Tokyo: Random Access Memories

This short film features random shots of Tokyo, offering an artistic perspective of this non-stop city. Shot and edited by Junwoo Lee.

MONGOLIA: In Search of Warriors

LIKE ALL WORTHY QUESTS, MY FASCINATION WITH MONGOLIA BEGINS WITH A STORY. A STORY THAT TURNS ITSELF LIKE POLISHED STONE WITHIN MY FINGERS.

A hunter, old rifle by his side, returns with a few marmots, highly prized delicacies throughout the Mongolian countryside. / A simple road, common in Mongolia, calls to mind this native proverb, “If you endeavour, the fate will favour you.”

This is a tale I have replayed so often since childhood, that when I close my eyes, the characters appear, fully defined, as if I could touch them. At the center is my grandfather, Louis, a young French soldier fighting in World War II. I see him then in black and white, even though when he sat me on his knee, decades later, to tell his story, he was colorful in every way imaginable. It was as if my grandfather had grown up through a period of time when everything existed only in shades of black and grey, as if the entire world with its violence and scarcity had the color sucked right out of it.

Aerial view of Khvod (Ховд), blanketed by snow, in western Mongolia. / Immense landscapes on a 3,200 km drive through eastern Mongolia.

But then he would tell the part about the Mongol army. About how he was captured and sent to a German prison camp with British, American, and French soldiers. How the camp was eventually liberated, late in 1944, by a small and mighty troop fighting alongside the Allies against the Germans. They were the Mongolian People’s Army, established as a secondary army under Soviet command. As a young child, to hear my grandfather tell it, these liberators loomed large in vibrant, audacious color, a brilliant contrast to the stark landscape that surrounded them all.

Herders from Ulaangom (Улаангом), the “Red Valley”. / Drinking Mongol tea, made with mare’s milk and salt, at Üüreg Lake (Үүрэг нуур).

I was seven or eight years old when my grandfather would tell me this story, and I remember the grin on his face and the tears in his eyes as he told his tale: “The Mongol army charged the prison and the Germans were scared to death at the sight of them. Never before had anyone seen a people like this. They were fierce and the Germans ran away. They ran for their lives.” He told me that afterwards the freed soldiers and the Mongols kept hugging one other and celebrated long into the night.

This is how my grandfather’s life was saved.

As a young boy this account had a massive impact on me. That mysterious Mongol Army of men who saved my grandfather’s life; they saved my life.

A young rider bathes with his horse at Buir Lake (Буйр Нуур). Mongolians call wild horses “takhi,” which means “spirit,” and horses are profoundly important to them. They believe that one rides to the afterlife on a horse.

Mongolia.

THE NAME HAS ALWAYS LINGERED IN MY MIND AS A COUNTRY WITH A MYTHICAL CONNOTATION.

Illuminated bands of rain sweep towards a group of “ger” or yurts, huddled on the shores of Üüreg Lake (Үүрэг нуур) in western Mongolia.

When I got older, I worked as a photo assistant to a high-end fashion photographer in New York, learning the craft and saving a bit of money. For three years I was absorbed in that world of fashion, which was very glamorous and comfortable, but I was most attracted by the travel and began to long for more. At some point, I determined to go to Mongolia and see the place with my own eyes. In the summer of 2001, I took a month and set off.

While I brought my cameras on that first trip, a bit of equipment and film, I was mostly thrilled to put the experience of traveling first. This journey was more a pilgrimage. I have since returned almost annually for fifteen years, driven by a desire to capture the majesty and serene nature of the Mongolian landscape and inhabitants through my photography. At first I sought to discover the country of my imagination, but with every trip, my relationship with the land and its people deepened and became my own.

Timeless reflection. Surrounded by deserted, low mountains, Tolbo Lake (Толбо Нуур) in western Mongolia. / Stopping for tea, our hosts were caring for their grandchildren. Their nomadic home was quite rustic with carpets for side panels, a long-gone style rarely seen today.

“Even when quite a child I felt two conflicting sensations in my heart: the horror of life and the ecstasy of life.” — Baudelaire, Intimate Journals

On that first trip to Mongolia in 2001, I took a photograph of a mother and her infant son at their home on the shores of Üüreg lake, in the western part of the country. I traveled with an easy to pack, black piece of fabric. The light in this country is so beautiful and the fabric was capable of diffusing it to great effect, especially when shooting portraits of people.

