Mali: Great Mosque Of Djenné

Great Mosque of Djenné, in Mali, a Unesco World Heritage Site

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Grande mosquée de Djenné, au Mali

Indonesia: Dayak Dancing Inside A Central Borneo Longhouse

In central Borneo’s rain forest of 1968 Indonesia, those Dyak people were dancing inside their longhouse.

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Au centre de la forêt de Bornéo, dans l’Indonésie de 1968, ces Dayak dansaient dans leur traditionnelle longue maison.

Indonesia: Dyak headman In Full Regalia

1968 portrait of a Dyak headman in Indonesia’s central Borneo’s rain forest

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Chef Dayak posant en 1968 pour un portrait au centre de la forêt de  Bornéo, en Indonésie

Daily Grind of Boneo's Dyak Women

 In cental Borneo’s rain forest of 1968 Indonesia, Dyak women were pounding hill rice to husk it.

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Au centre de la forêt de Bornéo, dans l’Indonésie de 1968, ces femmes Dayak pilaient du riz pour le monder.

A Chance Encounter At The Stone Age

In 1968 I visited Indonesia’s  Baliem Valley in Irian Jaya, also known as West Papua. There I found this Dani man sharpening the blade of his stone ax. Other stone tools behind him were waiting to be sharpened as well.

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En 1968, de passage pour la vallée de Baliem en Irian Jaya, également connue comme Papua occidentale, le hasard m’a mené à cet homme Dani en train d’aiguiser la lame de sa hache de pierre. Ses autres outils de pierre derrière lui attendaient leur propre tour.

Coming Of Age In The Night Forest

     One Scout summer camp in Belgium’s eastern Ardennes region in 1947, when I was 14, I suffered humiliation that would torment me a whole year. We were camping near Malmédy. Our leaders woke us, over 20 scouts, at midnight to challenge us to walk alone through a long stretch of woods and back. The forest path led to Lake Robertville, near the ruins of Reinhardstein, a 14th-century castle. A German nobleman had built it at a time that Reihardstein was part of Germany, centuries before Belgium came into existence as a country.

     A walk in the woods at midnight towards a medieval castle seemed too spooky to all but one of us. He was my 15-year- old tent mate and first cousin, Jean (John in English), whose virile qualities I grudgingly, though secretly, acknowledged and tried to emulate. At that time, he towered above me, he was a born artist, and his good looks made him very popular among girls. He lived on a Canada street and was known as Don Juan du Canada

     Another factor tinged my relationship with my cousin. My mother’s humble origins were cause for some disdain from our father’s family. She wanted her sons to be as good as, or better than, their cousins, and she found in my competitive nature a born ally. She was mad at me when I was not first of my class, which fortunately I was much of the time. I was an eager pupil, choosing the front bench, eyes and ears open, and an arm always up. Like many Third-World children I would photograph later in my travels, school was exciting entertainment to me, as well as a chance to prove my worth.

    It took cousin Jean an hour round-trip through the woods, and he slept soundly after that, as he well deserved.  But I could not find sleep for the rest of the night because shame would not let me. I tried to console myself with the excuse that I was a year younger than he. But I knew that if that was the honest excuse, I would need to return, at 15, and repeat his feat. To prove to myself that I was no coward, I decided to do him one better: I would spend the night in the castle. Fortunately, I had a full year to build my courage.

     Next summer came, and my Scout troop traveled again to the Ardennes, not far from where we had camped the year before. I let my parents believe that I was leaving with the Scouts, but I would rejoin them only the next day. First I had to keep my vow. I had to know whether I had the makings of an explorer. So that evening I took the train by myself. Alone in my train car, I nearly missed my destination, for the train only stopped for 60 seconds, and in the dark I could not find the sign giving the station’s name. No one else got off. The station and the hamlet before me were deserted, and the forest loomed just beyond a few fenced pastures.

      My eyes quickly adapted to the darkness. I crossed the silent hamlet and squeezed through the fences of the few pastures, the last of which was where we Scouts had camped the year before. Squeezing a little too fast through barbed wires to evade an approaching bull that probably meant no harm, I ripped my shirt, and wondered what Mother would make me pay for it. I stood now at the edge of the forest—at the mouth of the dragon.

