint along the shores of Lake Erie, step by step, carefully making sure that the weight of my body would keep me from sinking. I always knew that if I ran fast enough, I'd keep afloat--find an equilibrium between man and nature, and some how, I'd always come out on top. I never forgot that feeling.

Looking at my watch, the date had just changed. But mentally, my mind was a day behind, lingering in an time zone that was yesterday. It's tomorrow now, and life just got complicated. Ed and I are crammed into a Toyota LandCruiser, riding with people whom we knew nothing about, not even their real names. Listening to the sound of horns coming from all directions, I saw flashes of light, high beams and low beams, yellow and white, throbbing its way through the retina of my eyes. I looked for signs of danger, but in the dark, danger lurks where you least expect it. It's difficult to see.

The engine revved high, went up hill and down hill, never finding neutrality. At stop lights, I noted how much distance the driver is keeping from the vehicle in front of us, and how just close to us is the vehicle behind us. I looked for ambushes, people walking by, motorcycles that seemed too loud. It's amazing just how much detail you see when you're in fear, afraid and at the mercy of your new found friends.

We were on our way to a safe house, deep in an urban area where no one knows we're coming. The air was heavy, hot and humid--full of hostility from the rising barometer that signified a change in pace. There's no where to turn but to keep going, keep moving, and hopefully, we're always one step ahead from sinking.

At 2200, we arrived at house tucked in the midst of an urban sprawl. A man opens a gate and we drive through. The gate closes. Our car doors unlock. We're told to get out. And just like that, under the cover of complete darkness, we were ushered into a house that would become our base for this mission. "Home sweet home," said Mr. Nickel.

After a short briefing, we're warned to never leave the house,keep all windows closed and carefully watch our steps--warnings that seemed more like threats. I never slept that night. In my mind, I envisioned a team of terrorists bursting through my bedroom door, slamming me to the ground, and covering my head with a black bag. I heard lyrical voices that I could not tune, screams that echoed to the symphony of fear.

The Eyes of an Enemy:
Waking up in the morning, I felt my stomach rumble, my mind dazed and ears popped. I've been in and out of consciousness, asleep and awake, hovering the fine line between exhaustion and adrenaline.

Strapping on my bullet proof vest, we headed out. Donkey carts and men with long beards roamed the streets while women covered from head to toe carefully moved about. Sand and dust flew through the air, leaving behind a cloud of haze and desert debris. Buildings that looked more like ancient civilizations stood tall, reminding me of how the hands of time had stood still. Walking with my camera, I looked like a soldier. People stared, wondered what I was doing. They never said hi nor waved. Children gawked from a afar, poking their heads through walls to capture a glimpse of the man with the lens. I couldn't shoot at first, too afraid to put my guard down. I looked left and right, up and down, making sure danger wasn't lurking.

But like a fool with a cause, I had to start shooting. I rolled camera, zoomed in and out on a group of people mingling in the distance. I turned the camera left, then right, pulled focus and decided to look into the eyes of a stranger. It was a close up--which meant I couldn't see his full face. A great shot--locked and loaded on a set of eyes looking at me through my lens.

Zooming out, I saw his face, his beard, the white clothing he wore and the signature head ware he adorned on his head. Looking at Mr. Nickel, he said to me a word that sent shock waves to my heart: Al Queda.

Slowly, he started to walk towards me.

Please standby for Part 3.

Into The Heart of Darkness (Pt. 1 of 3)

Blogger note:

The following are actual events that unfolded during my assignment in Pakistan last week. The stories are true. The people are real. The fear is un-imaginable. But for the safety and well-being of those who accompanied me--and those who continue to risk their lives everyday in Pakistan, I cannot share with you my exact locations, disclose real names, nor write in detail the reason why my camera lead me to Pakistan. But what I will share with you are my emotions, my feelings, and my thoughts. I will walk you thru step-by-step--and take you, Into The Heart of Darkness.