Five years later, in 2006, I returned to the region where this family had once resided and sought them out. I often make small prints for the people I photograph and, if lucky enough to see them again, I like to give them as gifts. People in Mongolia, especially in the countryside, live great distances from each other and do not typically have access to this type of technology. I asked my guide to help me find this particular family as most in this area tend to be nomadic and the surroundings are constantly changing. We drove around the area asking people if they knew where we might locate them. Eventually, someone recognized the family and showed us the way.

A Mongolian “ger” (гэр) or yurt, covered with skins and felt, the traditional home of nomads living on the expansive steppes of central Asia.

We arrived, as you do in this part of the world, completely unannounced. The family remembered me, gave us a warm greeting and served us a tea. After we had eaten, I pulled out the photograph and handed it to the couple.

The mother picked up the picture, looked at it and there grew a void, her face filled with great sadness as she left the room. Her husband picked up the photograph and stood, his eyes swelling with tears. Their baby, he explained, had died of a virus three weeks after our first visit. They had never seen any picture of him. Here was this image allowing a mother and father to reconnect to their lost son. For a moment, it was like a resurrection—that powerful. My guide and I drove the four hours back in complete silence, as if we were under the spell of what had just happened. It was one of the most profound moments I have ever felt, creating that deepest human connection.

Mother and infant son, in their home on the shores of Üüreg Lake (Үүрэг нуур) in western Mongolia.

“There is not a particle of life, which does not bear poetry within it.” — Gustave Flaubert

While in the countryside, especially, you can feel the influence of Buddhism. In every ger, the Mongolian term for their traditional tents, you will find a small altar with a Buddhist icon. In each village there is a monastery. It is a subtle presence, one felt primarily in how people relate to life. Death is a passage, a journey. It happens, it is anticipated as part of the life cycle. Does death trigger sadness? Yes, but life goes on. The religious culture is something that seems to create an overall sense of morality. In my experience, Mongols are extremely fair people. You ask their point of view and they tell you precisely what they think.

Horse riders at rest in Horkon, central Mongolia. / Baasan Lama, a monk at Bulgan Temple, a Buddhist retreat in the Gobi Desert.

In Mongolia, nothing happens the way you want or expect.

For me, coming from a western culture where everything is linear, this was an awakening. If you are traveling, you only know when you are leaving, never when you will arrive. I found that amazing. In a country as immense as this, the elements are so powerful there is no control. There may be a snow or sand storm. Things that can physically prevent you from moving forward on your journey. You cannot continue… until you can.

Two schoolboys, wearing fur-lined boots, walk home through the snow near the village of Altai (Алтай) in the far west of Mongolia.

I have learned that most of the time when things are not going as planned, that is often when the situation is the most visually exciting. We have to go a different direction than where we came from and stay one more night all because of a flat tire. But, that is when something special happens. We end up saying afterwards, “Wow. Mind blown.”

Take, for example, the following series of images, which illustrate exactly the type of unexpected scenarios that gift themselves to you while traveling through Mongolia. We had a plan to fly direct from the capital, Ulaanbaatar, to Tsaatan lands, to visit reindeer herders on the Russian border, but for some reason our flight got canceled. This happens a lot. We had to stay one more night in the city, get on a different flight to somewhere further away, then rent a car and drive back across this vast lake, Khövsgöl, one of the biggest lakes in Mongolia. This arduous journey, all to reach the town we were originally attempting to fly to directly. I was fuming. I had just three weeks for this trip and now I was losing two entire days.

The Altai Mountains, seen on a flight from Ulaanbaatar to Ölgii. / A bridge near the village of Altai (Алтай), a few miles from China’s border.

During the winter months, this lake is completely frozen, often an ice layer of up to six feet, and instead of taking the dirt road, often filled with potholes and hard to navigate, trucks and cars travel directly across the iced over lake. There is a risk, of course. As the drive went on, the truck we were following suddenly began to collapse into the ice, without any warning.

A warmer wind from the south had been blowing in recent days, making the upper layer of ice more fragile. Everyone in our vehicle shouted out in shock “Arrgh!” and we stopped as far away as possible, as the ice in the epicenter was quite fragile. While we contemplated the situation, the owner of the truck, who had at first abandoned it, along with the other passengers, walked back to the vehicle to retrieve his belongings. While he was still in the truck, we heard a massive roar. A roar so deafening we were surrounded by the thunderous sound echoing from the ice.

