Friday, June 28, 2013

Thursday, June 27, 2013

Ecuador: Fisherman Weaving A Net



Ecuador. Pacific coast at Puerto Lopez. Woman watching her fisherman husband weave a net outside their house..

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Equateur. Côte du Pacifique á Puerto Lopez. Femme observant son mari pécheur tisser un filet.



Tuesday, June 25, 2013

Monday, June 24, 2013

Ecuador: Herding Pigs On Chimborazo


Ecuador. Andes Mountains. Chimborazo Volcano. Indian women herding pigs to pasture on a freezing morning.

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Equateur. Montagne des Andes. Volcan Chimborazo. Indiennes menant leurs cochons au pâturage par un matin de gel.



Sunday, June 23, 2013

Colombia: Antioquia Tomato Market



Colombia. Andes Mountains. El Peñol (Antioquia State). Tomato market. Farmers await buyers while chatting over their crates.

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Colombie. El Peñol, une ville andine du département d’Antioquia. Marché de tomates. Appuyés sur leurs caisses de tomates, leurs producteurs bavardent en attendant les clients.

Thursday, June 20, 2013

Afganistan: Kabul Tea Shop


Afghanistan. Kabul. Tea shop. Owner sits in front of his Russian samovar. Teapots line the shelves behind him.

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Afghanistan. Kabul. Salon de thé. Le patron est assis devant son samovar russe. Les théières sont alignées derrière lui.


Wednesday, June 19, 2013

Afghanistan:Pashtun Camel Market


Afghanistan. Ghazni. Camel market. Some Pashtun men examine a camel they might buy, while others watch.

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Afghanistan. Ghazni. Marché de chameaux. Observés par des curieux, des Pashtuns examinent un chameau.

Tuesday, June 18, 2013

Sunday, June 16, 2013

Peru: Q'ero Indians Tending to Llamas


Peru. Andes Mountains Cordillera Vilcanota. Q'ero Indians changing faded red wool tassels in male llamas' ears for bright new ones. Tassels help the Q'ero distinguish male from female llamas from a distance. The two sexes have different uses.

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Pérou. Montagne des Andes. Cordillère Vilcanota. Indiens Q’eros changeant la laine passée des oreilles de leurs lamas mâles pour une nouvelle. Cette laine aide les Q’eros à distinguer de loin les mâles des femelles. Les deux sexes ont des usages différents.



Peru. Sacred Inca Valley


Peru. Cusco Province. Inca Sacred Valley at Chinchero. Inca agriculltural terraces. Indian woman herding pigs to pasture.

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Pérou. Province de Cusco. Vallée sacrée des Incas. Terraces agriculturales Incas. Indienne menant ses cochons au pâturage.


Friday, June 14, 2013

Cameroon: Bororo Woman


Cameroon. Bamenda Highlands. Bororo (Fulani) woman at her house’s door.

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Cameroon. Plateau de Bamenda. Femme Bororo (Fulani) a la porte de sa maison.

Thursday, June 13, 2013

Wednesday, June 12, 2013

Colombia: Pacific Ocean Cove



Colombia. Pacfic coast at Juanchaco (Cauca Valley). Small cove along the beach.

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Colombie. Côte de l’océan Pacifique à Juanchaco (Vallée du Cauca). Anse le long de la plage.


Tuesday, June 11, 2013

Monday, June 10, 2013

Kenya: Turkana Nomads At Water Hole


Kenya. Great Rift Valley. Near Lake Turkana. Turkana nomads watering zebus from a water hole dug out of a dry river bed.

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Kenya. Grande faille d’Afrique. Près du lac Turkana.  Nomades Turkana  abreuvant leurs zébus.