Covert Ops

When I accepted the assignment last month, I was in the midst of filming in Samoa. A message came through via email that read: 'I have an assignment for you. Are you interested?' And that was it. Simple and sweet, right to the point. I like that. Because sometimes in life, you just know when something is calling--and if you're true to yourself, you answer it. This was one of those moments.

When I got home from Samoa, I immediately began packing again. I didn't tell my mother where I'd be going. Looking her straight in the eye, I told her I might be in India, somewhere safe, of course. Looking away, I felt the veins in my heart twist and turn as it weaved its way through a mesh of lies I had fabricated. I wanted to tell her the truth. But if I did, she'd never approve of me going. No one would.

There were a select few that knew about the mission, the bits and pieces of an elaborate-covert operation: some co-workers, my best friends Steve and Zak, and people who either didn't know my family or weren't anywhere close to their proximity. I was cautious. And even for those whom I had told, they had no idea exactly where I'd be, who I'll be with, or for how long I'd be away. I've never been good at keeping secrets. It always felt better to me when I spilled the truth, the intricate details of life's little vignettes.

But quickly, I realized that this mission wasn't just about keeping secrets or holding back information from those you love, it meant more than that--more than just telling lies--because in the end, I might not get the chance to ever tell the truth. The thought of me dying or coming home critically injured crossed my mind on a daily basis. On some occasions, while I packed, I envisioned my funeral, my mother crying, my brother carrying my casket. It's gruesome, I know, but when you prepare to go into a war zone, you prepare for the worse. You're no longer just a citizen of the free world--you become nothing more than a living, breathing dead man waiting for your turn.

At night, I wrote farewell letters. Stuffed them in envelopes, but never sealed. I wrote to my parents, my best friends, my employer, and even you--my readers. If something were to happen to me, I wanted to leave everyone with a final message, something that you'd remember me for. But in the end, before leaving, I never gave them away. Something told me I'd jinx myself. And as for this blog, I simply gave my good friend Dan an empty envelope with my user name and password written inside--that way, he'd be able to let you know that I won't be posting. I knew he'd find the right words (and photo) if he had to.

0300 at 35,000 ft

I awoke at 3am. Looking out my window, I saw clouds, a few stars and the moon hovering over the horizon. To my right, was Ed, my producer/director, fast asleep. I don't know how he did it. For Ed, this assignment was his first in a hostile zone. Earlier, he told me he was excited to see the country, meet the people and experience the culture. I smiled and turned away.

There's something about Ed that I envy. The way he can view the world without fear, how he's able to look beyond danger, to see what I cannot see--the world for all it's beauty, without having to be scared. Don't get me wrong, Ed is by no means the epitome of a thrill seeker, not a jock by any standards. If you were to meet him on the street, he'd probably show you pictures of his family, the two daughters he married this summer, and a snapshot of him and his wife. He's the kinda guy you'd find at Costco on a Sunday afternoon looking for motor oil, the kind that can care less if Michael Jackson came back from the dead. He's a simple man with the smile of a ten year old.

And as I envy his spirit, I can't help but feel remorse for the same spirit I've lost, the innocence that I too once had. But after being in Afghanistan two times before, I've accepted the notion that I will no longer be able to view the world the same way again. I've seen more pain and suffering than most will ever see in a life time. I'll never be able to have what Ed has.

As we flew over continents, Ed and I verbally ran through scenarios in preparation. I taught him how to listen for the direction of incoming bullets, how to properly fall to the ground, what to look for when approaching check-points, where to run to if we got ambushed, and most importantly, what to do if we got kidnapped. He listened closely, asked questions--and just when I thought I had covered it all, we simply found more scenarios to play out. The fear was palpable. But some how, Ed was able to fall asleep half an hour later. The roar of the plane's engine echoed in my proverbial mind as I tossed and turned in my seat.

Getting In/Getting Out

Our mission in Pakistan was simple: go in covertly as tourists, not journalists. We were to get our shots and get out. But going in as tourists with professional camera equipment was like trying to mix oil and water.