We knew something was about to happen. Everyone ran from the truck, as it sunk even deeper, seemingly fixed into the ice. Immovable.

What happened next?

Well, the Mongols are impressively strong willed and determined. They called for help and a few hours later a couple of other trucks arrived.

Together, the group waited for night to fall, so that the ice was again solid and reliable ground, and then they literally pulled it out of the ice. So badass.

That truck was filled with wood, likely bound for a construction site. There was too much potentially lost revenue trapped in that one ice circle. Fortunately, no one was hurt that day, but locals have told me stories of jeeps and trucks, loaded with occupants, disappearing entirely in the frozen lake after the ice had cracked, never to be heard of again. Only later did we realize how close we were to possibly meeting the same fate.

This lake was full of unusual surprises. Earlier the same day, we had come across two young men lying on the ice, in the middle of nowhere. We stopped the car and got out, but they did not move. They just stared. They were completely drunk, wasted. It was still morning! They were just lying there waiting for something.

I love the perspective, the color, and texture of the ice in this image. Knowing the strange backstory makes it even better. I had not planned this particular journey, but some of the most powerful images I shot during that trip happened thanks to that canceled flight. In these types of consistently disruptive circumstances, an overall shift in perspective takes place. In retrospect, the entire experience turned out to be perfect.

A boy from Kharkhorin (Хархорин) wearing a traditional “deel”or robe, with a silk sash. / Two brothers from Khövsgöl Lake (Хөвсгөл нуур).

Looking back, all my visits to Mongolia have been marked by unexpected moments like these. One place in particular is layered with memories. Many years ago, when I first arrived on the Trans Siberian railway, with no plans and little idea of a destination, I saw a tiny blue dot on the map, in the far west of the country. I could just make out the words, Üüreg Nuur, a lake. Somehow attracted to it, I decided that was where I was going to go. A few days later, I took the picture of the mother and her baby son, and over the years, I have returned many times, making friends and photographing most of the families living there. I have seen toddlers become teenagers, teenagers grow into young adults, and older men pass away. The full cycle of life.

Wrapped baby, held by his sister, at Üüreg Lake in western Mongolia.

Last summer, I returned to Üüreg Lake once again, in June, traveling with two local guides. At some point we stopped because we came across a group of herders who had all of their sheep laid down by the water so they could shear them. When I pointed my camera towards this man, he lifted the sheep high up above his head. It was completely unexpected. Intrigued, I shot a few frames and then asked him, “Why did you do that?” He said, “I don’t know — it is something I have always wanted to do.” Often photography inspires a certain playfulness and spontaneity; there is something fundamentally human about posing for a camera.

A local herder shearing his sheep on the shores of Üüreg Lake (Үүрэг нуур) in western Mongolia.

Perhaps, above all, in this country, I have learned how to adapt.

Nothing unfolds as you might first imagine, but these unanticipated moments bring rich and beautiful gifts. Traveling here has brought me a new perspective, even some wisdom, particularly as it relates to being attached to expectations and schedules. Over time, I have relaxed my grip on the rigidity of my own culture and let go enough to accept what will be. I have applied this in my everyday life. Even if I am on an intense shoot for a commercial job, I now trust that everything will eventually work out just fine.

Two friends go out for a ride near their home by Üüreg Lake (Үүрэг нуур) in western Mongolia.

“A strong cold wind gets up from the W.N.W — that is to say, at our back — but we are on a desolate steppe, where we can find neither shrub nor anything else which can help to combat the cold that it is beginning to be unpleasant. On the other hand, we come upon some very pretty flowers, lovely wild pansies and edelweiss that would delight the heart of an Alpinist.” 

FRENCH EXPLORER, GABRIEL BONVALOT

Across Thibet, The Mongols, 1891

Buddhist monastery in the summer months. / A frozen river winds through the stark landscape, on a flight from Ulaanbaatar to Ölgii.

You will find two contrasting dimensions in Mongolia, bound both by culture and geography. It is the 19th largest country in the world, yet there are only three million people living there. Close to half that population is located in the capital city of Ulaanbaatar, today the country’s industrial and financial heart, where technology has evolved considerably.

