Hong Kong is nothing if not intense. Despite parks and nature reserves takin up 40% of it’s land mass, the city always seems short on space. Look up at almost any point in Central, Wan Chai or Sham Shui Po and you will find office towers or apartment buildings glaring down at you from either side of a narrow street. The streets themselves are crowded with people out late at night. All but the very wealthy live in tiny apartments or bedsits, often no more than a bedroom with a sink.
Its near midnight on a weekday and Mong Kok still buzzes. Restaurants are full, shops are still open and couples walk hand in hand seemingly with no particular place to go. Other groups stand around on the footpath smoking, chatting and laughing. Taxis are doing brisk business and smoke rises from the kitchens of the street side Dai Pai Dongs.
This is not a place for quiet introspection.
Turn left and I run into people stumbling out of bars. Turn right and shoppers crowd the street. On my way back to the hotel, I pass musicians busking in front of a department store, the crowd building as word gets around. One man, shirt off, drunk, sways unsteadily with the music. The rest of the crowd moves away from him.
I cross an overpass straddling a major thoroughfare. Still jammed at this time with slow moving traffic. Cars, more taxis and delivery trucks honk at each other in the hope it will move the masses on faster.
On Canton Road, the designer stores are unloading customers with huge shopping bags emblazoned with equally huge logos. Pedestrian crossings fill, then empty as people head towards metro stations and bus stops and home. The din of tyres and voices has become white noise.
Finally, shoulder to shoulder with strangers, I turn into my hotel’s street and make my way to the front door. Its been a long day, and the constant movement and noise seems overwhelming suddenly. Closing the door on the street outside is like a weight lifting. Now cocooned in my room, I look down at the street below. The activity goes on, now with the noise removed. It seems now like a TV show. Something that is happening somewhere else. Tired as I am, I’m looking forward to being out on those same streets tomorrow.
Just back from 3 weeks amongst the crowded streets, august temples and chaotic wet markets of Hong Kong, so with the smell of stinky tofu still in my nose, and the dinging trams, clattering of mahjong tiles and cries of street hawkers in my ears, here is a gallery of images from the trip.
Under the dusty sun of North West India, in crowded cities and quiet villages, the story of Rajasthan is told in the faces of its people. Lined faces tell of a lifetime of toil while retaining a contentment that comes with a hard day’s work. Elders appear proud of their wrinkles and sun-cracked skins, understanding them to be symbols of what is important to them: to care and provide for family and community.
The above is an extract from a new article on my time spent with people from cities and villages of Rajasthan, India. To read the full story and view more images, click the link to the full story on Maptia.
Under the watch of Mehrangarh Fort, within the twists and turns of medieval laneways and alleys, Jodhpur’s Blue City feels a world away from the chaos of Rajasthan’s second largest city. An oasis of calm in the midst of the noise and calamity that is India.
Under the clock tower, a bustling market signals the beginning of the old town. This is the unofficial border between modern Jodhpur and the city’s origin. Indeed this is the part of the city that attracts most tourists, however as I make my way uphill slightly and through streets that become narrower with every turn, the clatter falls away and a sense of calm begins to take hold. It is as if the Brahmin blue painted cube houses themselves are having a soothing influence. The streets smell of spices and burnt votive candles.
After a few minutes I’m lost. In a good way. I have a map I could check, but somehow it doesn’t seem important. This is a place to wander, the ideal setting for being lost. I wander up and down, taking a left turn here or a right there, with no other intention than to see what might be around the corner. I pass children playing in the street, old men and women sitting on doorsteps, sleeping dogs, tiny neighbourhood temples and shops. Occasionally the peace is disrupted by a motorbike barrelling through the narrow lanes, but soon returns to normal. The day is warm but it feels cool in here, partly because only shards of sunlight filter down through the buildings, and partly because the coloured walls soak up the heat.
Around one corner, a grandmother sits with her grandson on her lap, playing a game of peek-a-boo. I wave as I pass and they both waive back, both surprised that a foreigner has wandered this far away from the tourist area.
Around another corner, two boys are blowing bubbles, watching them float upwards into the sky. So engrossed that they don’t notice me at all.
Along another street, women in bright saris pass on their way to buy supplies for home, their colourful dress exaggerated by the soft blue walls. Some are curious I am there, others pay me no attention.
Finally and suddenly, and quite by accident, I am back near the clock tower market. It is dusk now but the market is still trading, bargains being struck and goods and money changing hands. This will go on late into the night, but back in the neighbourhoods of the Blue City quiet prevails. Occasionally their is the bark of a dog, or sound of a rickshaw, but they are short interruptions to the peace that exists in the midst of the chaos.
I’ve been in Mumbai the past few days before heading onto Delhi and Rajasthan, and was fortunate to meet some of the happiest, friendliest people I have ever come across. These are the people of Baiganwadi slum, a slum in West Mumbai of around 200,000 mostly Bangladeshi residents.
