Guatemala - The Images

Have you ever wondered
what makes you wander?
gives wings to your thoughts
and your imagination asunder?

Have you ever wondered
what lies in those places?
that bewitch the eyes
and lay claim to your senses?

Have you ever wondered
for wandering's sake?

The funkiest place in town

Current location : Guatemala city
Flew back to Guatemala city today from Flores after having crossed the border from Belize by road. Because I've been roughing it since this trip began, and as a reward for all the crummy and smutty places I've been staying in, I decided to end my stay in Guatemala in style by checking in to the coolest and funkiest place in town. So here I am in 'Otelito' (aka hotel casa santa clara)- gorgeous wooden floors, stylish but understated decor, coffee coloured walls, personalised service, obsessive attention to detail, wicked bar, free internet, free complmementary drink at the bar, free drink at check-in for god's sake(!), gorgeous food, stylish people...this place is awesome. I love it.
Hasta la-vista amigoes...

Would you Belize it?

After having spent a tranquil and starry night in the North Guatemalan lake island of Flores (after deciding to treat myself to a half decent hotel; warm water, towels, flushing toilet, shower anyone?), I got up at some evil hour in the morning and caught the first bus to the Belizean border. Land border crossings are so much less stressful affairs; no baggage checks, no testerone heavy security and no Duty-Free cash cows. Current location: Belize city

Now. many travellers take one look at Belize city, screw their face in disgust and decide that life is indeed too precious to risk it. At first glance you can see why the risk aversion. Belize city hardly looks like your picture postcard holiday destination. More so a rambling, ramshackle town with squat wooden dwellings built on stilts and a population of not very healthy looking people; burdened with all sorts of afflictions. The odorous drains and gutters let of all manner of noxious fumes that attack the senses and no doubt contribute detrimentally to the health of the inhabitants. The streets are aghast with all manner of interesting characters and comedians; Charley Dickens eat your heart out. And you always see the same faces; the regulars.
"You wan a taxee mann?"
"wat ya lookin' for maan"
"Wat can I get ya amigo?"

The streets are littered with people who live on the streets. You can sit on the sidewalk and watch the comedy (and tragedy) of street life unfold itself. This could so easily be the theatre with the best seat in town; but it's real, it's really happening and the characters are real.

There's the dark skinned mango seller screaming his heart out to any big-bossomed lady that walks by and will listen; needless to say his flattery; which borders on obscenity, fails to have the desired affect; the women scarper off as quick as their high heels will carry them. Then there's the dreadlocked old man, always standing on the same spot, at the same time, next to the same convenience store. What does he do? I watched this gem for an hour; he does nothing. Just stands there all day long watching the ladies and licking his lips and no doubt imagining what he would like to do to them, but can't on account of the fact that he is a dirty old man!

Scratch the surface and you'll find a 'real' place. Not a fake place of plastic people, but gritty, grainy; a black and white canvas city of colourful characters.
There's the lady with the hot-dog stand (old enough to be my mother), who'll sell you hot-dogs with a big fat smile. With her grinning teeth she looks like the happiest women alive. Then there's the rude-buoy unlicensed 'taxi driver' with the masshup car, funky fake shades and attitude. He'll take you anywhere. If you're willing to risk it. I did. This gem will give you back the correct change even if you forget yourself.
"make sure you take all ya stuff maan. Don't wanna be leaving any ting in my car yeah? Have a nice day. Wel-carme to Belize" - charming

Judge a book by its cover?
Not this one. I would never have Belized it.

Shit, scum, filth...welcome to the worst place on earth

Nebaj. Yeah, 'N-e-b-a-j' - write it down somewhere safe and don't forget it. If you ever hear that name on your travels, remember these words: STAY WELL CLEAR. This is quite simply the most miserable and wretched place I have ever been to. With a population of 11,000 flea infested, disease ridden, crummy folk eeking out an appalling existence at an elevation of 1,900 metres. I could try raping and pillaging the English dictionary looking for suitable adjectives to desribe this place but i'm too tired to even bother and I don't think I could do it justice. The English language was not designed for places like this. A place that time, society and progress seems to have forgotten. Progress seems to have decided to skip this town altogether as it probably felt it had its work cut out.