Meanwhile, the rest of Mongolia’s people are dispersed all over the country in small villages and towns, with some thirty percent still choosing a nomadic or semi-nomadic way of life, moving across the land with their horses. People may have a satellite dish or cell phone, but connection is erratic. Here, life is very slow; it hasn’t really changed over time.

A remote satellite dish provides the evening’s entertainment. / A herder smokes a cigarette rolled from a scrap of newspaper.

Vast plains and beautiful landscapes are the hallmark of these remote lands. The air is pure. The food is very simple. Essentially, a meal is meat that has been taken from a sheep killed that morning and cooked with some flour. The customary tea is called suutei tsai and made with mare’s milk and salt. My initial physical experience in Mongolia is always an exponential energy increase from the combination of fresh air, vast open space, outdoor activity, and unprocessed food intake. It is amazing. It toughens you up — all that vitality and energy.

A herder, his wife, and their five young children make their way to winter pastures, transporting their “ger” or yurt and all their belongings.

There is a spiritual effect as well. Mongolia, overall, is a very flat country, and you can see for many kilometers. Nothing to obstruct you. Somehow, being able to see so far away brings you back to the moment, to where you stand right now. You float through that space. There is a reflection that delivers your own reflection directly back to you. This sense of place and of self, it centers you. In Mongolia, I am able to stay in the moment much more powerfully than other places. The strength and vibrance coupled with the spiritual energy from grounding in the present, is a restorative experience.

“Та өндөр бүтээхийг хүсэж байгаа бол, Хэрэв та гүн ухаж байх ёстой.” — If you want to build high, you must dig deep.

MONGOLIAN PROVERB

Bayanzag (Улаан Эрэг) or the “Flaming Cliffs” in Mongolia’s Gobi Desert are said to appear to be on fire as the sun sets.

For years, I wanted to photograph the Kazakh, a robust people living in the extreme western part of the country high in the Altai Mountains, who traditionally hunt on horseback with golden eagles. In December 2015, the opportunity finally presented itself. I had two weeks; everything was arranged. The eagle hunters are all ethnic Kazakh their ancestors having fled to neighbouring Mongolia during the mid to late 19th century, in the face of the advance of the Russian Empire troops during the communist era. Some speak Mongol; many don’t. They are Muslim, rather than Buddhist, and for most of the 20th century they remained an isolated, tightly knit community.

The hunter, Jaidarkhan, an ethnic Kazakh whose ancestors fled to Mongolia, and his eagle.

Living by the ancient art of eagle hunting, I found them to be very generous, kind people. In Kazakh, the word qusbegi, or falconer, comes from the words qus (“bird”) and bek (“lord”), translating as “lord of birds.”

These days, however, only a few Kazakh are still traditional hunters. Some continue primarily for show, as there is a new tourist economy that can support the fading art form, especially each October, when eagle hunting customs are displayed at the Kazakh’s annual Golden Eagle Festival.

In good years, Kuantkhan Ologban and his eagle catch around 30 animals. Some years, none are caught at all due to extreme weather.

Winter in Mongolia often brings raw, biting winds, and extremely challenging conditions, so our journey to reach Kazakh lands was demanding. When we finally arrived, utterly exhausted, in temperatures of –30°C, I quickly became sick with a fever and was forced to stay in bed for seven days. I was deeply disappointed. My guide, and friend, Enkhdul, with whom I’ve crossed the entire country many times, in all seasons, from the Gobi Desert to Tsaatan lands in the extreme north, and from the eastern plains to the Altaii mountains in the far west, told me, “We are not leaving! You have been talking about coming here, to do this, for years.” So, I waited it out and got better. However, I had only three days to shoot everything.

Hunters value their eagles immensely. In winter, they sleep inside with the family. / Alpam, who is learning the art of hunting from his father.

The Kazakh community is quite incredible and their stories fantastic: how they proceed, scaling remote and cragged mountain peaks to find the eagle they will raise. The relationship that forms between the hunter and eagle has a special connection and symmetry that can only come from time and great care. Sometimes a hunter will work with an eagle for ten or twenty years.

Dalaikhan, a champion hunter, with his 2-year-old eagle. He is wearing fox-skin clothes from previous successful hunts.

As we were so far north, in the middle of December, the hours of daylight were few. The sun was consistently low on the horizon, casting a golden, soft light on everything and everyone it touched. But once the sun disappeared, the temperatures plummeted to a frigid –20°C. My analogue camera would jam and stop working completely, forcing me to end for the day. Once again, gifts and challenges.

