Photo by Dan Denardo Location: Port Au Prince, Haiti
It has been two weeks now since my return, and no matter how much I try, every day becomes harder and harder to assimilate back to normal life. I've been relatively quiet lately, hiding from a world of unforgiven truths--twisting and turning in an ever changing light. One thing I've learned from my recent trip to Haiti is that reality hurts--the truth hurts--and it cuts deep into every fiber of my soul.
But like a stubborn fool, I am neither torn nor ruptured--but more so, I am determined--inspired to bring to light what I've seen, bent on transcribing emotions into written prose. So with hope and a prayer, I write.
Sometimes, when dreams become too real, I awake to find myself deep in thought, lost and alone in a sea of darkness as I try to find words to best describe how I feel. Emotions run rampant, and sometimes, it's hard to decipher what is real and what isn't--am I dreaming or is it a fragment of my imagination? How do I describe what I have seen?
I am lost for words, blinded by hope, determined at will.
Sometimes, I just don't know anymore...
Blogger Note:
In the next few days and weeks I will be revealing a website that tells the "true story of HOPE in Haiti." A photo essay and an extensive reportage of my recent trip with fellow photographer and close friend, Dan.
I apologize for the lack of posts as of late, but between work and catching up on normal life and writing for this feature, sometimes, it really does become extremely hard to decipher what is real and what isn't. Is it really July already? I also have to stop writing 2009.
Photo by: Dan Denardo
Location: Port Au Prince, Haiti
Lately, I’ve been in and out of darkness, traversing through land, sea, and air—catapulting myself across oceans in every direction—back and forth.I’m tired, drained of emotions, exhausted beyond comprehension.
During the last two months, I’ve traveled to over sixteen countries, four continents, and six different time zones.I’ve seen night for day and day for night.I’ve been to the ends of the earth and back—from the toughest terrains to the wrenching heartache of rubble and despair.From the Himalaya’s of northern India to the depths of desperation in earthquake torn Haiti. The world just seems so much smaller than it used to be.
Sometimes, amidst my travels, I’d find time and space for myself—alone and desolate, just me and my thoughts—I’d sit there wondering where else I’d rather be.Dust and dirt littered my hair, the stench of body odor of days past permeated through my pores, and just when I thought it couldn’t get any better or worse, it always does—one way or another.But at the end of each day when I’d lay my head to rest, I’d look up into the abyss and stare into complete darkness—close my eyes—and gently smile to myself as I reflected upon what I had done.And at that very moment, I knew that this was my place and time, my calling—and I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
Most recently, I’ve just returned from an assignment in Haiti with my good friend and fellow award-winning photographer Dan Denardo.It was harder than most assignments—because this time, I went in without a camera and dared myself to simply write about my experience and turned the challenge of shooting photo’s over to Dan. Words cannot describe how hard it was for me to give up my tools, but I knew that there was no photog out there better than Dan.His work is world class.
Robbed naked of my cameras, I walked the beat of a journalist—writing and etching my thoughts on paper as the sound of Dan’s shutter echoed just inches away from my ears. From one tent city to another, one mound of rubble to the next, we ventured into some of the most sordid environments known to man.But in the midst of darkness and despair prevailed an underlying truth that most media outlets do not talk about—and that truth, is HOPE.There is more to Haiti than broken homes and shattered dreams, carnage and desperation—there’s more, a lot more.
Through Dan’s stunning photography and my words, I hope to bring to you stories that will touch you, reach deep into the depths of your heart and instill within you a profound understanding of our world—in all her glory—and suffering—and at the end of it all, you and I, and all those we reach--shall be changed.
Video Note: Please excuse the quality of this video. It is by no means a professionally done piece. I'd like to try something new so I shot this with a flip cam and edited on my laptop.
Video Transcript:
So I've been here for almost three weeks now, and no matter how I look at India, it is to me, a land of contradictions, of darkness and beauty, pain and reward--to those who call her home and those who come here to seek a profound understanding of the world upon her shores.
This is my fourth assignment in India in less than three years--and every time I'm here, I am forced to become someone I am not, someone who--in the midst of trials and tribulations on everyday life, some how, finds it extremely difficult to survive in India being the person that I am groomed to be. The clothing I wear, the hue of my skin--and even the whiteness of my teeth makes me different. The way I walk, eat, sleep, and look at people clearly dictates that I am an outsider. The fact that I am a photographer pointing an unknown object in people's faces is only a fragment of what divides me and India. And to me, it makes me uncomfortable.