Many assumptions are made of the living conditions and people to live in Mumbai’s slums, which have existed for centuries but have come into a more worldwide consciousness only recently due to movies like Slumdog Millionaire. Rather than the despondent, disconnected and lazy people they are stereotyped to be, people here are happy and exuberant. They are industrious and hard working. Some travel outside of the slum area to work long hours of hard labor, while others set up business in their homes tending to the needs of neighbors with services such as tailoring or furniture making. Others collect and sort the city’s garbage for recycling.
Children play happily in the street at marbles, hopscotch or cricket, improvised with fence paling bats and bound rags for balls. They are exited to see a stranger, especially one with a camera, and jostle and shove each other out of the way good naturedly to have their picture taken.
Below are just a few of the many wonderful people I met here.
Earlier this year I visited Christchurch at the end of a trip around New Zealand’s South Island. Although I was only in the city for a few hours, the small part of it I managed to see carried the weight of the recent tragedy that befall the city, but also a sense of optimism amongst the rebuilding of the downtown area most effected.
In September 2010 Christchurch was hit with a 7.1 Richter Scale earthquake, devastating much of the city’s east and surrounding area and causing mass power outages. This was followed by several aftershocks, the most damaging being in February 2011 which measured 6.3 and resulted in the deaths of 185 people. Christchurch’s CBD had 80% of its area demolished in total.
Today, walking around the effected area, the devastation is still apparent, but so is the rebuild. It is often hard to see which buildings are coming down and which are going up. City blocks of nothing but rubble sit across seemingly untroubled green spaces. If the saying that adversity breeds character is true, then then the character of Christchurch and her people is one of resilience and ingenuity. Tragic as they have been, these events have given the people the opportunity to create a new way of living by the repurposing of old materials and use of green, renewable energy sources.
Perhaps the best example of this resourcefulness is the Re:START mall. A mall constructed of disused shipping containers in an effort to encourage retailers and customers back to the city centre as soon as possible. Since beginning with 27 businesses, the mall now houses over 50 permanent businesses as well as food stalls and buskers.
The Cardboard Cathedral was built after the destruction of the original cathedral and is one of a kind, being made substantially from cardboard and shipping containers. Described as a transitional cathedral, the building will eventually be replaced by a more permanent structure, but in the meantime serves as a reminder of Christchurch’s bright future.
185 empty chairs is both art installation and memorial to those lost. Amongst blocks of grey rubble and a few crumbling office buildings, sit 185 white painted chairs of all shapes and sizes. Dining table chairs, wheelchairs and children’s chairs amongst others represent the people from all walks of life who lost their lives to the earthquake. It is a somber but beautiful sight, and an insight to how a community has come together to both remember and move towards the future.
Arriving pre-dawn at London Bridge, I can hear the ocean rumble from the carpark. It sounds both distant and very near in the way of a building storm. Nature in surround sound. The still black sky seems to amplify the effect.
It is hard to imagine the magnitude of the cliffs below me, even though I have been here many times before. The giant sandstone cliffs of Victoria’s coastline have always seemed unreal to me, seen from the viewing platforms. Like looking at a miniature model. Only when down on the sand beneath do I appreciate their true size.
The land and sea around me are ancient, and feel all of their years. Leaving the Great Ocean Road and pleasant seaside villages that dot it, it is easy to feel like time has somehow missed this place. Like nothing has touched this terrain for thousand’s of years. Ancient rainforests of fern tree, redwood and myrtle beech grow in the Otways hinterland. This land strips away all pretence of significance, and reminds me that our lives here on earth are but fleeting. These forests and coastline were here thousands of years before us, and will be here for thousands of years after.
Slowly the black curtain lifts and the source of the rumbling becomes visible. The Southern Ocean seems angry today, bashing away at the sandstone as it has done for all time, wearing it down little by little and causing great chunks to break off and fall into the sea. To feel the glass smoothness of these rocks is to understand the power of the ocean.
The rock that is unveiled by the dawn is called London Bridge for the arch that has been worn into its belly. This outcrop was once connected to the mainland until part of it fell victim to the ocean’s rage, just as many of the original 12 Apostles have done at various intervals.
The gathering light seems to diminish the power of the ocean, though I know this isn’t the case. The sunny morning belies the danger in the swells and reefs just offshore, which have famously claimed many ships caught in their swirling power.
Heading back away from the clifftop, the roar once again fades into the distance and I am again back amongst the scrub and bushes that cover the area. The contrast between this peace and what is happening only a few short metres away is hard to ignore, and is perhaps the perfect example of this area of Australian coastline; where both nature’s power and finesse are on display.
This photo took me two years to make. Let me explain.
“Is it left or right”
“Um, not sure,” said Amy.