As you enter this gloomy town along a wind swept, potmarked, dirt track it seems you have arrived at the end of the world. But what is obvious at first glance at the local inhabitants that ply the streets; wallowing in their own filth and faeces, is that the gene pool here needs an emergency injection of fresh DNA. The inhabitants walk around like zombies and blank looks of total oblivion (or maybe they're drunk to numb the pain of existence?) - You feel; like Alexander Von Homboldt, as though you have discovered this place for the first time. You walk around looking for a bite to eat...restaurants? why would you want restaurants? Nobody visits here and the locals are too poor and spaced out for the fine dining a-la carte experience. Lucky i have a melted piece of Kit-Kat to keep me going till thre next day. Nice one.

Tourists don't visit Nebaj. Well, not usually anyway. The occasional few brave souls will make the perilous journey (these chicken bus drivers drive like lunatics) and be rewarded with squalor, misery guts and a sense of what it must have been like in the good old stone-ages. Primeval instincts take hold of you as you walk through the filthy market; you can feel the eyes of the people bearing down on you, drilling holes into your body as you stroll through. They don't get 'outsiders' here. As an outsider you are seen as a curiosity as people look at you, look away and then do a double-take and look at you again when their brains register what they have just witnessed. I spent one night here. Then left at 5:00am the next morning on the first chicken bus out of this ghost town. When you see the technicolour images with pixel gory detail you'll see what i'm talking about.

Must dash, the owner of this internet-cafe looks dodgy and is giving me evil looks. Also, it's getting dark outside; don't wanna be hanging around when the werewolves come out to eat...

Current location: Cobain. Still alive; just about. Hang on in there mate, you'll be fine.

Current Status of Mission 'Loss me Marbles'

Physical state : Alive
Current Location : Panajchel (Guatemala) - Hippy paradise. Beautiful. Especially when stoned.
Future plans : This is where it starts getting interesting. Will chicken-bus it and hitchhike across Guatemala and hopefully make it to the Belize border on Fri. Have ample weed to keep me stoned for the duration of this suicide trip.
Reservations: Apparently this less travelled route is swarming with bandits and dirt-bags. Also, have not bought warm clothing so will probably freeze to death in the highlands.
Final destination : San Ignacio (Belize)
Over and out. See you on the other side.

P.S: Mum, I love you.

The Adventures of Knob Man - Episode 3

Episode 3: The birth of a Super-Hero

“…We are yours now”
“We are yours…”
“We are…”
The words dimmed into the distance as Batunga awoke. He looked around.
God had disappeared as abruptly as he had appeared – Ta da!

But not before planting a Nano-ite deep within Batunga’s brain. The Nano-ite spun to life with a low hum. It spurted out 4 little legs and then a head popped out with a couple of feelers. It looked around and realised it was alive. How wonderful it was to be alive! It felt so lucky and grateful that it had been given this opportunity to live. It started making plans in its head as to all the wonderful things it would like to do while alive: visit this place and that, dine on various energy sources, and even perhaps meet a femme Nano-ite and do all sorts of things to her; caress her feelers, rub her abdomen, mount her and then…but before he could imagine the ‘coup de grace’, instructions in its brain switched on and told it that it had a job to perform first. Then it could do all those things.

So, it wriggled its hind quarters, flexed its legs, did a jiggle in the air and then whirred into action. It attached itself to the soft tissue of Batunga’s brain and started reprogramming it; zig zagging around at speeds you couldn’t possibly imagine and rewiring the entire neural architecture. When done, the Nano-ite simply waited, it had done its job and was free. It was happy! A long interesting life awaited it. Deep within its brain another set of instructions switched on. These however instructed the self destruct device implanted within it’s abdomen to detonate. “I knew this was too good to be true” sighed the Nano-ite (what a life eh?) and then evaporated in a microscopic puff of carbon, nitrogen and oxygen.

After the Nano-ite had done its rewiring, Batunga’s brain rebooted and switched on. That’s when he awoke. His eyes flickered like cursors. He blinked. And blinked again. [Tell me something readers]. What if you awoke and found yourself suddenly endowed with the collective memories and experiences of 10,000 people? Their thoughts and life experiences suddenly your own as if you had lived them yourself? You are Tao Sung. You are Newton. You are Bach. You are Ibn Jabeel. You are fluent in a thousand languages and cultures. You are well versed in Martial Arts. You are Sun Tzu. You are Shakespeare. You are Madame Teresa. You are the proletariat. You are the farmer tilling the fields. You are the looser in the club. You are the skinny model gracing vogue. You are the killer on death row. You are the herder tending the goats. You are the dying child and also the mother. You are …you are…one

“Did you come here for forgiveness?
Have you come to raise the dead?
Did you come here to play Jesus?
With the leopards in your head?”

