Algeria. Sahara Desert.
Ahaggar Mountains at dusk.
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Algérie. Sahara. Montagnes de l’Ahaggar au crépuscule.
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.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
--
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.
Friday, May 31, 2013
Brazil: Yanomami Indians Entertaining A Guest
Brazil. Amazon rain forest. Yanomami Indians entertain
a visitor (right), who has come in the name of his clan to invite them to a
plantain soup drinking party.
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Brésil. Amazonie. Indiens yanomamis
entretenant un visiteur (à droite) venu inviter leur clan a partager une soupe
de bananes plantain.
Thursday, May 30, 2013
Colombia: Village Street Corner
Colombia. La Cumbre (Cauca Valley). Farmer loading his
horse with purchases he made at the small town's corner shop.
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Colombie. La
Cumbre (Valle del Cauca). Fermier chargeant son cheval des
petites marchandises qu’il achetées au
magasin d’un coin du village.
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