Before leaving the plane, Ed and I checked ourselves over, made sure we looked like tourists. Our carry-on luggage was a simple backpack. My camera was stored in a roller that resembled that of an old man's suit case. So together, we walked carefully off the plane, headed towards the immigration line and patiently waited for our turn. My heart skipped a beat.

Standing there, my eyes started to canvas the room. I noticed bags being left unattended, young men walking with AK-47's--their fingers on the trigger, safety-lock in the off position. Looking left, I noticed two ladies kneeling on the hard granite floor, praying in the direction of Mecca. Behind me, an old man stood silently with his passport in hand. Amazingly, after only twenty minutes of waiting, Ed and I cleared customs. Our disguise had worked. Weirdly, the whole ordeal felt too good to be true. Not a single question was asked. All we did was stood there and waited. It was as if some secret clearance was granted to us before we had even arrived--as if someone was covertly working for us behind the scenes.

As we left the terminal, darkness had set in. The moon lit our way. Suddenly, we were quickly greeted by a man whom we only know as Mr. Nickel, a code name that he went by. We were ushered into a dark green Toyota Landcruiser. There was no small talk, no mingling or smiles. They took our bags, stuffed them in the trunk and slammed the door. Within seconds, Ed and I were enclosed in an elaborate protective circle.

Looking out the window, I saw Mr. Nickel shaking hands with men dressed in military fatigues. A few handshakes later, he entered the vehicle, took the front passenger seat and told the driver to GO.

It was then when I realized that this was the point of no return...

Please Standby for Part Two.

Walmart Smackdown

Blogger update: I'm currently on foreign assignment in Argentina with good friend and photog Dan Denardo.  We stopped at a local Walmart in the small port city of Bahia Blanca to pick up some essentials.  Dan captured this photo of me in the parking lot and told me to "stay out of trouble."  It reminded me of an incident I had at Walmart three years ago.  Below is a repost of that day.

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August 16, 2009

If readers of this blog ever get the notion that sometimes I'm one tough SOB, then they should consider themselves perceptive. Heck, maybe even take it up a notch and go for 'psychic!'

Yeah, that's right, I'm tough!  I'm just one lean-mean photog machine--out to save the world from the brink of destruction, one frame at a time. I've seen the best of man, the worse of man, the richest and the poorest, the sane and insane.

Speaking of 'insane,' today I met a man that defined every annotation of the word: INSANE!

Walking through Walmart, I cruised aisle by aisle, looking for adventure, deodorant and Powerbars. Pushing my cart, I turned every corner with ease, gliding ever so smoothly from hardware to pharmacy, electronics to canned goods. With elegance and grace, I maneuvered my cart through the gauntlet of Saturday morning shoppers, weaving through crowds of screaming kids and grumpy old men. The air was cool. The smell was fresh.

As a bachelor, I take pride in my shopping abilities. I value my time behind the wheel of a well-oiled shopping cart--because being single and shopping on a Saturday morning is like cruising in your woman-mobile down the strip with 'I'm too sexy' bumpin' in the background. Chicks dig a guy with a shopping cart full of protein bars and Old-Spice, beef jerky and AA batteries!  It's 2009, ya know.

So there I was, deep in the midst of going through the camping aisle, backed turned away from my cart, eyes glued on sleeping bags and over-priced tents. I felt a whisk of air brush the back of my neck--the kind you get when a thief runs off with your (man) purse.  So I turned around to look and it was gone--whisked away from me within the blink of any eye, a synapse of a moment. My shopping cart was no where to be seen!

I looked left, then right , up and down--but to no avail. My whole life flashed before my eyes. I saw sunrises in Indonesia, begging kids in India, amputated limbs in Cambodia, soldiers in Afghanistan. I saw night for day and day for night, felt the air freeze before me and time just stood still. Pinching myself awake made no difference, my body shook, shocked in awe and 'struck'n'stoned.'