Batunga stood and looked up. The stars were still blazing away; a billion thermonuclear spheres of lurid apocalyptic hues. For the first time in his life it was all clear now. His lips curled and he smiled an all knowing smile, raised his hands and scooped a bit of sky; playing with the glinting specks in his hands and letting them slip through his fingers like sand. He could see the threads binding the heavens together; and he could pluck them and feel the reverberations echo in his ears. He could navigate effortlessly through the slipstream of history; frolic like a child in the flotsam and jetsam of the Laws of Physics. He could see the equations and patterns inherent in nature. He could see ‘Pi’ in Cumulus clouds, in the veins of the trees and in the audible frequencies of insects. He could see past present and future with clarity. It was all clear now. He knew.

He looked at the silhouette of the Kapookoo tree, as it stood amidst a backdrop of fading crimson sun; its circular form vaporising into a sea of ochre. He looked at the sky again and then turned his head slowly towards Oombongo. He smiled. It was time to head back. His wife would be getting worried. Or more likely wondering where the f**k he had gotten too and whether he had finally fell in some godforsaken crevice.

In Oombongo, the mangy flea-bitten dog finally started chasing the cat that had been bothering it all day. The dog had found a piece of evil looking meat at the back of the butchers in the morning; bone and all, and had buried it. Unfortunately for the dog, the cat had seen him bury it and was not budging from where it lay in the bushes a few feet away. The dog’s snarling and toothsome expressions were not working on the cat; it was not taking the hint. The dog finally flipped and the cat darted like lightning thorough the gap in the fence, just managing to squeeze through in time, it’s skinny, furless body helping its escape somewhat. It ran towards the lazy bums swigging warm beer under the tree, rubbed itself along one of their legs and then curled up in the corner and went to sleep. It was getting dark but still light enough to make out people. The lazy bums we’re engaged in animated banter on a subject close to their hearts and pockets; the stingy Indian shopkeeper and how he had tricked them off some money; what a miser he was; and what they would like to do to him. The shopkeeper was just opposite so he could hear there constant sniping and sniggering and see their bony fingers pointing accusingly.

The fact that the shopkeeper was an Indian didn’t help matters in this country of Bantus. Raja Pindu – his family had come to this country, 50 years ago, they were resourceful, hard-working (aren’t they all) and stuck together. They had flourished in a country of lazy Africans and had done well; to the chagrin of the local population who always eyed them up with suspicion and accused them of robbing the community, having a secret stash of cash hidden under the shop boards and eating their own little children to save money. The truth as always was that they were jealous. Jealousy is perhaps the most obnoxious of human traits; for it derives solely from the insecurities of others. And Raja Pindu knew very well what it was like to be at the receiving end of irrational jealousy. Human emotions are never rational.

Batunga Knoboo knew this very well too. He approached the lazy bums under the tree, stood there for a while looking around and finally said something.

“Good evening Gentlemen?” he said in an accent that was not unlike Estuary English…

The drunken lazy bums suddenly went silent, looked at each other, and then broke into a cackle of howling laughter; slapping their thighs, wiping their damp eyes, all the while trying to stop themselves from spilling their drinks and pissing their pants. They cheekily offered him a bottle.

All the while Batunga stood still. His lips curled at the edges in an enigmatic smile; a wry and all knowing look on his face. You could almost see star trails in the folds of his skin and his eyes were as radiant and as ancient as the stars themselves…

(To be continued...)

The Adventures of Knob Man - Episode 1

Episode 1 – Oombongo (birthplace of a legend)

Deep in the African rift valley; the cradle of civilization itself and the bosom of mankind, lies the little shanty town of ‘Oombongo’. An ordinary and fairly non descript shanty town with the prerequisite cardboard dwellings; with flaking walls, weeds growing through the roof and miniature vegetable gardens out front growing a pathetic array of garden vegetables; from skinny dry fruits and wickedly nasty bulb roots; black and pot-marked with disease and strife. Ooombongo is a town with a fairly typical sun-hardened populace of the usual pesky urchins, naked, children demanding money for food, and the infinitely lazy, lazy-bums that sit in the shade all day, dreaming up their next get rich quick schemes, or thinking how best they can rob their grandmothers. Bloody no gooders!