After just one day, my camera and I had become seemingly invisible, to all but the inquisitive eyes of the youngest child.

Like so many other times in this vast and windswept country, my expectations did not match the reality. I had planned for two weeks and received a mere three days. But, those brief days surpassed anything I could have hoped for in quality and depth of relationship. Their grace and exceptional strength was tangible. Here, among the sweeping landscape and rugged way of life that shapes the inhabitants of this part of the world, I could imagine the men who rescued my grandfather.

The mountainous landscape dwarfs two Kazakh hunters and their horses in the far west of Mongolia, near the village of Altai (Алтай).

While the heroic ferocity of my grandfather’s Mongol Army certainly inspired my obsession with this country, we are all products of our experience. Regardless of culture, each of us are indelibly shaped by the events and history of the generations that precede us. I may have first come to Mongolia in search of warriors, but I return again and again having discovered raw beauty and elegance in a country equally ethereal as it is grounded.

Casting a diffuse, shimmering light, the winter sun was low in the sky, as we watched this young herder and his cattle pass by.

Maybe it is the influence of my professional background, but I have grown attuned to noticing elegance, even in the wildest places in the world. There is always a glimpse of quiet splendor, an angle that calls out something beautiful. Perhaps the knotting of a silk cord along a side pocket or a belt that is latched around a robe, maybe hair done a certain way. I am attracted to these graceful elements and know when I see them that I will make a photo.

Summer rain clouds gather over the lush grazing pastures on the shores of Üüreg Lake (Үүрэг нуур). / A farmer, pausing for a moment, in his day’s work. / A young woman wearing a traditional “deel” or robe.

All of this is an odyssey. In Mongolia, this journey is most often about shooting in difficult places and seeking the elegant angle. I found photography very late in my life, but am thrilled to discover the range of perspective it offers. It is a learning process that requires great sensitivity. There are constant questions: How am I able to emotionally perceive what I see? What will it take to tell this story in a unique way? All of this fascinates me. This is my passion project. After fifteen years, I have a much better sense of what makes my work distinctive. My sense is that over time, my images have become more artful. Still, this is a work in progress.

I am always exploring.

—

COMING SOON

For years, I have been working to collect material for a retrospective book of my photographic work and experiences in Mongolia. In Fall of 2018, I will be publishing a limited collectible edition of 1,000 books in a large format (17 inches x 14 inches) with more than 250 pages. There will also be a handful of special editions that are offered with a signed print and a special book encasement. Follow along on my Instagram @fredericlagrange to keep up-to-date.

THIS ARTICLE WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED ON MAPTIA.

FRÉDÉRIC LAGRANGE

Photographer & Director based in Brooklyn, NYC shooting for a diverse range of clients worldwide. Capturing nuanced human stories through evocative color & black and white photography.

fredericlagrange.com

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A Cycling Revelation

JULY 2012, TAJIKISTAN

Traveling through Central Asia, a predominately Muslim part of the world, I had noticed that when accompanied by a man I don’t have opportunities to talk and interact with locals, as all conversation is directed to the men. Descending into a valley together with a new and temporary cycling partner by the name of Chris-Alexandre, we would part ways around 10 am in the morning.

The morning Pamiri sunrise from camp, looking over Chris-Alexandre peacefully sleeping.

Chris-Alex, whom I had met in Uzbekistan and planned to meet in Dushanbe, Tajikistan, would wish me luck after three days of cycling together towards the famous Pamir Highway. We promised to stay in contact through our intermittent cell phone signals and meet up ahead. I was now on my own again, something I know so well after two years and close to 25,000 km cycled solo.

Beginning the ride for the day, little would I know what lied ahead of me. Photograph by Chris-Alexandre of the “All School Project”.

Spending the day riding through a hot and arid valley, but where the small villages are tree lined, I pull over to rest under some trees on the western edge of a village in the late afternoon.

It’s currently Ramadan, which explains the quiet and calm through the days. At sunset, Muslims will quit fasting and have a meal together. It’s considered rude to eat and drink in front of fasting Muslims and I take consideration in hiding myself a bit when eating on the side of the road. At this resting point, I’m not eating but rather just sipping my water and trying to figure out what my plan will be for the night as it’s nearing 6 pm.