    Initially, the stars had lit my way, but none shone through the forest canopy, which looked to me like a frightening trap. I found the path, took a deep breath, and pulled a flashlight and a Scout hatchet out of my backpack.  I would not have felt differently entering a forbidden temple.    

     With heart beating hard and a tight grip on my hatchet, I took cautious steps before quickening my pace. The air was cool and infused with soothing smells. Though I tried to tread lightly, I sometimes stumbled over stones and protruding roots. The sounds of my feet drowned all other sounds. When I stopped to listen, the forest seemed quiet for a few seconds before filling slowly with furtive and snapping noises. I could see nothing beyond the reach of my flashlight and so switched it off.  Then I realized that the faint light from the night sky filtering through the leaves gave me a better idea of my surroundings. It lightened the blackness that the flashlight created all around––the great black regions where bad people might lie in ambush--while the darkness helped make me less visible. Now the forest no longer looked so threatening.

     I moved on, thinking that my cousin Jean at least must have had a couple of leaders secretly watching over him from the shadows. But I was alone, and no one would rush to my help if needed. Even if I did not spend the night in the castle, I was already doing better than he. I told myself this in case I would not find the courage to face my own ultimate challenge. Though the walk seemed to last an eternity, it took me through the woods to the lake in half an hour.  

     Now Lake Robertville spread out in front of me, as mysterious under a cold white mist as the forest and the castle nearby. Indistinct under extra layers of mist up a hill nearby, the castle looked ominous. I lingered at the lake, struck by how different its mood was from the one I had experienced before under a bright sun. I was in no hurry to test myself further. All was amazingly quiet, and I felt calmer. I took another deep breath and forced myself away from the lake toward the castle, still not sure whether I would dare enter it. 

     The breeze caused an unsettling noise––that of the rusted iron grille gate grating on its hinges. I had heard that sound in horror movies. But there was no turning back. Otherwise I would not be able to live with myself, and I would never become an explorer. I forced myself to ridicule my fear. I tried not to think. Nervously, I tightened my grip on the hatchet again and moved inside the castle’s walls. I had been inside the castle with the Scouts during the day, but outside the beam of my flashlight great black shadows lurked all around. Shadows hiding what? I wondered again. Now I could not switch off my flashlight, as I was no longer under a forest canopy but under a high ceiling, and the blackness all around would remain threatening to the end.

     I found the stairway that spiraled up one of the towers and started climbing. Halfway up, on rubber legs, I bumped into the tower’s circular inner wall, dropped the metal flashlight down the stone stairs, and nearly fell down the stairs myself. Now in total darkness, I felt my heart beating all the way to my ears. Cascading down the stone steps, the flashlight’s loud metallic noise echoed around the castle. That noise would wake anyone sleeping there, and I wanted to run back down. But it was as dark below as it was above. And in such darkness I could not run in any direction. I listened for any suspicious noise, heard none, and calmed down again.

     You’re almost there, I told myself, and winning your wager. Getting your humiliation off your chest. Thus heartened, I resumed my climb, feeling my way along the humid and musty curving stone wall like a blind boy, stumbling sometimes. I stopped occasionally to silence the echo of my footsteps and listen for outside movements. But again there was none. The climb in the dark now seemed longer than the forest trail itself.

     A faint light finally appeared above. I had reached the top of the tower, open under the starry sky. I looked down at the dark forest and the misty lake, amazed to be standing atop the castle wall. Blood raced though my veins, and my chest suddenly seemed too small to hold my heart. But this was no longer fear. It was fear conquered. I knew then that my life would never be the same again.

     I spread my sleeping bag on the stone floor but was too elated to sleep. Like that humiliating night the year before, I could not close my eyes.  Not for shame anymore, but for pride. How beautiful the stars were! Never had I seen them so bright. Later in life, as a man dedicated to photographing and describing the lifestyles of indigenous peoples in the wildest corners of the world, I would often lie awake all night under the stars, so bright away from city lights––so humbling in their wonder, that to close my eyes on them felt like sin. Those countless nights under foreign skies, like the starry sky I described at the beginning of this story, would always remind me of that wondrous night atop the castle, when the stars blinked with approval.

Indonesia: Stone-Age Man

In 1968, walking through a Dani hamlet in Irian Jaya, Indonesia’s West Papua, I photographed  this man leaving his hut to split firewood with a stone ax.