So a fairly average African town then, but for one small detail. On the northernmost point of this stinking shit hole sits a little hut. Not by any means a special hut or anything; just your average hut really. However, what distinguishes this particular hut from the others that line Oombongo, and the myriads that sweep across the African planes, is who lives inside. Batunga Knoboo, for that is his name is, as his wife would put it, an old fart and an idiot. But he is widely known as the Shamen (witch doctor) of Oombongo. More like a con artist if you ask me. He’s a do it all and a fix it all; problems with your ears? Batunga will sort em out, nasty boil growing up your bum? Batunga will poke it out? Radio don’t work? Batunga will…well you get my jist.

Batunga shares his little hut with his long suffering wife ‘Kacoooi’. They’ve been married now for 9 years and things have been going down hill from the start. ‘Marriage is made in heaven’ her parent used to tell her. But now, 9 years on, the deep creases on her face; creases as large as the rift valley itself speak volumes and hint at the deep feelings and resentment simmering inside. “Why don’t you get a f***ing propaar job you lazy F***er” she would say to him in Bantu. Sometimes as often as 20 times in a single day. Not that night and day mean much to Batunga; who seems to spend most part of his waking life in a dreamy haze of purple butterflies and day-glow rainbows (courtesy of some magic weed). Ever since he was a little child, Batunga was a bit of a fantasist. He’d spend inordinate amounts of time, sometimes as much as 88% of it, in another reality; floating in some make-believe world of his own devising.

But things are about to change for Batunga Knoboo. Change forever…As he sits on a nearby hill, his legs crossed, eyes closed, and mind in a deep reverie; a light breeze awakens and begins to rustle the leaves in the nearby ‘Kapookoo’ tree. A little bird begins a serenade and chips and chirps; it’s jizz for life infusing the air with a thousand little syncopated sound waves; like little bubbles of sound that twinggggggg the air drums. Then, in the distance, from the adjoining hill a shadow appears, followed by dust that dances like fire-flies raised by the feet of the followers; the procession is about to enter Oombongo and Batunga can smell his destiny…his eyes suddenly flick open like beams…

To be continued...

Episode 2 - The Continuing Adventures of Knob Man

Episode 2 – Batunga meets God

…And so it was that Batunga Knoboo found himself sitting atop a sun-baked hilltop, somewhere deep within the African hinterland; legs crossed, eyes shut, relaxed and swimming in a sea of his own consciousness. He was navigating the many channels and tributaries that his memory had carved out; picking up long forgotten mementoes that would suddenly kick-start a train of memories. Batunga Knoboo, the nerdy kid with the big afro who everybody picked on in school. The shy and insecure kid too scared to approach girls in case he pissed his pants or worst still if he got a hard-on. His mind floated above the landscape of his memories; he remembered the time when he had once developed an almighty crush on a girl in his English class; her name was, surprisingly, Cookie. A sweet little thing she was too, slender frame, pert little breasts, a certain walk (equivalent to the peacocks tail) that left tongues wagging and eye sockets empty with their contents in the ceiling, and then she had those eyes; these sultry eyes that sucked you in and could drown a 1,000 men. Just looking into those dark eyes would leave a man defenceless. Every morning, before school, Batunga would pump himself up into a mental mindset as follows:

“Ok if I see her in school, I’m just gonna walk pass as if she’s not there. Just gonna walk pass. My mind is elsewhere. I see nothing. I hear nothing. Feel nothing. Like the wind I will float by…like the wind I will disappear. Like the wind I will be gone…”

This mantra he’d repeat to himself on his way to school everyday. And what would actually happen?

He’d see her advancing towards him from the other end of the corridor. Her frame swaying in slow motion like branches in the breeze, her smile lighting up everything it fell on, her hips swaying and those eyes like a black hole of the soul. As she approached, Batunga’s control over his bodily functions would start to deteriorate. His arms were usually the first to go, not knowing what to do they’d start swaying around like pendulums; knocking over anything within radius. His knees were usually next, becoming weak and unable to carry the weight above, they’d start buckling under the strain, leaving him with a limp and awkward walk. Then his eyes-balls would start doing funny things; tumbling and swivelling around his sockets like billiard balls, then his pores would suddenly snap open releasing a deluge of sweat that would start working its way down from his brow; his cheeks a-flush, his tongue lolling around like an suffocating eel and his spit cappuccino’d into a soapy lather that would start dripping down his mouth. Not a pleasant sight. If you didn’t know any better you’d say he was having a fit.

