Bamboo scaffolding surrounds a section of renovation on a high-rise in downtown Hong Kong.
When I first visited China, back in 2006, I was 22 years old and completely in awe with how big the world had turned out to be. I wandered around for weeks, taking everything in. It was this experience, along with other subsequent trips that opened my eyes to how beautiful the world can be if we just take the time to look around.
Kennecott, Salt Lake City- Nothing says "human" like digging a huge hole in the ground. Some people might look at this and say "disgusting", while other's might look at this and say "beautiful". I think it's interesting that something so disgusting can be so beautiful. The scale of the Kennecott Copper mine is hard to grasp, but for reference the tires on the haul trucks you can see roaming around are about 13 feet tall.
Sarajevo, Bosnia- Behind the confines of our walls, we weep for the ignorant. Barriers that have been built to shield us from others make us more alone than ever before. We walk among the trees and flowers, across the courtyard, reflecting on the outside influences that have shaped our world, and yet we resist. We're afraid, unmoved. Our hands remain at our sides, unwilling to grasp what the future holds in front of us. Instead, we lay waste to to our surroundings and indulge the whispers and murmurings in the alleys, perfectly content to accept any inconvenience that stands in our way to greatness.
Split, Croatia- Two men stand in the afternoon light, their wisdom and experience combine to the tale of youth. After moments of hesitation, they trail off into silence, fading like the memories behind them. Wrinkled faces share more about their lives than any story ever could. Looking into their eyes, one can only help but feel the past. A life filled with happiness and regret, misery and hope. It’s a story played out by billions and yet no story is alike. 7 billion individual stories, with 7 billion individual outcomes. It’s amazing.
Guangzhou, China- The faceless have names, but we don't know them. They have lives that we can only imagine. Their feelings and dreams escape us constantly, but within an image, we can see it, feel it. They feel just as we feel; heartache, happiness, love, desire. Each day we wake up in the morning, our eyes opening after a sleepless night. Scanning the ceiling, we make an effort to move. We consciously force ourselves out of bed. Why? Because every human being on the planet has an innate desire to be someone. We go to school, brush our hair, put on clothes, all because we want to be remembered. For some, though, it isn't about being remembered, it's about surviving.
Banja Luka, Bosnia- On an unnaturally warm summer's evening, I walked down the main road, heading north toward the outskirts of the city. The sun was approaching the horizon and the shadows were growing long, but the city was still buzzing. As I walked by a park, I noticed a giant chessboard, complete with giant chess pieces, surrounded by a group of spectators. It appeared as if a chess match was beginning. I approached cautiously, as I didn't want to disturb the spectators and planted myself on a bench. For about 40 minutes, the two opponents battled it out. Everyone was riveted, watching their expressions change from frustration, to confusion, and inevitably to joy, as each opponent maneuvered the pieces around the board. During what I perceived to be a lull in the match, I backed off a bit to shoot some photos of the entire scene. Nobody even glanced in my direction. After the win, the board was reset, and I wandered off in search of more exciting adventures, but nothing will ever top the greatest chess match of all time.
Through a series of poor decisions that culminated with a ripped off oil pan in the middle of mine-filled Croatian forest at 2am, I realized at some point, I had strayed from my travel plan.
To be fair, I didn’t really have any plans, but being stranded in the middle of nowhere by myself, 2 days before my departure back to the United States, wouldn’t have been on that list had I written them down.
It all started when I was sitting above Sarajevo in an old bombed out hotel, enjoying a beautiful sunset. The air was crisp, the scenery was magical, and I was in a strange yet exciting city. I felt like I was on top of the world. Nothing could bring me down, except maybe, I don’t know, a group of Bosnian assholes standing next to my car, breaking my window and stealing my things.
I got up and started walking back, but the damage had already been done. They raced off with the contents of my laptop bag and disappeared into the sunset. I ran to my car and drove down the road, but it was all in vain.
Leaving town the next day, I couldn’t help wonder where my computer was, or if it had a nice home. Were the thieves currently accessing all my files? My thoughts drifted off as night fell. I had crossed the border into Croatia earlier in the evening and was currently looking for a place to sleep. For the past week, I had just slept on a pad near my car wherever I could, usually on a dirt road outside of town, and tonight was no different.
I drove down a dirt road for a while, but couldn’t ever find a good spot. There were no pull offs. After a while, a two track emerged on the left, leading up into the forest. “This will be a good spot”, I thought to myself. Driving up the rutted road, I doubted my tiny cars ability to handle the deep grooves, but continued anyway, searching in vain for a nice spot. About 15 minutes into the two track, I scraped the bottom of my car quite hard. Thinking nothing of it, I continued driving, working my way back down the mountain. Shortly after the scrape, I rolled up to a creek. I got out, checked the depth, and swiftly drove across it with great success. Up ahead, the two track merged back onto a gravel road. I pulled up onto the road and my car suddenly died.
