Travel Photography
Postcard | Afar, Ethiopia
There was a clear separation in the groups. Us, the travelers, guides, and hired drivers slathering chocolate spread on thin slices of white bread after an early morning hike back to basecamp. Them, the gatekeepers of Erta Ale's roads and trails - Afar tribesmen gathered in clusters just meters away, self-segregated by an apparent social hierarchy.
Like so many times before, the dilemma of experiential travel presented itself. I questioned my place, our place as tourists. I questioned my intentions as a portrait photographer and the appropriateness of making images as a guest in someone else’s space, their home, their place of work. I also questioned why I was in Ethiopia in the first place. I didn’t really have an answer to either question.
The gentlemen enjoyed their conversation nearby. Even in the early morning, their vocal tones were jovial. I wanted to make photographs of the men who paid no mind to the tourists on their land. I wanted to be respectful, to not intrude. I wanted to continue to reinforce my belief that we should all be givers instead of takers. I wanted to avoid photographing solely for personal interests as I so often do. I wanted to interact with the tribesman, experience Ethiopia (as much as a short-term tourist can) in ways that weren’t strictly observational. I was conflicted.
I had some spare Instax film with me and knew that it would only take a few minutes to make a portrait for anyone who wanted one. The small photos could easily be used for Ethiopia’s mandatory national identification cards or, just to have. Offering Polaroids was, at the moment, the only way I could justify my decision to approach the Afar men standing nearby. Other than a smile, it was the only thing I had to offer.
I noticed several elders puffing heartily on cigarettes. Smokers tend to gravitate towards one another. Here, along the Ethiopia-Eritrea border, I hoped that this generalization held true. I wrangled a smoke from a crumpled pack of American Spirits crammed in the front pouch of my rucksack. I let the stick dangle from the corner of my mouth and decided to approach the men.
I asked for a match. To my delight, I was greeted with smiles and brought into the fringes of the circle, into the fold. There were matches for me as well as a language barrier, but our relaxed dispositions and curiosity for each other served as the real introduction.
We had a smoke or two and a motion-filled conversation about the state of my tennis shoes. In my periphery, I noticed that a translator from my tour group had shuffled over. He began translating without being asked - a gesture for which I was grateful. With his help, I related that I was able to make a portrait for anyone who wanted one.
At first, there were no takers. But after a bit of coaxing by his fellow tribesmen, an elder stepped forward. We moved to the side and the gentleman stood stoically for his portrait to be taken. Minutes later, he held the small sheet of film and others pressed close to see it. Soon, the rest of the men arranged themselves into a small line, each ready to pose.
After photographing the tribal elders and the more eager members of the group, I mentioned (through translation) that I had few film sheets left. A timid teen stepped forward and then, almost immediately, popped off into a lean-to shelter covered by a tattered tarp nearby. He returned donning a piece of dusty fabric that would serve as his makeshift necktie. I felt honored to photograph the lad and appreciated the thought he put into his time, albeit a short one, behind the camera.
After the experience, I am left wondering what place, if any, a photographer has in situations like this. I wonder if my disposition lets others know that I mean no them harm. I question my intentions and wonder if interactions like this one in northern Ethiopia leave the world a better place or erode it. I don’t have answers to these questions. Regardless, I was honored to spend a few morning moments with the men of Afar.
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Road to Somewhere | Northern Ethiopia
Somewhere Above Ethiopia
I have a fear of flying and will do almost anything to make air transit emotionally bearable. I pack an extra shirt in my carry-on just in case I nervously sweat through the one on my back. I have plenty of peaceful music downloaded on my phone. I keep a special amulet or two in my pocket even though I am not religious or superstitious. I also hold a stash of “airplane candy” just in case. Short of having a service animal registered, I do all that I can to soothe my fears.
After boarding, I try not to look at other passengers, be over-stimulated by the romcoms playing on screens, or get too fixated on my pre-determined escape plan should the aircraft take a plunge (I honestly make an overly detailed action plan before each flight takes off. It’s ridiculous).
My greatest flight comfort is a window seat. If possible, I pay the additional fee to pre-select my seat or, at the very least, beg for one at the check-in counter. I prefer to be near a wing where, in my phobic-mind, the plane is most stable and where an exit row is usually nearby. Oddly, window seats make me feel less claustrophobic and I covet the tiny area of space between my seat and the convex edge of the plane. Those extra square inches make me feel that I have some sort of protective bubble around me.
Without a doubt, the best part about a window seat is the chance to view the landscapes far below, gaze at giant cumulonimbus clouds, or peer at stars that seem so much closer from 32,000 feet. The natural world, an arms-length away, is my soothing, constant in-flight entertainment.
After a ten-hour red-eye flight from Bangkok and a quick layover in Addis Ababa, I was glad to finally be on a domestic flight heading north towards Lalibela. The sun was up I could have my first real glimpse of Ethiopia.
From cruising altitude, it wasn’t possible to get any sort of perspective of Ethiopian culture (other than noticing the agrarian nature of the countryside). But that didn’t matter. I was able to recognize, at least from above, that I was already in love with Ethiopia.
For the duration of the short flight, I didn’t have any fear of flying. I didn’t sweat through my shirt or pull out the prayer beads from my pocket. Instead, I sat in awe of the expansive landscape and was again grateful for a window seat.
More Travel Photography
Butter Lamps, McLeod Ganj (2006)
Photo Flashback | McLeod Ganj, India
I woke well before the sun and scaled the infamous stairs leading to Jogiwara Road. I was careful to stay in the middle of the seemingly never-ending climb. The nettles were plentiful and encroached on the uneven staircase. The darkness and my sandals were the worst possible combination for the climb.
I crept uphill through the languid town towards the bus stand, McLeod Ganj’s main intersection. I greeted a gentleman with leprosy and then veered left with other shadowy figures. Most of us moved swiftly down Temple Road to the Tsuglagkhang, attempting to be on time for the 5:00 a.m. prayer service.
I passed the sleepy guards outside of the Photang, the Dalai Lama's residence. It was an odd feeling knowing that His Holiness, just returned from a lecture series abroad, was a stone’s throw away.
I made it to the complex by 4:45 a.m. and entered one of the world’s most renowned religious centers. Hundreds of pilgrims were already gathered at the temple, processing clockwise with prayer beads in hand or bending into supplicating postures. I meandered through the corridors and noticed a glint of light coming from one of the interior prayer rooms. There, elderly monks lit butter lamps, sending out their cosmic energy for those who could afford to have the prayers made. The scene was mesmerizing.
I purchased a lamp and asked the elder for a specific prayer request. As the monk turned to light my lamp, I casually snapped a photo. Now, over a decade later, I can’t remember what I petitioned the holy man to pray for. Perhaps the universe received his mantras. Perhaps not. Either way, I am glad I have a grainy image of that tiny moment in time.
About the Image
Date: March 2006
Film: Ilford 400 Black and White
The film roll was processed a few days later in McLeod Ganj, India. A blue and yellow sign above the developer’s kiosk simply stated, “STD and Photo.” At the time, a photo-developing-pay-phone-center seemed like just the place to have my film developed.
I remember getting the photos back a few days later and being enamored with this particular shot. Out of the hundreds of photos I made on my first trip to India, this image sticks out in my mind. It was the first photograph I had ever made that I was visually happy with. Now, in hindsight, I realize that Butter Lamps served as a catalyst for my career as a travel editorial photographer.