There is a fence separating me from a front yard with trees and between the house and trees is a small garden. An older woman wearing a traditional Tajik dress and pants, similar to an Indian styled shalwar kameez, as vivid green as the short trees surrounding me, walks over with a young blonde boy holding her hand.

Exchanging smiles, her mouth of gold glistening in the Pamiri sun as she says “aleikum asalaam” after my greeting of “asalaam alkeium.” She looks at me and my bicycle and directs me to bring my bike and to return to her home down the dirt road that leads behind the garden.

The matriarch of the homestead and her blonde grandson at the home I would spend the evening in.

I would be greeted with children and one of the most beautiful Tajik girls I’d ever seen with her perfectly henna-dyed eyebrow. She is all smiles and I can feel the love among the women while the children are still apprehensive about the lonesome traveling woman.

Many villages through Tajikistan have few men. I have learned that many men work in Russia, and often they will have a second family in Russia, in addition to their family here in Tajikistan. Images of hippie communes flood my imagination here in Tajikistan—happy, beautiful women together with their children living off the land.

Children running around playing in the dirt, a toddler in a crib made of crudely welded steel you would see about construction sites, and the young woman chopping fresh vegetables from their garden. This might just be “the life”…

A young Tajik woman chops the fresh vegetables in preparation for the Ramadan feast after nightfall.

The gold-toothed older woman in a traditional Tajik dress and pants, with the most elegant camouflage fabric print I’ve ever seen, begins to pantomime to me about taking a shower and washing my clothes. It has been awhile and I’m wondering if she can smell the odor of travel, woman, and just the scent of a foreigner.

It’s a hot afternoon, where temperatures can get close to 50°C in the sunshine during midday, and I’m not going to deny a cool bath. After a few minutes trying to communicate she lets me know she will heat up some water for the bath. Then I’m led to a corner of a mud packed building, where my bike leans against.

Following her out of the shade and into the cooling Tajikistan air, I’m led into a dark room with light entering from a single window and she directs me to undress and get into the tub. I remove all my clothing except for my knickers and tank top I use for a daily base layer. She looks at me, not even flinching and somewhat serious with no concern, directing me to remove EVERYTHING.

I look into her eyes and I know in my heart she’s a good woman and mother just seeking to help and accommodate the strange traveler that has fallen into her life. Taking a deep breath, I drop all my clothing along with my modesty and step naked into the tub. She pours water over me that is the perfect temperature for this hot July afternoon and she uses the bar of soap that’s splitting to wash my back and hair.

I have gone years without an affectionate, and innocent, human touch and I feel my body slump over in ease and enjoy the gentle and intimate touch of her hands running through my hair and over my shoulders.

Stepping out refreshed, I follow her into the garden where more women are arriving and I’m handed fresh vegetables such as cucumbers from the garden to eat. Cooled down, clean, snacking on vegetables and being served a never ending supply of chai.

Children greet me at the homestead, my bicycle in the background leaning against the building where my glorious sponge bath would occur.

There is a woman who appears to be around my age, and she is. It turns out that she used to be a teacher and can speak a little English along with some Russian so we can communicate a little bit.

She explains her husband lives in Dushanbe and that she is childless… I can’t imagine what that must be like to live in an area where child-bearing and raising is of the utmost importance to the culture. I take an immediate liking to her, her warm and comforting brown eyes, and I watch her tend to the children as they are her own.

Shortly after her brief explanation to the other women about me, we go inside the main house, passing a teenage boy sitting near the entrance. We enter a room directly off the side where I’m accompanied by a few young male toddlers and about a half a dozen women. The woman with the henna eyebrows is in the room, along with five or six more, and is accompanied by another younger woman carrying the brunette baby from the yard.

It’s explained that they are married to the same man, and along with the gold tooth matriarch, they invite me to become the third. Hysterical laughter breaks out when I smile and nod my head “no.” But after months in Central Asia, and my first time among a commune of women, the thought of sister wives doesn’t seem like such a horrible idea.

After the joking and the conversation, as women slouch against the wall pulling up their pants and dresses to cool down, the matriarch shouts to the teen in the other room to turn up the music. She shuts the door and begins dancing as any beautiful Tajik woman does.

I’m pulled up off the floor and it feels as if I’ve returned to a dance party from my university years. Talking, dancing, laughter… the children are enjoying themselves as well.