I exited my vehicle and walked around the front. Crouching down to look under my rental car, I could see oil dripping out from a mangled oil pan. Electrical wires dangled down, looking very out of place. Dirt and mud fell down from the undercarriage onto the gravel road below. The smell of burning oil hung around in the muggy, stagnant air. I stood up and sighed.
It was dark out, and I was far from any place that resembled a town. I hadn’t seen a vehicle for hours. I stood there motionless for another minute. If it were a movie, the scene would have started pulling up into the skies to reveal me standing in the middle of a dark void, pulling up further would reveal the earth, sitting among the stars. It was at this moment that I realized the succession of bad decisions that let to this point. Exhausted, I pulled my sleeping bag out and laid down in the dirt near my car.
A couple hours later, a vehicle approached, waking me from my slumber. It was an old red jeep. The driver slowed and poked his head out the window. I got out of my sleeping bag and approached him. “English”? I asked. He shook his head and continued staring at the situation in front of him. I tried miming what a broken car would look like, but the hood propped up did a better job than I could. The man got out of his jeep. He was huge, dressed all in cammo. After another 20 minute miming session, It appeared that he told me I could sleep at his house. I reluctantly got into his jeep and we sped off. On the drive, he introduced himself as Marko, I introduced myself as matt, and the conversation took a nosedive from there.
30 minutes later, we pulled up at a small brick house. I followed him inside and was immediately greeted by a huge wasp, buzzing around. There were quite of few of them. Marko ran into the other room and grabbed a fly swatter. We spent the next 10 minutes on a seek-and-destroy mission. I was the spotter, and he was the killer. I would run into a room, shout after seeing a wasp, and he would run in after and kill the wasp. It was a bizarrely awesome experience that I hope to never have to participate in again.
When the wasps were all killed, we sat around a small round table in the kitchen. Marko went to the pantry and pulled out some coca cola. He proceeded to mime out that he was out hunting when he ran into me and that he was going to head out in a minute to try and find something to shoot that night. I expressed how tired I was and headed to the guest room.
As tired as I was, it was hard to fall asleep. My mind raced, thinking about what I was going to do with my broken down vehicle. That coupled with the sound of pacing outside my room left me wide-eyed and alert.
The pacing continued for quite sometime, from the kitchen out on to the porch, back to the kitchen. At one point, I heard a couple rounds of gunfire empty into the night. It was a stressful sleep at first, but my mind became heavy and I eventually wandered into dreamland.
The following morning, I awoke to the sound of pacing, once again. I exited my room and walked over to the small kitchen table. Marko came in and went to the fridge. His back was to me, but when he turned around, he was carrying more Coca-Cola as well as a large assortment of meats. We sat at the table, sharing pictures of our family, miming our life histories, all the while eating meat for breakfast. It was delicious.
Marko walked outside briefly, and came back with a handful of my worst nightmare: Tomatoes. Just to be clear, I hate tomatoes. I would rather poke myself in the eye than eat a tomato, but here I was in a situation where I was definitely going to have to eat tomatoes. My stomach sank. The inevitable was upon me. I watched Marko’s thick hands slice the vile vegetables into small pieces. He slid them toward me. I couldn’t believe this was happening. I vigorously salted the slices and reluctantly shoved them into my mouth.
They weren’t bad.
After polishing off the rest of the Coke, Marko pulled out a big map and laid it on the table. It was a map of the local area accompanied with large zones marked with red cross hatches. Marko pointed to where we were, and where I was last night, which was smack dab in the middle of one of those red zones. It wasn’t until his miming became clear that I realized what he was saying. Apparently I had been driving through an area that had a lot of landmines. Fortunately for me, I didn’t wander off the road and find any of those. I laughed nervously, grateful that my fate was so far favorable.
A few moments later, Marko pulled out his cell phone. I handed him the number to the rental company in Zagreb, and he made a couple phone calls. An hour later, a flat bed tow truck arrived; ready to take me back to the capitol city. It was a moment of extreme thanks and relief. A man that I had met in the middle of nowhere had turned my catastrophe into a lesson in human kindness. I hugged Marko, and climbed into the passenger seat of the tow truck. As the truck slowly drove off, we waved goodbye.
4 hours later, I was at the airport chatting with the rental folks at the counter. They came out to do the mandatory post trip inspection. I thought it was rather funny handing back the keys to a vehicle that looked like it had taken part in a demolition derby.
I checked into the airport hotel and promptly climbed into bed. I stayed there for the rest of the day, snacking on a loaf of bread and jam that had accompanied me throughout the ordeal. For some reason, I didn’t feel the need to leave the hotel. I was content just laying there, thinking about the adventure that I had just survived, wondering where my next one might take me, and what sort exciting things would happen in the future.