Finally, after a lifetime (5 minutes) of searching, in the corner of my eye I spotted a cart full of Old-Spice. I ran to it--and in the midst of chaos, I was able to confirm that it was indeed MY CART. I confronted the man and told him that he'd made a big mistake. He looked at me like I was an alien from Mars. He shook his head and kept walking with my cart. I followed in hot pursuit. In my head I wanted to call the cops, the FBI or even Jack Bauer for back-up. I wasn't gonna let this guy off easy.

"All agents, please be on the look-out for a senior citizen, Caucasian male, 5'6", wearing a red checkered shirt with brown pants and smells Bengay and Preparation H."

I confronted him again, this time standing in front of my cart. Like Tina Turner singing 'Stop In The Name of Love,' I put my hand out, had him to a halt and looked deep in his eyes. He gazed back at me with eyes glistening from a high I'd never seen before--maybe recovering from an overdose of his Viagra. Whatever it was, this dood was INSANE to the MEMBRANE!

"Boy, you wanna' take this outside and settle it like real men do?" he asked.

Shocked, I replied, "No sir, I just want the contents from this cart. It's mine. I've spent the last hour picking everything out and I'd appreciate it if you took your cart back and give me mine."

"Get out of my way, China-Man!" he shouted. 

Oh no he didn't!

Was I really going to get into a fight with an 80 year old geezer--at WALMART of all places?
Was this going to end with someone in hand-cuffs and another in an ambulance?
Does this guy really want to fight me? I'm a quarter of his age, lean, mean, photog machine!

At that point, I didn't know what else to say to the man. I was sad. I had lost all hope in humanity. I no longer saw the light in an evangelical way--but instead, I saw myself wanting to show him the lights of my right fist! I felt as if the devil had taken me over.

But slowly, I just turned around, walked away and never looked back. I had settled for defeat. And like Hiroshima, I felt the baron landscape of my heart sink deep into the depths of the abyss, never again to be spoken of.

With an empty shopping cart, I ventured out again, aisle by aisle. 'Quit Playin Games With My Heart' by Backstreet Boys played softly in my proverbial juke box.

Fear Thru A Lens

Photo: Covering a feature story on Tsunami releif in Indonesia.

When you view life through a camera, your world changes. It twists and turns in a way that can never be mapped, never defined nor labeled. The camera becomes you, and you become it--a marriage of mind and glass, a symphony of light and magic.

As a photographer, I see the world in frames, in shadows and reflections. Sometimes, the images I capture within the moment I'm in gets engraved in my peripheral mind, plays back in slow motion replays and haunt me in my sleep. I get this when I cover wars, tragedy and despair.

I started packing today for an assignment that brings me to the precipice of war--a destination that sees life not for its beauty, but for its ability (or inability) to withstand the wrath of bullets, mortars and bombs. It's a world I'd hate to live in. A world you and I can only imagine.

But as I prepared my camera, checked its glass and wiped it clean, I saw in it a reflection of myself--a mirrored image of my life staring back at me. And as I sat there, I looked into my own eyes, saw fear in it, and heard my heart beating ever so loudly.

I'm scared--but it's a different kind of fear.

I fear not for the bullets that go astray or the mortars that ricochet off mountain walls of this forbidden land, but more so, for the people I will see, the faces I capture and the cries I'll hear. I fear for the children I will meet, the way they run to me, the way they hug me and befriend me. I fear for them because I know that they have no other choice but to be there, to live life amidst terror and tyranny. I fear for them--because I know that once I return home, its their beautiful faces that I'll remember, it's their laughter and smiles that I will cherish. I fear for them, because sometimes, when I lay myself to sleep, I constantly wonder if they're still alive.

Sometimes, when you live life through a camera, you see things in a twisted and demented way. I hope what I'm writing tonight makes sense to you. I'm not sure if even I can understand myself...

Four days to departure.