But the worst thing was that she never even noticed him. Never even noticed him! Never even noticed him turn into a human Cappuccino machine! This used to keep Batunga awake at night and he would mull over it over and over again. I mean, yeah it’s a good thing she never noticed him turning into a palpitating foam ball, but (and there is a but) how much it would have meant if she did notice him! Because if she noticed him it meant he would forever be imprinted inside her sweet little brain. Just being a memory inside her brain was enough; even if it was just “yeah, I remember Batunga, he’s the weird bloke with the foaming mouth and stringy walk” – At least he’d made an impact and had imprinted himself forever in her memory banks! But no! He couldn’t even manage that…

So, as Batunga sat on the lonely hilltop; the midget flies orbiting the dome of his head like satellites, the bird still wallowing away on the nearby Kapookoo tree and the shadows stretching like cling-film as the Great Orb in the sky descended behind the horizon; something really strange happened. Out of nowhere a divine ‘hand’ of some sort started prodding his head. He could feel it knocking on his skull. Knock-Knock. Knock-Knock. “Anybody home?” a deep voice boomed and echoed. The hand plucked Batunga out of his deep sojourn, disentangling him from the dream webs that we’re still attached and sat him down on a stool. This was awfully strange even for Batunga. “What the heck’s going on” he heard himself think

“Ahem” There was a little clearing of the throat
“Hi!” said the divine voice.
“Erm…let me introduce myself. I’m God. Ta-da!” - The little flourish at the end only served to further confuse Batunga

The divine voice of God continued. “Yes, I was afraid that this would happen. These introductions always tend to be shocking experiences. You see, I’ve tried to make them less shocking but to no avail. I’ve been practicing how I would greet you. Initially I thought perhaps I should start with a joke or something, you know just to break the ice; like “how do you stop an African man dancing in a club? – Answer: Put Velcro everywhere – Hahaha!”

Batunga looked on, not at all impressed with God’s little joke.

“And then I realised that telling a joke would not be appropriate as a way of introduction, so I should stick with something more formal. Anyway, here I am! I am god! I gather you’ve been dying to meet me. dying – hahaha-snort!!”
Batunga looked on, perplexed as ever. ”If this guy is God, he’s a total twat” he thought

“Can I ask you a little question?” asked God
Batunga gave a slow little nod.
“Ok, what do you think of my accent?” said God sheepishly
Batunga looked on, mortified with the question
God continued.
“Well the reason I ask is that as God I had a wide selection of accents to choose from. You know there was Mandarin (too tinny), Australian (too common), Indian (too willing to obey - Yes Sir!, Jee Sir!), American (too dumb and inbred), South African (too guttural). In the end it came down to Cockney English, Scottish or Thames Estuary. As you can tell I’ve selected Thames Estuary; I think Cockney English would have been a little risqué ‘Na a mean geez?! – Hahahaha!’
Batunga never twitched a muscle. Still too shocked at what he was witnessing.
“I think as God, I have to choose an accent that would convey my superiority over animal, vegetable and mineral; an accent that would be commanding, dominant, easy to understand and warm. I think I’ve succeeded don’t you think?” Said God looking for some reassurance.

Batunga nodded an unceretain little nod.

“Oh, and remind me, after we’re done I’m gonna hand you a little form I’d like you to fill out. Just a little feedback form on what you thought of my introduction and where you think there’s room for improvement. I think even God needs constructive feedback. Hahaha – snort!”

“Anyway here’s the deal” and then god started whispering into Batunga’s ears. He started filling his mind with what he wanted Batunga to do...

As God continued whispering and the plan un-folded, the Orb of the sun reddened to Cranberry and then smashed itself to millions of little shards on the horizon, the bird on the Kapookoo tree gave up it’s incessant warbling and flitted off to bother someone else and the billions of stars attached to the dome of the sky smiled down upon Batunga. A smile that said “We are yours now”…

To be continued…

Coming soon...Guatemala - A Mayan Adventure

I've managed to secure lodging with a family of Mayan farmers in the remote Highland region of Guatemala. I will be living and sleeping amongst them observing how they go about their everyday lives; tilling the fields, raising the cattle and chasing the chickens. The aim is to document how people in remote regions live and the everyday hardships they face and how their lives interact with the outside modern world. How have the shifting tides of globalisation affected these people I wonder? Life is a struggle for most of humanity, but why is it a struggle and why should it be the status quo?