Walking beside the wall that guards the old city of Xi’an, one notices a certain rhythm. Leaves litter the ground in anticipation for the cooler temperatures of fall. Coats and jackets are pulled from the closet. Young children scramble by, oblivious to their surroundings. The elderly, however, are veterans of the changing seasons. Years pass by unannounced. Fleeting moments turn to distant memories, and the cycle continues.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Foros, Ukraine - A woman sits alone on an empty beach, kept company by only her thoughts. The sound of waves rolling over small stones crackle and hiss as the water recedes back into the sea, reflecting the evening light back into the sky. Birds hover overhead, suspended in time, their heads shift about surveying the landscape. The breeze is cool, coming in off the ocean while the sun sets. Simpler times on the Crimean coast.
Baffin, Canada- Post-holing up The Beak was one of those memories that, in my mind, i've relegated to Type 2 fun. Had I not been with an amazing crew, It most certainly would have been closer to type 3 fun.
We departed from our base camp down in Sam Ford Fjord on Baffin Island, early in the morning. It was light outside, but only because it's always light outside at that time of year. We glided across the frozen sea on snowmobiles, the arctic wind whipping at our covered faces. Rolling up at the base, we geared up for the long climb ahead. This was a scouting mission so the BASE jumpers could get some test jumps in. Filming would begin the following morning. As we trudged up the backside of the cliff face, the sun beat down on the snow, burning our already tan faces. Wind blew by us, drowning out the heavy breathing. The group slowly crawled up the backside, hitting false summit after false summit.
When we finally reached the ridge, the launch point stuck out like a sore thumb. We stood there looking around at some of the most beautiful scenery on earth. In front of us, a wind swept frozen fjord extended into the vast arctic wasteland. Behind us, a glacial remnant of the forces that have shaped the landscape for a millennia, creaked and groaned as it scoured it's way down through the rock. The silence was deafening.
The build up of adrenaline was electrifying as the BASE jumpers checked and rechecked their equipment. After what seemed like an eternity, they were ready. The three of them perched at the edge of the cliff, issuing words of encouragement, and in a moment they were gone, rocketing toward the frozen ocean below. My eyes were transfixed on the spot where they had been standing, but I looked down in time to see their parachutes open up. Screams of excitement interrupted the unnerving silence, and we watched as they effortlessly steered their canopies down to the valley floor. Once again, we were soon bathed in an inescapable quiet. Our reason for being there had just jumped off the cliff. We looked around, exchanging congratulations of our own, and started packing up our things for the hike down, which ended up being substantially easier.
It's interesting how fleeting these moments seem. Timy Dutton, one of the BASE jumpers on the shoot, died last week in a skydiving accident at one of his favorite jump locations. Time stops with the passing of friends, and while he is no longer here, the impressions that Timy made on all of us will last forever, which is a comforting thought.
Buenos Aires, Argentina - Walking around the streets of Buenos Aires is like visiting the Louvre, but without all the French people. Around every corner is someone's creative prowess splattered all over a wall. Some of the art it is really beautiful, while other pieces leave much to be desired. Regardless of quality, it's great to see people expressing themselves in a creative manner.
Iceland- The lighthouse. A beacon on a stormy night. To those on land, it is a monument. A reminder of those who have perished on the waters. To those sailing out in the great and black expanse, it is a savior, A reminder that there is someone watching over them, keeping them safe, giving them hope.
In the predawn hours on a sweltering day in September, a crowd of shadowy figures gathers in an old decrepit rail yard, waiting for their salvation. The sun hasn’t even begun to rise and the sweat has already started beading. The smell of garbage and decay hangs in the stagnant air. A man with his pregnant wife and two young children stand on the outskirts of the crowd, looking tired and desperate. Each child is holding onto a leg, trying to not to get washed away in the sea of people. I watch as they circle the crowd, looking for an opening. Finally, they push their way into the crowd, joining all the others trying to board the train.
For over two days, migrants have been pouring in from all over southern Mexico, looking to gain illegal entry into the United States. Entrepreneurs eagerly pace back and forth below the unmoving train, hawking food, water, cardboard, or whatever else might come in handy on the journey. The mood is anxious, dire, but with a hint of excitement. For some, this is new territory. Others are all too familiar with what the next 3 weeks will hold.
As the crowd pushes toward the train, a morning breeze picks up, carrying away the putrid smell. The sun is just below the horizon. Light illuminates those already on the train. Hundreds of migrants silhouetted against the deep blue sky, waiting. They stand by, quietly watching as the rest of the crowd climbs up the rusted ladders onto the boxcars.