Saturday, June 8, 2013

Colombia: A Climb That Could Have Ended Badly

Everyone knows how easier it is to surprise an enemy at night. This is especially true for the FARCs, Colombia’s murderous guerilla, when attacking a police station. One of my photographic excursions taught me why.
          A week earlier, with three friends, I had climbed Purace Volcano, in Colombia’s Cauca Department, only to find the police station, midway up, hidden in fog. Though this should not have stopped us from climbing further, it would have made photography impossible. So I decided to return another day. My companions were not any keener to climb on with so little visibility.
          Down at the village, someone suggested that next time I drive my old Toyota jeep up to the police station following a zigzagging dirt road that climbed through a sulfur mine. This is what I did when I returned.
          This time I had the company of my friend Michael Major, an American photographer. Like me he belonged to the American Society of Media Photographers and lived in Cali. A couple years later, in 1996, when Colombia descended into chaos, I moved my family to the U.S. By then, Michael and his Australian wife had already moved to Australia.  We were lucky to have lived until then, for we could have lost our lives on Purace. Or at least a leg or two.
          Arriving at the police station at nine to give he police time to get up, shower, and have breakfast, we were greeted by a blood-curdling bang that shook the jeep. Thinking that my engine had exploded I got out to check, only to find us and the barracks surrounded by anti-personal mines resting on the ground. I had obviously driven over one of them.
          Prudently, I got back to my seat, and with Michael I waited for the police. Now the place was eerily silent. For all we knew, the police could all be dead inside, killed by the FARC. But after 12 or 13 long minutes they started appearing, one by one. Holding a gun in one hand and struggling to adjust their pants with the other, they looked stunned and anguished. Their officer walked straight to the jeep.
          “Please,” he begged, “Don’t go tell this to anyone.”
          We did not. But we  found it amazing that instead of relying for their security on a couple of bright-eyed guards, they preferred to let everyone sleep through the night and much of the morning under the doubtful protection of mines that any guerrilla gang could easily spot and avoid.
          While the police collected the mines for the day, Michael and I had a look at the engine. The cables had all been burned black, but somehow the engine was still working.
          We climbed the second part of the volcano, and through a light mist took our pictures. The crater was impressive, though difficult to photograph other than from the sky.  It was way too wide. Still, it had been worth the trip.

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Tout le monde sait que les chances de surprendre un ennemi sont beaucoup meilleures la nuit. Ceci est particulièrement vrai pour les FARCs, l'organisation colombienne qui se dit guérillére mais n'est autre qu'un ramassis de brigands, quand leur mission est d'attaquer un poste de police. Une excursion photographique me fit comprendre pourquoi.
          Une semaine plus tôt, avec trois amis, j'avais escaladé le volcan Puracé dans le département du Cauca, seulement pour trouver le poste de police, à mi-chemin du sommet, plongé dans un épais brouillard qui ne me permettrait pas de photographier le cratère. Je décidai de revenir un autre jour. Le manque de visibilité ne tenta pas non plus mes compagnons de continuer l'escalade.
          Au village ou j'avais laissé ma vieille jeep Toyota, quelqu'un suggéra que la prochaine fois je la conduise jusqu'au bureau de police par un chemin de terre qui traversait une mine de soufre. C'est ce que je ferais à mon retour.
          Je voyageais cette fois avec Michael Major, un ami photographe américain qui, comme moi, était membre de l'association américaine de photographes de magazines et vivait a Cali. En 1996, quand je me suis réinstallé aux Etats-Unis avec ma famille, Michael et sa femme australienne s'en étaient déjà allés vivre en Australie. La Colombie était devenue invivable.
          Mais nos vies, le jour de cette deuxième escalade, auraient pu se terminer sur ce volcan. Ou nous aurions pu y laisser une ou deux jambes.
          Pour donner à la police le temps de se lever et de déjeuner, nous sommes arrivés au poste de police à neuf heures du matin. La réception qui nous y attendait fut une explosion effrayante qui fit trembler la jeep. Je crus que mon moteur s'était désintégré et je mis pied à terre pour aller l'examiner.
          Je m'aperçus alors qu'autour de nous et de la station de police, le sol était parsemé de mines anti personnelles posées à intervalles très courts. J'aurais pu mettre le pied sur l'une d'elles si elles n'avaient pas été si visibles. Et je compris alors que la jeep en avait écrasé une.
          Je retournai prudemment à mon siège. Et comme Michael j’attendis patiemment que la police se montre. Mais maintenant le silence était tout aussi effrayant que l'explosion. C'était à se demander si la guérilla avait tué les hommes à l'intérieur du poste.
          Mais non. L’explosion venait seulement de les réveiller. Ils ne commencèrent à apparaitre, par petits groupes, que douze ou treize minutes plus tard--empoignant un fusil d'une main et de l'autre terminant de se boucler le ceinturon. La surprise et l'effroi marquaient leurs visages. Du tragique nous étions passés au comique. Leur officier marcha immédiatement vers nous.
     "De grâce," nous supplia-t-il, "N'allez rien raconter de cela à personne."
          Nous l’avons rassuré là-dessus. Mais nous trouvions tout de même incroyable qu'au lieu de confier leur sécurité à quelques hommes de garde bien éveillés ils préféraient la confier à des mines que tout guérillero aguerri verrait et contournerait facilement. Nous comprenions qu'à cette altitude glacée et brumeuse l'ennui devait être dur de réprimer et le lit chaud une alternative attrayante. Mais la vie, ou survie dans ce cas, ne mérite-t-elle pas un plus gros effort?
          Tandis que les policiers recueillaient les mines, Michael et moi avons jeté un coup d’œil au moteur de la jeep. Ses câbles, tous noirs, étaient pelés. Mais cela ne nous empêcherait pas de retourner à Cali sans problème.
          En attendant, nous avons terminé notre escalade. Le cratère est d'une ampleur impressionnante mais, comme vous le verrez plus bas, peu photogénique si ce n'est d'avion.