Language will be a problem, especially in the highlands, so will need an interpreter. But the fotografs will be the canvass I will use to paint the window that looks into their lives.
Equipment: again as basic as possible, a couple of lenses (50mm prime and 16-35 wide angle) and of course my trusted 'moleskine' journal. An adventure indeed...

"Did i waste it?
not so much i couldn't taste it
life should be fragrant
rooftop to the basement"

(Kite - Bono, U2)

'Trash' - anthem of the disaffected

Maybe, maybe it's the clothes we wear,
The tasteless bracelets and the dye in our hair,
Maybe it's our kookiness,
Or maybe, maybe it's our nowhere towns,
Our nothing places and our cellophane sounds,
Maybe it's our looseness,

But we're trash, you and me,
We're the litter on the breeze,
We're the lovers on the streets,
Just trash, me and you,
It's in everything we do,
It's in everything we do...

Maybe, maybe it's the things we say,
The words we've heard and the music we play,
Maybe it's our cheapness,
Or maybe, maybe it's the times we've had,
The lazy days and the crazes and the fads,
Maybe it's our sweetness,

But we're trash, you and me,
We're the litter on the breeze,
We're the lovers on the street,
Just trash, me and you,
It's in everything we do,
It's in everything we do...

(Suede)

Interstellar love supreme

If beating heart no limit knows
And beat succeeds to beat
What is there to suppose
That love will never keep?
Amid countless galaxies cast
Many worlds may be
Within each a flame; a beating heart
A love for eternity

Just think! A single beat or so
For each world that gleams
Like shards of light to and fro:
‘Interstellar love supreme!’
Such thoughts intoxicate my mind
Like a fiery pendulum it swings
For within my hollow chest I find
A heart with gossamer wings!

So on gentle wings a-float
Tableaux of textured dreams
Wafting in a sea of hope
Such delicate threads we weave
Ancient memories pierce my eyes
A million needles a piece
With tears of joy I fly by
On gossamer wings of ease

For look! To Outer-Space at last
Mind boggle at impossible things
Soaring away like a lofty dart
My heart on solar wings!
Now my eyes will have to see
And my brain will understand
That life’s mystery might be
Solved by gossamer wings that can!

Underground in Havana

Havana Bites (random sample of thoughts and musings) - excerpt

Preparations
To fully and comprehensively understand the national Cuban psyche one must insinuate oneself into the fabric of the local culture; dig yourself into the endothelium and stay there. Ruminate and soak it all in. Poke it. Watch it react. And when it reacts; run for your life!
So, out went the large telephoto lens. In went the small 50mm Prime 1.8 - perfect for those covert night time operations; light, nimble and very fast.
Out went the bulky backpack. In went a little knapsack.
Out went the expensive Diesel T-shirt and trainers. In went an ordinary looking 'Che Guevera' look with white loafers (ok, maybe a bit too obvious!)
Armed with these simple tools I set out documenting Havana - underground.

On blending in
Blend in, do as the locals do, walk, act and behave like the locals - and try not to get yourself into any situations where you have to speak. I've been described as looking almost Cuban (Mulatto they call it). This has it's advantages and disadvantages. You get served a little slower and sometimes you are singled out by tourists; like the fat American tourists who approached me for directions:
"Excuse me, do you speeeeeak Engleeesh, we are lost"
Sometimes i just say:
"Me no speak no Engleeeesh" with a thick Indian accent.
Sometimes if I'm feeling particularly mischevious after repeating the previous line i'll say:
"Only joking with ya'll, In fact i speak English very well. How may I be of help?"
It usually takes the tourist about 10 seconds to fully fathom what's going on and that I was joking with them earlier on - ahhh, it's so funny!

On tourists
The worst tourists are the snobbish one's with the trophy wife with the inch thick layer of make-up. It'd probably take industrial paint stripper to wipe all that of - these tourists are normally aloof, conceited and walk around with miserable faces as if they're having the worst times of their lives - come on guys you're on holiday - cheer up!

On sex crazed Cubans
Cubans, generally speaking, are sex-crazed nymphos who walk around with permanent erections and sex on the mind. The women play along too, lolling their tongues, rolling their eyes and swinging their hips and wearing the tightest thing they can find in the wardrobe.
It reminded me of a wildlife documentary where the narrator (in whispered tones) says:
"So, the female, with vibrant plumage and on heat, walks past the males. Attention is secured swiftly and the males respond with displays of masculinity"
I don't know, maybe it's me. I know I am a member of the human race, but I thought we'd left all this behind us when we left Africa?