Far ahead, the roar of diesel engines coming to life interrupts the morning silence. A nervous excitement reverberates up and down the cars. The booming sound of metal on metal is deafening as cars slam together. The occupants grip tightly as the booming gets closer. Boxcars lurch forward and slowly start moving down the rickety tracks. Children’s eyes widen with amazement while their parents look longingly out over the landscape, thinking of the home they left behind in search of something greater. Nervous whispers slowly turn to talking as the train picks up speed. Their excitement is an overtone to the dangers that lie ahead.
Murder, rape, and theft, are all possibilities for most of the migrants. Living in a state of fear for the chance of a better life. Payments must be made to board the train, or they risk getting thrown off. At every step of their journey, the dark underworld is very present, always around the corner, watching, waiting for opportunities to present themselves.
The train gets up to speed; slowly winding it’s way through marshes, jungle, and farmland. Rows of avocado trees pass by, stretching out toward the horizon. The smell of diesel mixes with nature. Warm morning temperatures give way to blistering heat as the harsh sun beats down. Dehydration is a constant battle. Looking back over the 30 something boxcars packed with migrants, I notice the excited conversations have all but tapered off. Most sit quietly, shading themselves from the heat, soaking in the desperate adventure they are embarking on.
The specific reasons for heading north differ amongst the group. Some are trying to meet with families that have already established themselves in the U.S. Others are fleeing gang violence, not knowing where to go or what to do. Mixed in among the hopefuls are those working for the cartel, smuggling anything from drugs to people. Most will meet up with a coyote, a person who specializes in getting migrants across the U.S.-Mexico border. Some coyotes are legitimate, while others use the opportunity to steal, rape, or even hold customers hostage until their family pays a ransom
The midday sun is unbearable. Cardboard purchased before the ride becomes makeshift hats. Young men looking to show off, stand up on the moving cars while the train lumbers across the land. One of them jumps to the very front of the pack. Sitting down, he solemnly looks back toward the end of the train. He sits, swaying back and forth. The monotonous sound of the train is interrupted by a shout. “Rama”, meaning branch in Spanish, is passed down the train. Everybody ducks as the low branches sweep overhead. Branches scraping the side emit a high pitch screech.
The squeal of brakes announces a stop ahead. Grinding to a halt, the train stops just outside a small town and I get off with a handful of people. I watch as the train starts up and continues its journey north. The migrants sitting on top slowly fade into the distance. To me, it is baffling. It is an unknown that no one but the participants can truly comprehend. Those that make it will live with a lifetime of paranoia, wondering when they’ll get caught and sent back. For those migrants that survive the border crossing but get captured and deported, most will be shipped home, where they will once again find themselves sitting on the hot metal roof of a train car, slowly meandering north through the mountains and valleys in search of a better life.
Siem Reap, Cambodia- Leaving town early in the morning, I pedaled swiftly along the road, inhaling fumes as cars whizzed dangerously close by. For some reason, I thought that riding a bike was a good idea, despite almost hitting a cyclist on the bus ride into town the day before. The sun wasn't up yet, but the traffic was already dense. Thousands of people were vying to get the best seats for watching the sunrise over Angkor Wat, and I was one of them. The sweat poured from my body, soaking my shirt in the morning heat. I passed through the compound gates and continued, feverishly pedaling toward the temple. After locking my bike to a rack, I joined the throngs of people heading toward the temple, its towering pinnacles stretching to the sky. As the sun rose, I remember being somewhat disappointed with the event. Whether it was the thousands of people surrounding me or the cloudless sky, I don't know, but it didn't feel special.
While people started walking back to their cars, looking forward to getting back to their hotels for breakfast, I continued my exploration around the giant stone structure. On the west side of the complex, shaded from the sun, a staircase rose sharply from the ground, extending up toward a giant doorway. An old woman sat on the giant steps in silence. This was the special moment that I was looking for. I stood back through a couple doorways so as not to disturb, and fired off a few photos. Feeling somewhat euphoric, I continued my walk around the ruins, but I never shot anything else that made me as happy.
I find it a little funny that the old woman will never know that she played an integral role in shaping my future, but I like it that way. It makes me realize how easy it is to effect those around us and how sometimes we help others when we're not even expecting to.
Simferopol, Ukraine- I love photographing people. Not anybody specific, just every day people that are going about their lives, doing what they need to do to survive. They're so mysterious. Full of emotion. One way I enjoy shooting them is finding a backdrop that I'm really in love with. in this case, i was really drawn to the long shadows cast by the air conditioner and the texture on the wall and window covers. When I find my backdrop, I'll start to people-watch, which is really my favorite part. When you find someone that you really want to shoot, you have to make sure that their body positioning feels natural. You either get this by being a badass and shooting exactly when you need to, or you do what I do and shoot a as much as you can.