Inevitability

  Photo: Banda Aceh, Indonesia
Tsunami Aftermath (Click to enlarge)

The sun will rise. The tides will flow. The winds will blow. 

I will love; it’s the inevitable truth. This love shall spirit me away in a single, sweeping current. It will drown me, and it’s sweet, warm essence will fill my lungs and drive out all but love. This love may take me to another world; some special, uncharted territory. It may be a dark place, with danger lurking; love may wound me fatally. I may sacrifice everything, including my life. But I will not return to the life before love; my arms are too weak and my soul too fragile to fight against the ancient current of passion.

I must go with the flow.

For, what does a writer have if not passion; if not love? Such is a chef without an appetite; a photographer without a lens.

Innocent Stares

Photo: Kabul, Afghanistan (Click to enlarge)

When I was younger, my dream was to one day film in war zones. At night, I'd read extensively about the Vietnam war, about the men and women of Alpha company landing in hot LZ's (landing zones), and how friends and foes would shed their blood, take a life, lose life. But in the midst of it all were the photographers capturing images that gave meaning to life, the living and the dead. It brought the war closer to home--and even as a child of war, it made it real, and forever changed my perception on the price of freedom. I wanted to become one of them--the men with the lens, the dashingly-cool bunch of guys that pointed glass at the enemy, those who saw the world by frames per second.

In retrospect, my dream has come true. I've lived that dream—saw beauty in darkness, found solace in faith, and witnessed the world unfolding in an utterly profound, yet definitive way. I've seen horror through a lens, witnessed the ground beneath me drown in pools of blood and even held the frigid hands of a dying marine I had never met. In war, I found myself. I found the man in me that I dreamt of as a child. In war, I realized that I am a man not because of my bravery or how I find lust with light, but because in the midst of chaos, I am able to still see eye to eye with those who stare at my lens. I see life, not headlines. I see fear and pain. I see hope.

I'll never forget those innocent stares.

Against All Odds

Photo: Christian David Florres, born with only one leg.
Santa Rosa de Copan, Honduras

So, I'm guessing you have gone through pages and pages on the internet looking at pictures of celebrities and athletes--wishing you had their looks, their ability to amaze the world. This little boy just wishes for one thing: the chance to live his life.

Do you know what I wish for?

His bravery. His ability to see the world without prejudice or boundaries, determination--and his will to succeed--against all odds.

Preparing For War

Photo: On assignment in Afghanistan

Covering war is the hardest, most dangerous and most exciting part of any photographers career. It's not just a job, it's a way of life. It's the ability to cope with fear, know where to go, what to do, and being able to make fast-rational decisions in unconventional ways.

Friends constantly ask me if I ever feel fear when I’m shooting. In short, yes, I’m always scared. You begin to lose sight of the world when you’re no longer in fear of where you’re at. Any photographer who tells you he's never scared is a fool or a liar, and probably both. Fear is what kept me alive. And I'm not ashamed to admit it.

Under fire, you swear you'll never do it again. But when the dust settles and the shooting subsides, you look upon the faces of the innocent lives around you, and you realize that this is their daily existence. It encompasses every waking moment of their lives. They are hungry, exhausted--exhausted by violence...by turmoil...by bombings and gunfire and kidnappings and destruction and fear and helplessness and hopelessness. Exhausted by death. Exhausted by life.

As a photographer, you journey on. You pick up your camera, wipe your lens and vow to make every frame count.

Hope is Within

Photo: A little girl living in the rubble of Port Au Prince, Haiti/ Feb. 2010

In memory of the thousands that lost their lives and to the people of Haiti who made me believe in the power of hope, humanity, and the human spirit.

***

There was a time many years ago, when I first began doing what I do, when I thought I could fake it--you know, cover a story somewhere and go through the emotions, not giving away pieces of myself in return. I tried to push my emotions aside, tell the story and leave when I was done. I'd focus on the mechanics: story-telling and structure. I'd have conversations, conduct interviews, and I wasn't even there. I'd nod, look in others' eyes, but my vision lost focus, my mind turned to details.

People became characters, plot lines in a story I was constructing in my head. Their mouths moved, I heard only lines of track, bites of sound. I listened for what I could use--and the rest, I fast forwarded through, deleted and never looked at again.