I am always one to believe that the world is one. A mere microcosm of our universe abundant with people and beings that define the very essence of our planet. And no matter how unique or different we are from one another, I believe that our dreams are many, yet our goals are one--and because of that, I keep telling myself that the discomfort I am feeling is merely a phase and as the days go by, with every sunset and and sunrise, that feeling would slowly dissipate.
Sadly, after three weeks, it hasn't.
Being here takes your breath away--literally and metaphorically. The sights and sounds of everyday life here is enough to wake your senses--but the poverty and struggle of most Indians that live in the most sordid conditions is enough to wish you were only dreaming. With every one thing beautiful includes an equal amount of a reality that holds no mercy on what is opposite to beauty.
The divide is unmeasurable. The rich and poor, the new and old, the normal and the paranormal all collide in a sea of unforgiving truth that speaks a language I cannot understand.
***
I am here for one more week to finalize my assignment--upon which I will be heading back to Haiti for my second tour. I hope this finds you well and I apologize for not having the chance to write more often. Lately, my days have been starting early and ending late--but I do manage to update via Facebook with a few lines ever so often. Please feel free to join me and follow me via Facebook.
I am currently filming in India and will be here until the end of May. I hope this finds you well. To view the full album entitled Intimate India, please feel free to add me on Facebook by clicking on the link to your right.
We've come a long, long way, momma--from fear and starvation to hope and happiness. And through it all, it is because of you--because you refused to let go, to be blinded by war and wreckage, hatred and evil. You see what others overlook. You feel when so many cannot--which is why, momma, in a world of kings, you are my queen.
I'm writing to you, momma, 9000 miles away--but no matter the distance, no matter the oceans or islands that keep us apart, no matter the time or tides that divide us, I am yours and you are mine. I breathe because of you. I walk upon this earth because you are my guide--at every turn and every corner, land, sea or air, you are there for me. And I promise, momma, that when you shall need me, I will be there for you, too.
Through the years, you've shaped me to become the man I am today. You've molded me to be not like you in face and figure--but in thought and theory to challenge like you, to defy those that cannot define the difference between right and wrong--and to prove to so many that, like you, small yet strong, odds can be beaten. Momma, you are my hero.
Your smile makes me smile in my time of need. Your voice--even though at times I cannot hear, resonates within me everywhere I go, telling me how much you care. And because of that, I keep pushing forward--knowing that whatever I do, where ever I go or how lost I get, in the end, I will always find you. That, momma, is more than any son can ever ask for.
Momma, on this day and everyday, know that I love you with every beat of my heart--and I thank you for all that you are and all that you've given to me--and the world.
Your son, always, Sarorn
Blogger Note: I am currently on foreign assignment in Mumbai, India. I will update soon.
Living life on foreign assignment is no ordinary task.It takes planning—lots of planning!So much so that it ultimately takes priority over many facets of my life.The more I plan, the better I am prepared for the unknown.
In 2009, I traveled to 17 countries within twelve months.279 days of my life was spent traveling.In total, I circumvented the globe 4 times.A few readers have asked several times how I do it.How do I jump from one country to another and stay safe, healthy, and organized?Today, I reveal to you how I prepare for each and every assignment—and how I manage to adapt to the many facets that shape my life, and my career.
The War Room:
Tucked deep in my unfinished basement is an area where I call “The War Room.”
Organization is key.After spending hours of research about a country or geography, I’d make a mental note of what I need to bring, how I’m going to survive, and what challenges I might face.Then, I head downstairs to the war room.In it, is a collection of gear that I’ve purchased in bulk and kept in stock for quick access and replenishing.From clothing to first-aid, personal care items to knives, toothbrushes to flashlights, I have everything labeled and neatly categorized.Sometimes, my assignments are back-to-back with only quick pit-stops at home before heading out again to another country—so being organized and well stocked with supplies saves me time from having to go shopping and allows me to rest in between assignments.For instance, I never have to worry if I’ve got enough toothpaste or power bars in between my assignments from India to Haiti.I’d rather rest and get my bearings in the 48 hours I have before heading out again.