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En 1968, traversant un hameau Dani en Irian Jaya, la partie occidentale indonésienne de la Nouvelle Guinée, j’ai photographié cet homme qui sortait de sa hutte, une hache de pierre à l’épaule, pour aller couper du bois à bruler.

Indonesia: Borneo Climbing Dog

This 1968 scene shows a Dyak longhouse in Indonesia’s central Borneo’s rain forest.

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Cette scène de 1968 montre une longue maison Dayak en Indonésie dans la forêt du centre de Bornéo.

Indonesia: Crowded Bali River Crossing

Ferrying two canoes gliding together across a river in Bali, Indonesia.

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Propulsant deux canots glissant ensemble à travers une rivière de Bali, en Indonésie.

Indonesia: Bali Funeral Procession

In Denpasar, in Indonesia’s Bali Island, the daughters and son of a deceased woman are being carried in a funeral procession.

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A Denpasar, dans l’île indonésienne de Bali, les filles et le fils d’une femme décédée sont portés en procession funéraire.

Benin: Somba Farmer Portrait

In 1963 I crossed path with this Somba farmer returning from a field near Boukombe in Benin. Covered only with a penis sheath and a goat skin, he carried a hoe, an ax, a basket and a jar of water.

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En 1963 j’ai croisé chemin avec cet homme Somba revenant de travailler au champ près de Boukombe au Bénin. Couvert seulement d’un étui pénien et d’une peau de chèvre, Il portrait une houe, une hache, un panier et une jarre d’eau.

Benin: An Original 1969 Female Hairdo

Near Kandi, Benin

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Près de Kandi, au Bénin

How To Treat Your Dog The Way You'd Like To Be Treated

Traveling a dirt road near Kandi, Benin, with small dog.

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Suivant un chemin de terre près de Kandi, Benin, avec un petit chien.

Bolivia: Altiplano Storm

Storm over Laguna Verde, a frigid green lake of the Bolivian Altiplano.

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Orage sur Laguna Verde, un lac vert glacial de l’Altiplano bolivien.

Bolivia: Nightfall On The Altiplano

Llamas crossing the Bolivian Altiplano’s dry Chacalà River at nightfall.

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Lamas traversant la rivière Chacalà asséchée dans l’Altiplano bolivien au crépuscule.

Bolivia: Altiplano Sunrise Magic

Sunrise over a path skirting the frozen Chacalà River in the Bolivian Altiplano.

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Soleil Levant sur un sentier longeant la rivière Chacalà gelée dans l’Altiplano bolivien.

Bolivia: Altiplano Dusk Serenity

At dusk, on the Bolivian Altiplano near Uyuni, an old Quechua couple herd their sheep to the corral for the night.

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Au crépuscule, sur l’Altiplano bolivien près d’Uyuni, un vieux couple Quechua conduit son troupeau de moutons au corral pour la nuit.

Colombia: Choco's Green World

In Colombia’s Chocó, rivers are the rain forest’s roads.

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Dans la région colombienne du Chocó, les rivières sont les routes de sa forêt.

Kenya: Dying River

Waiting for the rains, a river is dying in Kenya’s Suguta Valley, south of Lake Turkana

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Dans l’attente des pluies, une rivière se meurt au Kenya dans la vallée du Suguta, au sud du lac Turkana.

Indonesia: Bewitching Sumatra

Near Padang, in Indonesia’s Sumatra, a rising sun glowing through an early mist backlights a mosque along a sleepy river.

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Près de Padang, sur l’ile indonésienne de Sumatra, le soleil levant brille à travers une brume matinale, éclairant une mosquée en contrejour  le long d’une paisible rivière.

Bolivia: Melancholy Of A Cold Altiplano Village

On the Bolivian Altiplano, under the frigid air from a distant Andean cordillera, the streets of Atocha were deserted until a spy spotted a stranger with a camera and sent two cyclists to  find out who he was. I photographed them from the square’s kiosk.

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Bolivie. Altiplano. Village d’Atocha photographié depuis le kiosque de la place  centrale.

Mexico: Paracutin Volcano

On February 20, 1943, a volcano rose from flat Mexican fields around Paricutin, changing the landscape in just a few days.