When I had what I needed to put a full story together, I'd pull out. Leave them behind and never really stay long enough to let my emotions set in. I thought I could get away unscathed, unchanged. The truth was I hadn't gotten out at all. It's impossible to block out what you see, what you hear. Even if you stop listening, the pain gets inside, seeps through the cracks you can't close up. You can't fake your way through it. I know that now. You have to absorb it all. You owe them that. You owe it to yourself as well.

Sometimes, in the aftermath, when you take the time to realize that hope is within, you find an image--or two, that just makes you smile and wish you had more time to feel for those who make you who you are.

Blind Squirrel Finds a Nut

PHOTO: Gracias Lentera, Honduras

It was a Sunday afternoon in rural Honduras when I snapped this shot. I had just finished my assignment the day before and my girlfriend, Linda had just flown down to meet me there for a quick weekend get-away. Walking down the pebble roads, I had an ice-cream in one hand, holding Linda's hand with the other. The camera was strapped to my shoulder.

Instinctively, as a photographer, you're constantly scanning for details, everywhere you go--looking for things that seem out of the ordinary. When things are normal, you question why--and when things are out of place, you never question at all--because you're too busy capturing the details that make it "different" from the rest.

Carefully watching this rickshaw chugging towards us, I paid close attention to the way it bounced side to side--the way it got louder with every inch it traveled--barely making it up the hill. As it passed, I noticed how full it was and tried to quickly count the number of people crammed inside. Nice picture, I thought--but not worth dropping my ice cream for.

I turned to give it one last glance as it passed and managed to see the little girl peeking through its window. I quickly dropped Linda's hand and went for my camera. With one hand, I held my camera tight, looked through the barrel of my 70-200mm lens and began snapping at 10 frames per second.

Ice cream was still in tact.

As my good friend Dan Denardo would say: "Even a blind squirrel finds a nut, sometimes."

Photographers Note: For all you tech geeks out there, I shot this with a Canon 1D Mark IV using a 70-200mm at 200mm set to f6.3, ISO 1600.

The Blind Trust Fund

Photo: Media Team in Port Au Prince, Haiti
L-R: Driver, Bodyguard 1, Dan Denardo, Javier Suarez Martin, Ron Sim, Driver, Emily Lynch, Personal Aid, David Blum, Bodyguard 2

Today, when I watch reality shows like Survivor or repeat episodes of Fear Factor, I have to chuckle. You think building a hut or sticking your hand in a tub of worms is hard? Try treading through a minefield in rural Cambodia moments after hearing one go off; or carrying 50lbs worth of gear up a mountain in the Borneo Jungle while leaches feast on every vein in your body; or sweeping through the Helmand desert in Afghanistan with elite special forces commandos.

When you hoist a camera and a note pad for a living and decide to venture into the unknown--the game you play goes like this: If you lose, you die, and if you win, you get to do it again, and again, and again, and watch as friends die, until you die or retire. Period.

You don't study to become an expert in war zones or how to shoot and survive in remote environments--you just do it, and grow into the role. And as far as survival is concerned, you don't get better at "surviving;" you just keep getting lucky. But make no mistake--for the men and women that do what we do, luck is like a blind trust fund--you can make withdrawals but not deposits--and you have no idea how much is left.

Why Should We Care?

Photo: Orphaned boy in Afghanistan, 2008.

I have been on fast-forward for most of my life, racing to keep ahead of the demands of an ever-changing career in the media industry. Writing has given me a chance to pause and reflect a little on myself, but mostly on the dilemmas I have faced covering shattering events around the world.

I am grateful to the many people I have met who allowed a clumsy journalist into their lives. I think about them late at night when I cannot sleep.

What happened to the abandoned boy with the harelip in the Baghdad hospital? Did your mother come back to get you after the siege? And the hungry little boy who followed me all morning in Port Au Prince asking for my pen. I wish I'd given it to you. I only had one. The Afghan orphan I left studying by candlelight--did you become a teacher as you wanted? The boy in Gaza paralyzed by a bullet to the neck--did you get a wheelchair that would go through sand?

If I could revisit the thousands of people I have filmed in the worst moments of their lives, I would apologize for having intruded on their suffering. I would share with them my belief that by telling me their stories they have helped in some small way to make the world a better place.

Hopefully, they would agree.

In a world obsessed with celebrities, leaders, and wealth--one thing I am not ashamed of is the route that I have taken and the direction I've decided to point my camera. I'm determined to shed light on the forgotten, focus on those left behind, those paying the price. And in many ways, I hope to provide an answer to all those who ever dare to ask "why should we care?"