Hot and Cold
On the right side of the room is Cold Gear.On the left is Hot Gear.Doing this allows me to quickly identify what clothing and equipment I need--depending on the destination I am going to and the temperatures I’ll be facing.Socks and underwear, base layers, mids, and outer shells are all separated for specific weather conditions.Footwear, rain gear, sleeping bags, tents and even cooking supplies are all taken into consideration with weather.It’s an important element that I constantly keep in mind.
Pre-Packing
For those that know me, know that I am one of those guys who buy fours of everything I own.Sometimes even five or six of everything.This allows me to pre-pack before going on assignments back-to-back.
Sometimes, I’d have three to four backpacks fully stuffed and ready to go before leaving for my first destination.When I return for my pit stop, I simply grab the next backpack in line and take off again.
First-Aid
I spend a lot of time making sure my first aid kit is always up to date.I’m a big fan of assembling my own first aid kit and avoid buying pre-packed kits.Most of the kits you see on the camping store shelf is designed to look like you’re getting a lot for your money, when in actuality, most of the things in there will never be used.My kit is basic and kept simple for 1 reason:In an emergency situation, I need to know where everything is and what it’s used for.
When preparing for any foreign assignment, I put together two kits: 1 for trauma and 1 for basic cuts and bruises that I carry with me at all times.The kits include the following:
Again, I can’t reiterate enough about the importance of planning in what I do.If you intend to do this type of work/travel for a living, learn to keep yourself organized and stay ontop ofyour game by being prepared.
If you have any specific questions, please feel free to email me or message me on Facebook.
It was a Saturday afternoon just like any other. Having just returned from a foreign assignment, I was devoid of civilization--and like many Saturday's in my home town, there wasn't much to do. So being the geek that I am, I ventured into the nearest electronic store to see what new gadgets I could find.
Walking aisle by aisle, I skimmed every product with a fine-toothed comb. Many things caught my eye, but looking at the price tag made me lose focus. Too many zero's, not enough decimals. So I kept walking.
Large screen TV's always catch my attention. The way moving images danced on it's glossy screens made everything so real--almost touchable. Standing in front of one--for a second, I thought I was some place else. The video played seamlessly smooth with music thumping to the psychedelic beat of an under ground night club I'd be afraid to be in. Surround sound speakers made me lost, confused--wondering where the hell all that sound was coming from. It was amazing--yet at the same time scary.
It didn't take long for a salesman to notice my disoriented look. He asked if I was "interested." To which I replied, "huh?"
And before I could even gather my thoughts, he started spewing out facts and figures I had never heard before. In one ear, out the other. So I just stood there and smiled.
Ten minutes later he starts selling me an extended warranty plan on something I never said I was going to buy. And just when I thought he was going to shut up, he says, "But THAT'S NOT ALL...if you buy this whole system today, I'll throw in a special edition Travel DVD that has all the countries covered! You'd never have to leave home...heck, it's like having the world in your living room!"
I laughed and walked out.
Driving home, I couldn't help but wonder how many people have fallen for this deal. For the price it cost to own that system I could probably trek through all of South East Asia, venture through the Himalaya's and through to Europe.
It's funny, I get people telling me all the time how lucky I am to travel and how they wouldn't be able to do it. But at the same time, they wouldn't have a second thought about spending $8000 (U.S) on an entertainment system so they can sit and have the world brought to them instead of going to it.
“I was born in a refugee camp along the Thailand and Cambodia border. Every morning, I’d awake to the image of a man behind a camera. Wiping my eyes, I’d see him clearly, in perfect focus as he focused his lens. They were filming the movie The Killing Fields outside my tent. And at that very moment, at the age of three, I wanted to be that man behind the camera. Twenty five years later, tonight, I can proudly say that I am that man.” -an excerpt of my speech from the 2010 Canadian Society of Cinematographers Award.
Sometimes, it’s easy for me to forget the very reasons why I do what I do. Deadlines come and go, stories change, schedules fall through—and before I know it, the day is done. In my life, there are days when the world just seems untouchable—when no matter how hard I’ve worked or how far I’ve gone, it just isn’t enough. And at that very moment, professionally, I just want to give up, but personally, I know I can’t. So I work harder, push further. And with hope and a prayer, I tell myself that what I’m doing is not just benefiting me as a person, no, but also those who seek an understanding of the world through my images.