“What do you mean, not sure?”
“Well, the map says go left, but the sign says go right.”
“The map isn’t that clear. Lets follow the sign.”
This, as it turned out, was the wrong option.
We were in search of Wreck Beach, a stretch of coastline at Moonlight Head along the Great Ocean Road, infamous for being the final resting place of the Marie Gabrielle (1870) and Fiji (1890), two cargo ships bringing tea from China and supplies from Germany, and most of their crews. It is one of the Great Ocean Road’s most sought locations, yet one of the most difficult to find.
As we drove along in the late afternoon, the road became narrower and sandier and littered with deep potholes. By the time we realised our mistake there was no room to turn around so we had to keep going to find somewhere we could manoeuvre the car into what became a somewhat awkward, bumper scratching 9 point exercise in patience. This done, and despite the now fading light and increasing chill, I noticed that we were on a ridge above rolling green hills and a beautiful vista and the dusk had started to pick up a pale pink colour. I decided to set up my camera.
“Um, don’t you think we should be getting back?” Amy was getting nervous.
“Yes. Just give me a few minutes first.” Clearly we weren’t going to make it to Wreck Beach today, but I was a photographer dammit, I wasn’t going to leave without making a photo. Amy just rolled her eyes.
It was dark by the time we started back again, and cold. It was the kind of winter day where the morning dew never really lifts. The abundant potholes were still filled with water from earlier rains, which was good since it made them easier to see and avoid. Becoming increasingly paranoid about these craters, we slowed to a crawl, steering one way then the other to creep around them and at the same time stay out of the brushes. Then it happened. Thunk, scrape. Metal on gravel.
We both stared at each other for a moment, neither able to find the words. Then we did. The car exploded in a series of expletives and fists pounded on dashboard. The accelerator was tried, and tried again knowing it wasn’t going to work. Pushing didn’t help either. We were stuck. Stuck on a potholed country track in now pitch blackness. There was no mobile phone signal here either. The only thing to be done was to start back to the main road, which we did first by torchlight and then, when the battery failed, using the light from a mobile phone. We walked mostly in silence. I didn’t dare say a word for fear of having my eye socket rearranged by the end of a torch.
After what seemed like hours, we finally came to a house and amid barking dogs, knocked on the door and asked the owner, Tom, to borrow a phone to call roadside assistance.
“Shouldna taken the right fork,” he offered after hearing our story. I bit my lip to stop from mentioning we were well aware of that now. The guy was trying to help us after all. He shook his head to himself as if to say “Another one”. Tom was typical rural Australia, complete with flannel shirt and the kind of accent that blends all of the words in a sentence into one long vowel.
Roadside assistance turned out to be 3 hours away. Seeing our faces as we processed this, Tom shrugged and started to reach for his keys, “Guess we’d better shift ‘er ourselves then. I’ll just get me truck”, and with that shuffled off to his shed. After much clanging about, there was a cough and splutter of a car engine and Tom reappeared in an ancient Toyota Landcruiser with torn vinyl seats and a cracked windscreen.
“Sorry took s’long. Hadda find a tow chain. In ya get.”
Seconds later we were tearing back down the same gravel roads we’d just trodden along so carefully, the springs in the Landcruiser creaking with each bump. Tom didn’t seem at all bothered by the dips, bumps, squeaks and creaks. Picking up speed even as the road deteriorated. This, I decided, must be how the windscreen cracked.
Eventually, after much cursing and tyre spinning the car was hauled from its ditch and we followed Tom back towards the house and civilisation, only getting stuck once more on the way.
After a warming cup of milo and a quick chat we headed back to our rented cabin, grateful and looking forward to a hot shower. The car fine apart from being covered in mud.
It wasn’t until a couple of years later that I made my way back to Wreck Beach. This time in early morning in the middle of summer and making sure to take the left fork. I walked the beach for the hour or so that the tide allowed and made the above image. Driving down the beach road and back I passed Tom’s house and thought about stopping. I doubted he would remember me though, if he still lived there. For him it was probably just another Saturday night rescuing some idiot tourist who’d taken the wrong turn.
“Do the penguins know we’re here?” asks the little girl.
“Yes, they do,” replies Dan, our tour guide and penguin expert. “But because we’re looking at them through such a small hole in the wall, the penguins can only see very little of us and so they think that we’re smaller than them and not a threat”.
Our group start to laugh at this little nugget of penguin logic before remembering we have to keep quiet so as not to scare the incredibly shy bird that has waddled up the beach and is now standing and preening only a couple of metres away.