Photo One: Purace crater
Photo Two: Michael standing at the crater’s rim. I never saw him so small.
Photo Three: Top of a canyon in the same region.
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Première photo: Cratère du Puracé
Deuxième photo: Michael au bord du cratère. Je ne l'ai jamais vu si petit.

Troisième photo : Partie supérieure d’un canyon dans la même région


Friday, June 7, 2013

Colombia: Learning The Art Of Bull Fighting




Colombia. Andes Mountains. Sylvia (Cauca). Novillero, or young man learning the fine art of bullfighting with a novillo, or young bull. His red-handled sword, left, flew with him. To add to his misery, the spectators threw horse dung at him.

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Colombie. Cordillère centrale. Sylvia (Cauca). Novillero, jeune homme apprenant l’art de la tauromachie avec un novillo, ou jeune bœuf. Son sabre au manche rouge, à gauche, vola comme lui dans la poussière. Ajoutant à ses déboires, les spectateurs lui lancèrent du crottin de cheval.





Wednesday, June 5, 2013

An Unforgettable Bus Ride



 How I Risked Cutting a Journey Short for the Sake of a Photograph

The divine act behind that photograph

     In 1971, I spent seven months traveling around Latin America, from Mexico
to Argentina and Brazil. At some point, pressed among a crowd of Indians at
the back of a dilapidated bus, my itinerary was taking me from Ayacucho to
Cuzco, in the Peruvian Andes, an endless two-day ride. Holes and stones in the dirt road shook
the bus in a cloud of dust, and a pot flew off the roof.  The driver stopped, and
a passenger ran to pick up the pot.
      I looked at it as God’s mercy. Less than a minute earlier, I had caught sight, sitting along the road by herself, one of the cutest little girls I had ever seen anywhere, and could have cried with frustration for being unable to get a picture of her. After all, I was a photographer. The bus’ central aisle was crowded with Indians sitting on bundles, but I scrambled over them toward the door, just as the passenger was
 returning with the pot.
     “Adonde estas corriendo?” the driver shouted.  “Where are you running?” 
   “To urinate,” I lied, almost unconsciously.
And I ran with a Leica in hand. By then the little girl was already far behind.
     “This is not the moment!” the driver yelled.
     “But what the devil are you doing? Come back!
     “…All right. Stay here and wait for tomorrow’s bus.”
And having said that, he pulled off.
     My luggage and most of my film were on that bus, but I refused to worry
about that just then. First, I had to get that picture. I gave the little girl an avocado pear I was carrying in my camera bag and quickly shot three pictures of her. Then I ran back. The bus was very far now, though not going very fast, and I was a runner. Even so, my heart was in my mouth by the time I got back on board.
     The passengers applauded me and the driver shrank in his seat. I stared at him not knowing how to deal with him. But I decided to leave the matter there, and I returned to my seat. I was more angry with myself than with him, as it had just occurred to me that for a small tip he would have given me all the time I needed. How had I not thought about it? That lesson would serve me well on future occasions.
     My picture of the little girl was soon seen around the world, everywhere melting the hearts of women. To this day they keep ordering prints of it. That journey netted me much more than a best-selling picture. Earlier, passing through Colombia, I had met the girl who would become my wife.