So because of that, what I do on a daily basis is not a job, but a journey. It’s my calling. My way of understanding myself--and at the same time helping those who want to understand others.
I began this journey at a very young age. Foolish and stubborn, I followed the path least traveled. Today, I am still that fool. I am still that stubborn-hard-ass that looks to defy those who say I can’t. God has blessed me with enough foolishness to believe that I can make a difference in the world—so that I can attempt to do what others claim cannot be done. So with his permission, through my images, I am going to do just that—no matter how long or desolate that road may be. I am determined.
Sometimes, amidst the chaos and calamity of my world, I trip and fall into the abyss. I lose sight of my vision—and so with prying hands, I try to quickly find my way back. And when I do, that vision becomes clear again—and like that three year old wiping his eyes in the morning, I can see that man behind the camera. Except this time, that man is me.
Sorry. I've been in hiding lately. Not from anything or anyone, of course, but mainly from myself--my own emotions after returning from a land left raveled by nature, scorched and scathed by a world of uncertainty.
I don't know what happened, really, but upon returning, I felt the need to disconnect--to find myself again and live life upon a world in which I could call my own. Being in Haiti was tough. Mentally and physically, it left me charred to my core, reducing every bit of hope I had had for humanity to nothing more than dust--a mere fragment of a dream. There are moments in life when you find hope, when you see it in your eyes and you savour it for every thing it's worth. Then, sometimes, when the truth is so real--so true and trivial, there's no avoiding what horrible things may come. That's what it was like for me in Haiti. By the time I had left, I had lost hope for the people who continue to suffer. I saw too much to fathom, too little to hope--any longer.
It scared me. I spent nights sitting up in my tent wondering what was wrong with me. I wanted to cry but I couldn't. I wanted to scream, but didn't. The feeling of helplessness ripped away at the very fibre that made me whole. I no longer felt good at what I was doing. It got to the point when I couldn't shoot any longer--and for the last few days in Haiti, I kept my camera pointed down. There was nothing more I could shoot.
Returning home, friends would ask me how it went. I'd turn to them--and sometimes, I didn't have to say a word--for they had already known--just from the look in my eyes. Thank you, friends, for understanding.
I've spent days unpacking and re-packing, going over every little piece of equipment I had brought to Haiti and making sure it was still in tact. But in the midst of inspection, I realized that I needed to do the same to not just my equipment, but also to myself--to look deep into my very own soul and see if I am the same as I had left. In retrospect, I am not. I don't think I will ever be the same again.
Lately, I've been lost for words--not really knowing where to begin or even why. Taking deep breaths, I feel my chest convolving in disarray, my heart beating in disbelief that I am here, safe, fed, and sheltered. Sometimes it's guilt. Other times, I'm just truly thankful. There's an imbalance in me that can never be defined--nor can it be felt unless you've been there yourself.
Because every time I see a tent I am reminded of Haiti. When the rain falls, I think of them. When the sun rises, I pray for them. When the wind howls, I hear their cries.
Blogger Note: I am currently on foreign assignment in Kuwait City, Kuwait.
There’s a welcoming breeze tonight. Gentle and calm, just enough to brush the whiskers of your arm—cool and collective. In my tent, I’m typing to you via a satellite internet connection from the safe house I’m staying at. Communication is slow, banks are closed, grocery stores are merely open long enough to keep items in stock from those who can afford to shop. All the roads are congested with traffic. Debris from fallen buildings block certain intersections from being entered. It’s chaotic here, to say the least. Water is scarce. Electricity is only available to certain parts of the city, intermittently.
Every minute I’m here I become closer to those I meet. They’re no longer strangers to me anymore. We connect. We talk and laugh. But when I’m alone, I realize that the closer I get, the harder it becomes for me to be here. And obviously, the harder it becomes for me to leave them behind. Yet, having been away from home for so long now leaves me yearning for a warm shower, clean clothes, and a goodnight sleep. It’s a bitter sweet feeling.