There is an advantage being a woman traveling alone.

A young Tajik girl watches the boys play before she joins in the fun.

I have been allowed to see and experience moments that are usually behind closed doors or in the kitchen. We have jokes in the West about women being barefoot in the kitchen.

Well, as a feminist, I’ll tell you I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else besides behind those doors or kitchens…it’s where all the fun happens...and gossip…and just behaving like all women around the world.

The matriarch, blonde boy, and I take a nap in the room after the dance party and neighbors leave. Around 7 pm we get up and she takes me for a walk around her land, showing me a new storage building that’s being built out of stones and through the gardens. The children play and we go to a fence dividing the neighbors where I meet a young girl. The adults shout back and forth to one another, along with explanations of who their visitor is.

Boys play outside before the fast breaks at sunset for the evening Ramadan feast.

The sun is setting and we return to the woman’s home where the two sister wives are preparing food and the teenage boy is still listening to music acting indifferent to the entire situation. The matriarch serves me food separately from the family unit and then they begin to share a large platter of “polo”/”plov”, a traditional rice and mutton dish of Central Asian, eating with their hands which is the traditional and standard way. The daily fast has ended and they will eat and then pray. The teacher that I warmed up to returns, the television is on and we all lazily lounge around having a very gentle conversation.

The teacher speaks to the room of women and children after dinner, as the television plays in the background.

They will see my exhaustion and offer me to my sleeping mat as they will stay up later to continue eating and praying. I’m led back to the room where the dancing happened earlier in the day and directed on the mat next to the wall, furthest from the door. I will be sharing it with the matriarch and the small blonde boy that never leaves her side.

Little would I know what the next day would bring…

Awakening the next day with heavy eyes as the cool dawn begins to break into the early morning heat. The aches and pains are extremely acute as I roll off my sleeping mat, as if an invisible force is nudging me to get out into the bright sunshine, onward through the beautiful and majestic valleys of Tajikistan. I’m more groggy than usual, as dogs barking throughout the night kept me awake. Careful not to disturb the old woman and small child sleeping, I move to the window to check on my bicycle and the four bags attached to her sides and top.

The house begins to take on life, as women’s voices break the silence, and I dress and prepare to depart. The old woman asks me to stay for breakfast but I kindly insist I must carry on. Generally breakfast will take a few hours and it’s never been a eat and run type of an affair. Using those early morning hours to cycle will make the difference of 50-70 km a day, and being able to end with a full belly of traditional Muslim food and a long nap under an apricot tree.

Saying my thanks with “rexmet”, speaking in a native tongue based upon Turkish, I exit the mud packed home into the chilled morning light to continue on.

The sun gets intense, and heat unbearable where it sometimes reaches 48 degrees, so I need to make as much progress as possible.

Yesterday had been a short day and I remind myself that I must make up for lost time.

Traversing along a single lane, with deep crevasse jeep tracks, I go slowly up a valley. I lost asphalt nearly two days ago as I had chosen to take a route that most people don’t ride. I had debated about the route as no one could give me an accurate description of the area and there is a missing section of road on the map. Like usual, I was not quite sure what to expect but I knew that I wouldn’t see dozens of cyclists. Having already spent over 20,000 km cycling through China where I can speak the language, I am notorious for pulling myself off well-traveled routes to see what else the world has to offer...but...sometimes there is a reason a particular route is not taken by the masses.

Stopping about fifteen kilometers on from the community I had stayed in the previous night, I stop for breakfast and supplies. Far from a proper town, supplies are limited but I make do with sodas, naan, and sugar-glazed cookies filled with an apricot jelly.

Thankful for the dark storm clouds rolling in and the cool breeze on my skin, I know this will cut down immensely on the heat. I will be able to cycle through the early afternoon without a break. The trees are disappearing and it’s becoming rock mines along a raging brown river. I had been warned of the rivers and glacier melts during the summers, and I would later learn that they were higher than average this summer. The water is angry and completely out of control, I could hear this river beating against the stone banks and walls. Such a contrast to the cool breeze, gentle rolling clouds, and the steady and calm beat of my heart.

There have only been one or two Land Rovers driving in the opposite direction since leaving the last town about four hours earlier. It’s becoming lifeless except for the massive rusted mining machines and mounds of gray stones. The road is more difficult now and the stones cause me to lose my balance at times…tipping sideways a few times, causing my right foot to try and find traction among the broken stones.