I’m sitting in a camouflaged wooden hutch on a private beach at The Penguin Place on New Zealand’s Otago Peninsula. The temperature is dropping fast as dusk creeps up, but no one seems to mind. We’re here to see the Yellow Eyed Penguin, the rarest and most elusive of all penguin species, and the first has just waddled up out of the ocean and begun to climb the slope and head inland. These penguins nest on land and they will spend the night here before heading back out into the ocean at dawn to fish and eat. It is April and Dan explained earlier that this is their fledgling period, where last season’s chicks have begun to go out to sea, and adult penguins need to eat and put back on weight they lost before being confined to land while they moult their coats and grow new ones in preparation for a new years courting season.
They have only a few weeks to do this and it is a dangerous time for the penguins as energy levels are low and they are exposed to starvation and attacks by predators, which include foxes and ferrets on land, and sea lions, fur seals and sharks in the water. It seems like everyone is out to get them, and indeed only 20% survive to adulthood.
There are only around 3,000 Yellow Eyed Penguins left, and The Penguin Place offers a sanctuary free from predators for these rare and elusive animals who otherwise may be too afraid to venture back to land because of who might be waiting for them. Their numbers have been gradually increasing since 1990 when there were estimated to be only about 300. This is due in no small part to the dedicated team at The Penguin Place, who fund their conservation work entirely from the informative and entertaining tours that have run daily since 1985 when Howard McGrouther gave over his own farmland to care for the penguins and provide them a safe place to raise their young.
Also to be found on the grounds are New Zealand fur seals, blue penguins – “the smallest penguins of all but with the biggest attitude,” offers Dan – and the occasional yellow crested penguin who are more common on the west coast but occasionally take a wrong turn and end up on the Otago Peninsula.
The penguin outside our hutch cranes his neck, stretches his wings outwards and with a wiggle that starts at the neck, gathers momentum as it travels downwards and ends up in his tail, lets out the kind of squawk that could be expected from some giant, prehistoric ancestor. Then, as if he just realised he’s forgotten his house keys, turns around and waddles quickly back down the slope from where he came. His little head dips below the horizon and we can no longer see him, but we can hear more squawks. Everyone looks around at each other, confused, wondering if we’ve scared him away. Then we hear the same squawk from another voice, and the response from our penguin. A moment later two little penguin heads bob above the horizon and our friend returns with what Dan explains is his penguin girlfriend. Still squawking at each other, they sound like a bickering married couple. Which I suppose may not be far from the truth.
Despite the apparent argument, the two penguins seem happy to be in each others company and spend a few moments circling each other before continuing their waddle along the small hilltop and into the brush to find their nest.
No one speaks for a moment, just a lot of silent grins at the rare sight just witnessed and the similarities to humans in the way these little birds interact and communicate with one another. Then a moment later, a whisper: “Look, there’s some more!” and we all turn to look out onto the beach again as more Yellow Eyed Penguins, a whole extended family this time, hurl themselves out of the water, bellies full of fish, onto the sand and begin the long amble back to the safety of home for the night.
The Penguin Place is located outside of Dunedin on New Zealand’s Otago Peninsula and is a privately owned and fully self funded conservation reserve dedicated to the survival of the endangered Yellow Eyed Penguin.
“Damn flies”. I was cursing again after checking my screen to find another fuzzy blob right in the middle of the frame.
They warned me about this. The staff at the lodge said there would be plague proportions of sand flies at Milford Sound. They even offer guests a free bottomless supply of insect repellent, an ominous sign in itself which I took full advantage of, coating every last bit of exposed skin before heading out. What they don’t tell you is that these little bugs are drawn like magnets to camera lenses. Like some innate 6th sense, they know when you’re about to hit the shutter and are able to time their landing to cause maximum nuisance. My only defence was to waive a lens cloth in front of the camera until just before making the frame, make several exposures of the same scene and hope that weight of numbers would mean I came away with at least a few flyless images.
I spent 2 mornings and 2 evenings photographing at Milford Sound, one of New Zealand’s best known landscapes, and was inspired by how the mood of the place changed with the weather. And there was every kind of weather in the short time of my stay. From driving rain and brooding clouds on arrival, to an unworldly dawn that cleared to a bright sunny day, which I am told is a rare occurrence in this part of the world. This is actually on of the wettest places on earth, with around 7 metres of rain annually.
Shooting 4 sessions in all at the foreshore, I managed to capture it in several different moods, but always peaceful and serene. I had intended to photograph some other locations around the area, but there was enough variation just here to keep me going back, so I’ve filed away some ideas for my next visit. Despite my new friends the sand flies and managing to break a tripod by tightening the plate so hard the lever snapped off in my hand, I think I managed to capture a sense of one of the most isolated areas of New Zealand. Some of the images in this gallery had to be made by resting the camera on my bag, composing a bit wider than I intended the final frames to be to allow for cropping and straightening. This caused a whole lot more swearing as I struggled with the slippery rocks, and trying to get down low enough to look at the scene, but what kind of photographer isn’t happy face down in a couple of inches of cold water while shooting an iconic landscape.