I’ve been here for a week now—and to be quite honest, I don’t think I can handle much more of the emotional pain that comes with this assignment. Everywhere I turn there’s people suffering, children running naked, crowds rushing for rations being handed out. Seeing tents remind me of my time as a refugee. Listening to the unfamiliar language—yet universal motions of people begging tears me to pieces.
And I don’t know why it’s bothering me so much this time. I’ve been in situations like this many times before—but as I’m typing this, I’ve come to realize that perhaps it’s because I can relate to them so much more than I ever could in other places. And it hurts. Selfish, maybe. But I’ve thought about it long and hard—and you know what, despite the lens before me, I’m human, too. When I put my head down at night, it’s hard for me to fall asleep—to find closer to my day—which, some nights, I don’t think there ever will be.
For the past few days I’ve been in and out of City Soleil, a part of Port au Prince that has been forgotten by the outside world. I’ve got amazing access—and an equally amazing story to cinematically put together. Truth-searching is hard—especially when the truth hurts. But thankfully, I have you—my dear readers and friends who have sent me countless emails and messages via Facebook. Your words of encouragement mean the world to me. You remind me of my calling and my obligation to the art I have inherited. I am forever indebted to you.
I have two more days here before heading home for some much needed rest—and then, after a few days, I’m off again to my next destination: Kuwait.
I will write again soon. I hope all is well. Please take care of yourself—and each other.
Blogger Note: For up to the minute status updates and to see some photo's from Haiti, join me on Facebook.
Cell Phone Photo: Driving through City Soleil, March 11, 2010 I'm emotionally drained, physically exhausted. Too tired to think, too weak to talk. The day went by fast. Too many thoughts, too little time.
I'm not going to explain to you the disaster, nor am I going to show you images of people suffering. Truth is, I'm sick of seeing it on mainstream media, and I'm sure you are too. That's not why I came here.
I came here to tell stories, to bring meaning to suffering, to give a voice to those who are muted by the few who are overly vocal.
Part of my job involves truth-searching, simply by walking the beat of a journalist. On days like today, I'd scour certain areas without a camera and arm myself with nothing more than a pen and note pad. People look at me eye to eye. We talk--human to human, and through words, I'd develop my story and determine what I shoot and how I shoot it.
In Haiti, there's a section of Port au Prince called City Soleil (Sun City, pronounced 'Solay'). Heavily fortified for decades by gangs and guns, few people enter this area and make it out alive. Known by the international community as one of the world's most dangerous slums, City Soleil is currently home to thousands of Haitians who live in the most sordid conditions humans can fathom. The United Nations security team dare not enter this part of the city. Instead, they guard the perimeter and only enter when foreign nationals are caught between the lines.
I entered City Soleil yesterday. Driving through in our un-marked pick-up truck, people stared at me thru my window, some waved, children smiled. I decided to venture there because no one would. Aid groups ignore this area. Journalists can't find the ratings to justify such stories to be covered. So there I was.
I was guided by a local who knows the area well. He's young, trusted, and accepted. A few times, we had to stop on the side of the road so he could call his people a few blocks up--and we'd wait. When all was clear, we proceeded.
When you first get to Haiti, you're blown away by the number of tents scattered throughout the cities. Companies like Coleman donate their brands through aid groups for distribution--and like a finely decorated store window, you'd pass by a parade of logos--as far as the eye can see. But sadly, in City Soleil, the world has strangely forgotten about their existence. So instead of water-proof tarps with double layered sun resistency and break-proof poles, they use thin bed sheets that are riddled with holes, sticks and stones to hold everything together, and with hope and prayer, they call it home.
Walking through some of the hardest hit areas, you can smell the scent of human waste and rotting garbage. It's enough to make you vommit--but through respect, you hold it in.
I couldn't sleep last night. Every time I closed my eyes I saw their blinding stares, the linen walls they call home and the children that called me 'friend.' Laying there alone in my tent, I couldn't help but to remember the time when I too lived within linen walls--when as a refugee, I too lived in tents that were held together with nothing more than a string of hope.
I'm going back to City Soleil. It's a story I need to tell and capture with my lens.
Photo: Passengers on board flight 1291 try to get a glimpse of Port Au Prince from the air as the plane slowly descends.