Special Friends

Photo by Dan Denardo
Current Location: Santa Rosa, Honduras
Original Post Written on March 6, 2010.

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.

Scars of the Soul

Photo by Dan Denardo

This is a look at what goes on in the mind of a photog in the midst of fear.

***

Like shards of broken glass, the sharp sound of gun fire cuts through the silence of the night, echoes through the air, and into the abyss. I sat there on that ledge in Port Au Prince that night, surrounded by darkness, engulfed in fear unlike any I had ever felt. There's nothing more terrifying than the sound of ricochet, the possibility of being hit, the utter silence that follows and the heavy sigh that trembles out of your soul. It's a feeling you never forget.

As minutes passed and silence fell once more, I sat there on that ledge--alone, wondering what tomorrow may bring. On the eve of inevitable rioting and political unrest, for the first time in my life, I sat there in fear--not of dying or leaving the world behind, no, but fear of failure--failing in life and the person I've come to be. I had never set out to become anything in particular--only to live creatively and push the scope of my existence--for adventure, through passion. And along the way, either by fate or destiny--or maybe guilt or shame, I've managed to re-focus my lens on those less fortunate. There was a time in my life when I would stare down the barrel of my lens to capture the plight of those who suffer--without even realizing they were human. It's a guilt that is embedded in my soul.

I have seen so much of the world, yet I have felt so little. I have gone to places few can imagine, even parts of the world many never knew existed. I have seen war and death, destruction and despair. I have seen beauty when all was lost, darkness when many seemingly smiled. I've seen between the lines, the silent threats and invisible divides. I've seen, but never felt. I've captured, but never cherished.

And because of that, I am changed. I am not the man I once was. After every foreign assignment, I'd return home to an empty house, bare walls and unopened mail. When I am with my family, they no longer ask where I've been or what I've done. They no longer ask to see my work or hear my stories. It's as if I had never left. And for their own sanity, that's how they prefer it--because to them, I am that son that travels for a living, the one that goes to distant lands and daunting journeys, fending off sickness, disease and most times, danger. I am that son that parents wish they had but never want to know of--the son that parents fear would never return. And with that reality constantly in the back of my mind, I often regret living that kind of life.

As an eerie silence held a city of seven million in rapture, I sat there on that ledge contemplating about the choices I've made and the choices I should have made. The notion of fear and failure, regret and reverie lingered on my mind--making me want to scream.

Gun shots echoed in the distance.

Forever Changed

Photo Credit: Paul Emanuel
Port Au Prince, Haiti

One year ago today, my life changed.

On January 12, 2010, the world was caught in rapture as the plight of millions flickered live on television screens around the globe. And sadly, for all the wrong reasons, for a brief moment in time, a little island known as Haiti caught the attention of billions. Within the blink of an eye over 250,000 lives vanished, crushed and buried underneath the rubble known today as Port Au Prince.

As a photographer, I was instantly drawn to the action--not because I was excited to capture pictures of people in dire circumstance, but for some strange and indescribable reason, I wanted to save lives--just like those heroic rescuers on TV. For a while, I wished that I was simply more than just a man behind a lens, more than a face behind a camera. For once, I wanted to look at something and have it marinate within--to savor something more profound than just an image caught in time. To see life, to feel warmth and the touch of compassion, to hear the cry of those who are silent.

Having been to Haiti shortly after the earthquake, it changed me--and changed the way I view the world. It became my passion. It inspired me to find more meaning in the work that I do, to show more than the obvious, to bring to life some of the issues the mainstream conscience so soon forget.

I know I'm not a doctor, not a specialist or a scholar of any kind. I cannot perform miracles, heal the wounded or comfort the weary. Truth be told, I'm simply a man behind a lens. And what I do know is that the images I capture must do justice--it must convey a conviction equally profound as life itself--HOPE. And because of this notion, I am forever changed.

***

Blogger Note: I am embarking on a new project entitled ONE WORLD--a five part documentary series to bring to light the need for clean water in Haiti. Please follow me on this journey by clicking on the link below.

The World in 365

Photo: Teenie and Weenie in Shanghai, China
With fellow photographer Dan Denardo

2010 was a record year for me as I traveled to 19 countries within a 12 month period. Here's a peak at some of the places I've gone to, what I saw and the friendships I've made.