Below are the three pictures I managed to get::


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Tuesday, June 4, 2013

Colombia: Shopping Cowboys


Colombia. Sutamarchan (Boyaca). Grocery shop. Old political posters. Cowboys.

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Colombie. Sutamarchan (Boyaca). Epicerie. Vieilles affiches de politiciens.
Cowboys.

Brazil: Death In The Amazon


One early morning, as daylight was only just squeezing in, a mad racket awoke me in an Amazon rain forest hamlet on Brazil's Rio Preto. I thought we were being attacked and I pulled out of my hammock to rush outside and see what was happening. Drunken young men, liquor bottles in hands, were crying and screaming in violent pain. Others lay on the ground, having drunk themselves unconscious. It took me some time to make sense of this, but I learned eventually that a young woman had died during the night.
     For many months she had suffered unspeakable pain from an abnormal pregnancy. She might have been helped at a small health center on the Rio Negro upriver, two hours away by motorboat. But no one had volunteered to pay for the gas. Now they were all stunned. She, at least, was relieved from hell on earth.
     Soon some men started hammering planks together into a rough coffin. The young woman would be buried that very afternoon, as the climate demanded. Meanwhile her family covered her with flowers and left her eyes open, as if wishing to keep her dreamy face alive a little longer.

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L’aube d’un nouveau jour n’avait pas encore complètement éclairé la forêt de l’Amazonie  brésilienne quand un éclatement de cris de douleur me tira soudain de mon hamac dans un hameau du Rio Preto. Je crus un instant que nous étions attaqués et sortis à voir ce qui se passait. Inconsolables, de jeunes hommes, bouteilles d’alcool à la main, se roulaient à terre. D’autres, ivres, y gisaient inconscients. J’appris éventuellement qu’une jeune femme était morte durant la nuit.
     Pendant de nombreux mois elle avait souffert de douleurs insupportables que lui causait une grossesse anormale.
Elle aurait pu trouver de l’aide à un poste de santé sur le Rio Negro, deux heures de bateau à moteur en amont, mais personne n’avait offert de payer l’essence nécessaire. Maintenant l’étonnement abattait le hameau. La mort avait au moins délivre la pauvre jeune femme de l’enfer.
     Bientôt des coups de marteaux m’apprirent que des hommes étaient au déjà travail fabriquant un cercueil rustique. La jeune fille serait enterrée l’après-midi même, comme le voulait le climat. Entretemps la famille la couvrait de fleurs et lui laissait les yeux ouverts, comme pour conserver un peu plus longtemps un air de vie a son visage rêveur.




Sunday, June 2, 2013

Brazil: Yanomami Woman Painting Husband


Brazil. Amazon rain forest. A Yanomami woman is painting her husband with urucu, soft seeds she has pressed into a elongated ball.

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Brésil. Amazonie. Femme Yanomami peignant son mari avec de l’urucu,  graines pâteuses qu’elle a pressées en une boule oblongue.