At 35,000 feet, the plane fell silent. The hum of a jet engine filled the cabin as children slept, mothers and fathers sat there staring into the abyss as if the seat in front of them held their fortune. To my left, a lady sat there twitching her thumb, head held low—neither asleep nor really awake. Rays of light spilled through the windows, glistened off her dark—velvet skin, casting a reflective stroke of light off the contours of her face.
Every now and then I’d catch her peeking at my watch, wondering how much longer until we land. The plane would veer left, then slightly right, slowly descend and gradually climb again. She’d turn to her left, look out the window and realize that we’ve yet to push past the clouds that enveloped our plane. A few minutes later, she’d return her eyes to my watch—counting every second that went by.
Flight 1291 wasn’t just another flight for me—and neither was it for the 200 or so Haitians returning home for the first time after the quake. For Silvia, this was her first trip back since leaving as a child.
Looking into her eyes, I can see her fear, sorrow and the unknown. Asked if she was excited to finally be home, she softly replied, “no,” paused, and silently turned her head the other way.
Flight attendants passed out snack-boxes of cookies and juice, but few had even opened their box. Looking over to Silvia, I saw her packing hers away—perhaps saving it for a loved one.
It’s hard to explain the emotions on flight 1291. Perhaps, it’s unexplainable. But sitting there, looking at Silvia, listening to the deafening hum of utter silence, every emotion I had ever felt in my life felt incomparable to that of hers.
Sometimes, words just can't explain.
Blogger Note:I'm currently safe in Port Au Prince. My team and I are staying at a safe house, but due to the structural damage of this building, we're forced to sleep in tents in the compound. The whole 2nd floor is gone, and the rubble is thrown all over. Driving to the safe house, tents can be seen as far as the eye can see. Tomorrow morning I will venture into the epicenter of the quake. For status updates and mobile picture uploads, please feel free to add me on Facebook.
Photo: All smiles for Christian as he is being fitted for a prosthetic limb. Current Location: Santa Rosa, Honduras
His name is Christian David Flores--and to me, he's my angel.
Every now and then my camera takes me to places that take my breath away, digs deep into the depths of my soul and leaves me speechless. There are times when I thought I'd never see anything more beautiful, that the bounty before me is served on a silver platter, that God has given me more than I'd ever asked for. Through my lens, I've seen the Pyramids of Egypt, the jungles of Borneo and even the sprawling walls of China's greats--and at those very moments, I'd indulge in sacred beauty. Then, on the brink of salvation, when it becomes all too prevalent, he has a notion of reminding me how beauty is derived, how ultimately, it is not the destination that defines beauty, nor do mountains, rivers and water falls--but through light, he guides me, and somehow, I meet people who confirms his acclamation.
Christian is five years old. When asked what he wanted to become when he gets older, he looked up at me, gave the biggest smile I had ever seen, and in a sweet little voice, he said in Spanish: "I want to become a coffee drinker." We laughed, he jumped in joy with hands in the air, and within seconds, I saw in him something different--something I haven't seen in a long, long time. I saw hope.
Born with one leg, Christian is a symbol of beauty, of love, of humanity and the human spirit. With the help of a prosthesis, he runs when other his age can barely walk up-hill in his village. He jumps and climbs--and like all children, his laughter fills your heart with warmth. Asked what his favorite sport is, he replied, "soccer."
Challenging me to a game of one-on-one, in Spanish, he'd speak words I couldn't understand. All I did was nod and smile--which in return, he nodded and laughed. And so we'd play, kicking the ball back and forth--and when he pointed to his forehead, it meant he wanted to head-butt the ball. For a while, all my worries were gone--my aches and pains from constant travel had vanished, and like a child again, I laughed for no real reason--except at the fact that someone special was laughing with me.
Walking into his bedroom, a small Honduran soccer jersey hung over his bed. With walls made of mud, it was probably the most prized possession in his home. Looking down, I noticed a little teddy bear sitting by his pillow. "You still sleep with a teddy?" I jokingly asked. He nodded and smiled. Grabbing my hand, he showed me the prosthetic limb that he designed for his teddy bear. And just like his, he could put it on and take it off. "Mi amigo," he said. At that very moment, I merely cried.
That night, I went to bed in my hotel room realizing how lucky I am to have met him. I am forever thankful that there are people like little Christian David Flores in this world.
Photo by Dan Denardo
"Spicy"