To see the full album, please follow the link:
The World in 365

The EGGONATOR

Photo: Breakfast in Huzhou, China

Sole to Soul

Photo: Shoe on wire

When I was younger my mom and I would spend hours at the local discount department store--browsing and trying new and amazing products. We were new immigrants to Canada at the time--with very little money to spend, so needless to say, we spent more time trying than buying.

One day, she had bought me a pair of shoes--blue with purple stripes and orange text that read "TRAXX" on them. They were ugly, I recalled. But having just arrived in Canada, I had very little say as to what was nice and what wasn't. I was just happy to have shoes--but even though I was only five at the time and having no grasp of Canadian culture, I still had the innate human instincts to know that it was "damn hideous." Other kids made fun of me at school whenever I wore them. They'd call me names, push me off the jungle gym, pinched and poked--and for some strange reason, this kid named Chuck took my shoes one day and threw them in the garbage bin. I went home without my shoes that night--only to be yelled at by mom. It wasn't until the next morning when the custodian found it and returned them to my class.

It got to a point when my shoes became my demise. They were two sizes bigger than my feet. When the teacher turned off the lights, the orange text glowed in the dark--and when I ran, sometimes I'd trip, plunging my face--first to the ground. My shoes flew off my feet whenever that happened. Some nights, I'd come home crying, sniffling like a kid without Kleenex, snot running down my nose. I'd walk through the house looking for a place to hide my shoes--and had I known how to use a lighter at the time, I probably would've burnt them. My mom would comfort and console me, promising a new pair as soon as I'd grow out of the one's I had.

On some days, I'd sit on the bench at recess looking out at all the other kids--wishing I'd be in their shoes. Nike's and Reeboks would flood my nocturnal dreams. But when I asked my mom for those brands, she'd turn to me and look deep into my eyes, held me tight and said, "It doesn't matter what kind of shoes you wear, son, as long as it gets you there."

Sometimes, when I'm in the midst of travel, tired and drained of emotions--held together only by hope, I'd think back to those days when I was "that boy with the ugly shoes." In retrospect, I'd come to realize that no matter the distance, it is not the sole that carries me forward--but the SOUL from within that compels me to aim higher, push harder, and go further. And sometimes, when the world just seems unbearable, when all is restless and all is devoid of the fabric that sustains humanity, I just have to look deeper, think clearer to find the stitches to mend and weave back together the very essence of all that is beautiful in our world.

Lately, I've been asked to speak to local youth groups, schools and organizations--and every time I'm up there, I can't help but to look at all the little shoes before me. It comforts me--because when all is said and done, I'm just a simple man with simple ideas, common goals and common needs. It is that common thread that binds us all. And no matter the color, no matter the shape, size, creator or creed--it is the goal at hand--the destination at target that should only matter. Sometimes, as humans, we seldom look beyond the materialistic things that limit us from achieving our goal. We let it define us, control and mentally shape the outcome of dreams--and when one is awake, it is the materialistic notion that dictates why we fail or why we succeed.

It took me two years to grow out of those shoes--and by 2nd grade, I got used to them. After a while, I naturally grew into them, I ran faster, kicked harder, and eventually, the glow in the dark orange text stopped glowing and lost its luster. I simply adapted to what I had.

"It doesn't matter what kind of shoes you wear, son, as long as it gets you there."

Twenty five years later--on the cusp of turning thirty and having traveled to over 40 countries--through wars, devastation, heartache and pain, trials and tribulations, I've never forgotten those words. And to this day, I'm thankful she only paid $5.99 for those shoes.

*Currently filming in Shanghai, China. Due to blogging bans in China, a special thanks to my buddy Chris for posting this on my behalf from North America.

Life is Good

Photo: A little boy enjoying his bowl of noodles--down to the very last drop

I was in my home town of Windsor, Ontario this weekend to visit my parents--and like most weekends at home, I like to take the time to visit our local temple. While talking to friends and local elders, I couldn't help but to notice a little boy enjoying his bowl of noodles. In his own little corner, he confined himself to his bowl--slurping, twirling, spinning and chewing to his heart's content. His use of the chop-stick could make fools out of Iron Chef's. And with every gulp of broth and succulent string of noodle--he finished off with an audible "aaaahhhhh" followed with a smile to showcase his remaining two-front teeth.

Life is definitely good--down to the very last drop.