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Le 20 février 1943 un volcan surgit de champs mexicains autour de Paricutín, qui jusque-là avaient été plats, changeant totalement le paysage. 

    

    In June 1943, only a few months later, the volcano’s lava had covered evacuated           Paricutin totally, leaving only the church’s tower visible, as a reminder of where the       village once stood.

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     En juin 1943, à peine quelques mois plus tard, la lave du volcan avait recouvert        totalement Paricutín, évacué a temps. Il avait épargné seulement la tour de                l’église, comme  pour rappeler ou s’était trouvé autrefois le village anéanti.

More Boy-Made Toys From The Developing World

Where commercial toys are inexistent, boys make their own.

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Là où les jouets commerciaux n’existent pas, les garçons créent les leurs.

Near Boukombe, in north Benin, Somba boys build toy cars using millet stems and, for the wheels, pieces of gourds.

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Près de Boukombe, au nord du Benin, des garçons Somba construisent des voitures de jouets avec des tiges de mil et, pour les roues, des morceaux de calebasses.

Near Boukombe, in north Benin, Somba boys with the toy car he built.

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Près de Boukombe, au nord du Benin, garçon Somba avec son propre jouet.

Near Dosso, in Niger, a Djerma boy pulls the toy car he built.

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Près de Dosso, au Niger, un garçon Djerma tire son propre jouet.

Close-up view of preceding toy car

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Le jouet précédent vu de plus près

In Bonwire, Ghana, an Ashanti boy pushes two tiny wheels at the end of a stick.

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A Bonwire, au Ghana, un petit garçon pousse deux petites roues au bout d’un bâton.

Near Kumasi, Ghana, Ashanti boys race tiny wheels at the ends of sticks.

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Près de Kumasi, au Ghana, des garçons poussent de petites roues aux bouts de bâtons.

Yet another style of toy car, this one in Gambela, Ethiopia.

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Encore un autre style de jouet à roues, celui-là à Gambela, en Ethiopie.

Near Boukombe, in Benin, a Somba boy uses an organic pistol, triggering it with an ingenious spring.

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Près de Boukombe, au Benin, un garçon Somba joue avec un pistolet organique activé par un ingénieux ressort.

  Having used the bows and arrows they made, Somba boys return from a lizard hunt near Boukombe, in Benin.

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Ayant utilisé les arcs et flèches de leur fabrication, ces garçons reviennent d’une chasse aux lézards près de Boukombe, au Bénin.

Wet from racing in drenching rain the toy trucks they made out of discarded tins, those kids in the Philippines’s Lakanaon Island find it hilarious that a stranger would show interest in their creative production.

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Trempés par une forte averse, ces garçons de l’île

De Lacanaon aux Philippines, trouvent très drôle que les petits camions qu’ils fabriquèrent de vielles boîtes métalliques puissent susciter l’intérêt d’un étranger.

Ifugao boys of Banaue, in the Philippines’ Luzon Island, built their own wooden bicycles. Not equipped with pedals, the bikes must be propelled by the riders’ feet.

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Garçons Ifugao de Banaue, dans l’ile Philippine de Luzon, qui  ont construit eux-mêmes leurs vélos de bois sans pédales, qui  s’actionnent avec les pieds.

Having no companion to share a seesaw in Pontianak, Indonesian Borneo, this little boy replaced the painted block, too heavy to balance his own weight, with some lighter pieces of wood.

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N’ayant pas de compagnon pour lui faire contrepoids, et étant trop léger pour le bloc peint, ce petit garçon de Pontianak, au Bornéo indonésien, l’a remplacé par du bois de son poids.

Yanomami boy, of Brazil’s  Amazon rain forest, finishing an arrow for his bow

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Garçon Yanomami de l’Amazonie brésilienne terminant une flèche pour son arc.

A Wayuu Indian boy of Colombia’s Guajira Desert poses with the toy truck he built from discarded materials.

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Un petit indien Wayuu du désert colombien de la Guajira pose avec le jouet qu’il s’est construit.

The steerable wheeled board this boy built in Silvia, in  Colombia’s Cauca Department, reaches great speed down Andean streets. On market day he also uses it to earn tips transporting people’s purchases.

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Cette planche à roues permet à ce garçon de Silvia, dans le département colombien du Cauca, de descendre les rues andines à grande vitesse. Le jour de marché il s’en sert pour aider les gens, en échange de petits pourboires, à transporter leurs achats à la maison.