On the Art of night-time photography
The best way to get a good pic is to sit down on an interesting looking dark street corner. Be patient and let them come to you. Being seated allows you to concentrate on the composition and other technical aspects such as exposure, white balance and shutter speed. The small lens makes you less conspicuous and if your smoking it all looks normal. ISO will typically be at maximum, aperture wide-open to let in every drop of that precious night light. Focusing will be done manually as it's too dark for autofocus.
So I isolate the subject. Isolate. Isolate. Isolate. Remove any clutter from the frame. Compose. Shoot...all within a millisecond. Works a treat.

Voyeur extrodinaire
There is a certain adrenalin rush associated with this type of photography. It has a risk element. I was chased out of a house by two women for taking their photo (don't ask!). I've been verbally abused. Someone tried to purloin me of my camera and I was spat at by a drunk bloke and fondled on the streets by some hookers. Night time is when the ugly face of humanity rears it's head. There's a certain 'Joie de vivre' (joy of life) I get out of it. A thrill. You can feel your heart pound against your ribcage. In short it makes you feel alive...

It's the ugly that makes you appreciate the beauty.

Night People - homage to the homeless of Bermuda (excerpt)

Long after the last life affirming rays of the sun have been soaked up by the cloak of darkness, things begin to stir in the shadows of Hamilton, Bermuda. You can watch the transformation if you just seat yourself quietly on a street corner with a pack of cigarettes, lots of patience and a coat to keep you warm. Couples walk hurriedly home through the night; arm in arm with their feet chiming to the echo of high heels on paving stones. Puddles of rain, that have coagulated after the drizzle, reflect the hazy neon glow from night clubs and sleep deprived taxi drivers scour the streets looking for punters. The silence is occasionally shattered by the shrieks of rowdy revellers; who suddenly disgorge from the clubs onto the street outside; their minds heady on a cocktail of alcohol, nicotine, endorphins a la sexual frustration and other substances.

And then, after midnight, as the clock strikes a new day; like magic 'they' start crawling out of the woodwork; like lice that have lain dormant during the day, they come out to feed and perhaps even to breed. For the night is theirs. 'they' are of course those that society has shunned. The ignored - The embarassments - The homeless - 'The filth' - 'The scum' - 'The nobodies'...These are of course not my descriptions but those that society has bestowed upon them...They are the homeless people of Bermuda...



...He shuffles through night as if it is his own. Trudging along, he scrapes the soles of his feet as he walks. A weary and unhealthy gait, odd posture, unshaven greasy face, and the strong smell of alcohol betrays his status. He is a tramp (homeless person). And he knows it. He seats himself next to me on the bench and places a smart looking and rather trendy leather case on his lap. A case that seems to belie his status as a tramp. Then, in very showy and exaggerated movements; that are almost comical, he unzips his case slowly (which he is undoubtedly proud of) and theatrically takes out a Bible, a few tattered and badly worn newspaper clippings on 'Haile Selassie' (the Ethiopian lion of Judea) and a dog-eared calendar from the House of God. He is a Rastafarian. He begins to speak. I expect a rambling and discordant guttural exchange; to my stupendous surprise and relief he is very lucid and coherent. He has a low calming voice, and the words roll out of his tongue in very mellow and agreeable tones; like honey on butterflakes. He is chilled out beyond belief. I fear that he has been smoking Marijuana...



Initially I am overcome by an inability to reconcile the eloquent, cool voice with the poor physical specimen sitting before me. I sense that he is well read and certainly educated to a high level. He is Bermudian. Has never met his father (who left when he was born) and has a British Passport. Yet, here he is. A homeless Bermudian. This should make for an interesting story. So we begin to chat about life, the universe and everything - me and this highly chilled tramp from Bermuda...

A filo-sophie of foto-grafie

Self expression is the - right of every being - who walks the earth; a deeply ingrained desire to be seen as an individual. Like all forms of - self expression – fotografie must be – allowed to roam free – free from – shackles and rules – free from – graces and conventions – free from – opinions and fashions - to soar to the very - limits of our imagination. Allow the mind and the senses– to wander – through the realm – of possibilities - Unleash the spirit – inside – you can be anything – you want to be – just turn yourself – into – anything you think – that you could ever be – be free with your tempo – be free – be free – surrender your ego – be free – be free – to yourself