Resting from racing up and down an Andean slope of Silvia, In Colombia’s Cauca Department, on the wheeled board the boys built.

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Un moment de répit pour ces deux garçons entre deux descentes d’une rue andine de Silvia, dans le département colombien du Cauca, sur la planche à roulettes de leur fabrication.

Another Boy-Made Toy

An Ewe boy off Atorkor, near Keta, on the coast of Ghana, rests from pulling the toy truck he built with sticks, fruits, and empty milk cans. Photographed in 1969 for a children’s book on the lives of a little fisherman and his family and friends. See below.

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Un garçon Ewé d’Atorkor, près de Keta, sur la côte du Ghana, se repose de tirer le jouet qu’il a construit de bâtonnets, de fruits et de boîtes de lait. Photographié en 1969.pour un livre pour enfants sur un petit pêcheur, ami de cet enfant. 

In The Developing World Kids Make Their Own Toys

There are no toy shops in the developing world. Kids make their own toys. Mostly the boys. And in nearly all cases they want them to represent cars and trucks. Like this Hausa boy of Agadez, a Saharan town in Niger, who used wire and a tin can. I photographed him in 1963, when photo editors were still using more black-and-white than color.

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Il n’y a pas de magasins de jouets dans le monde en développement.

 Les enfants font leurs propres jouets.  Surtout les garçons. Et dans presque tous les cas ces jouets représentent des voitures ou des camions. Tel ce garçon Hausa d‘Agadez, une ville saharienne du Niger. Il a bricolé sa voiture avec du fil de fer et une boîte à sardines. Je l’ai photographié en 1963, quand l’industrie éditoriale publiait encore plus de photos en noir et banc qu’en couleurs.

Peru: A Child’s Inquisitive Eyes

Little Morochuco girl of Peru’s Pampa de Cangallo in the Andes Mountains near Ayacucho.

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Fillette Morochuco de la Pampa de Cangallo dans les Andes péruviennes près d’Ayacucho.

Niger: Wodaabe Woman’s Elegance

A Wodaabe girl of Niger is painted and dressed to attend a yakey dance, which is at once a male beauty contest.

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Une jeune femme Wodaabe du Niger s’est peinte et vêtue comme il convient pour assister à une dance yakey, qui est à la fois un concours de beauté masculine.

Costa Rica: Arenal Volcano's Perfect Cone

Costa Rica’s Arenal Volcano looking over small farm below

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Volcan Arenal de Costa Rica trônant au-dessus d’une petite ferme

Costa Rica: Sun-Flooded Savanna

The sun backlights a sea of reddish grass near Juntas, Guanacaste, in Costa Rica.

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Le soleil éclaire en contrejour une mer d’herbes rougeâtres près de Juntas, Guanacaste, au Costa Rica

Sahara: Preparing a Tuareg Dinner

Fifteen-year-old Raisha, a Tuareg girl of the Sahara in Niger, is blowing on a fire she is starting to cook her family’s millet porridge, eaten with camel milk twice  a day. Next to her sits a small cousin.

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Au Sahara, dans un coin du Niger, Raisha, une fille touarègue de 15 ans, souffle sur le feu qu’elle vient d’allumer pour cuire la bouillie de mil que sa famille mange deux fois par jour, toujours arrosée de lait de chamelle. Un petit cousin l’accompagne.

Colombia: Waiting For The Grim Reaper?

Old Cofan Indian enjoying an afternoon nap in his wall-less hut in Colombia’s Amazon rain forest along the San Miguel River, a stone throw away from Ecuador.

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Vieil indien Cofan savourant une sieste dans sa hutte ouverte au vent en Amazonie colombienne, le long de la rivière San Miguel, à un jet de pierre de l’Ecuador.  

Colombia: Leaving Home Toward A Brighter Future

In a poor neighborhood of Cali, Colombia, proudly observed by her parents, a little girl marches away from a loving home on her way to school. Faith in a brighter future is evident on this small family’s faces.

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En chemin vers l’école dans un quartier pauvre de Cali, en Colombie, une fillette s’éloigne résolument de parents qui l’observent de leur porte avec fierté. La foi en un futur meilleur est évidente sur leurs visages.