Broken bridges and roadways because of the heavy mining machinery traveling through the area.

Spotting a small pond where the water was flowing clear and shade provided by some short trees, I decide to push over to watch the direction of the storm and to repair a snapped bolt on the front rack. There is no one around and I decide to wash my clothes, feeling guilty that I now have a clean body living in the filthy and salt-marked cycling clothes. Although my hair had been washed yesterday with bar soap, it seemed to make my oily hair even worse, so a proper shampooing was in order.

One man stops to speak with me, only to return to give me some strawberry cookies he had in his Land Rover. He begins to get a little closer and asks me more questions than I bargained for and realize I have to back him off. I’ve had enough men make assumptions about a single American woman in Central Asia and knew I needed to ward off any preconceived ideas.

“Is he your friend?” the man asks me in Russian and points to a blonde Tajik boy with a knapsack and dog. It took me a second to figure out if this kid was another traveler just choosing to walk, but I realized he was a local. Deciding that an innocent lie was in order for this moment I said, “No, my friend is ahead.” This usually confuses them because they assume friends should always be together. The man drove off after putting some water in his radiator and the boy went towards the cliff across the road from my trees.

After washing my clothes and hair, I put on some traditional Tajik Atlas printed pants that were made in Dushanbe and hang my wet clothes up in the trees, needing to secure them as the storm is making it’s way closer. My hair tied and wrapped up on my head, I attempt to fix the snapped bolt. The best I can do is to use pliers to tighten the headless screw into the eyelet threads.

The vivid blue sky has now been completely grayed out, and it begins to rain upon me and my damp clothes. I put on rain gear to cut down on my chills and to cover up my wet, yet clean hair. Thinking it’s probably best to stay under this tree for a little bit of coverage, I begin to organize my panniers, as I had dumped everything out digging for soaps and tools.

There is a sound in the bushes behind me…like the sound of something hard falling into dried grass. I stop, there is no one around…what was it, who is it? Another. Then another but it comes through the two meter high trees I’m standing under.

Rocks!? Why are there rocks falling from the sky?

Walking out from under the trees to straighten up, I look around. My left arm is hit with a piece of gravel then “crash” and another “crash”, these are fist-size stones if not bigger.

Across the gravel road and about 15 meters from me there is a cliff, approximately 50 meters high. I see the blonde boy and his dog. The sky is dark and I can barely make him out as he begins to launch another rock, then another.

“Hey! You, I see you!” I shout in English. I had studied Russian for three weeks in Bishkek but when you begin to feel your blood boil it’s not so easy to squeeze out the translated words.

He launches another and begins to pick up another rock. The rocks are getting bigger; the heaved stones have less time between them. His aim is definitely improving too. I again repeat that I see him and he needs to stop while choosing a few four letter words that are understood throughout the world.

The dog is barking and running back and forth along the edge of the cliff. Rocks continue to rain from the sky, overtaking the harmless precipitation that had previously been speckling my body.

During my first few months of tour I learned my “War Cry”, something I didn’t even know existed until it had to be used to remove a man’s body lying atop of me. It came to surface because it’s all I had to fight with. The shrill death cry coming from a woman who feels her existence being shattered from within. This moment wasn’t as frightful as some of my previous battles so I knew it must be conjured up like a masterful magician, or rather a resourceful sorceress.

Now intense feelings, deep buried memories, frustrations are brought to the surface; I allow myself to feel vulnerable and scared. Opening my mouth to inhale has much air as my lungs can take to push the call of anger from my cracked and sunburned lips. As my breathe moves from my guts, I keel over at the waist to make sure that all of these emotions have found their way out of my soul. I let out another and another. Sometimes it feels difficult to stop, releasing emotions that have been shoved deep within my mind for the simple act of survival.

The boy and the dog have now disappeared. I pack up my bike and know it’s time to get out of here as fast as possible. Slightly damp and clean clothes are put back on my shivering body and my clean hair braided, I assumed I would be leaving danger behind.

I had rested my bicycle on her drive-train side, so I could manage repairs. I’m a bit uncomfortable pulling her from the other side so the tire slips down the damp soil. The sharp silver teeth from the triple crank puncture deeply in the front of my right ankle. Water nearby is turning bright red from the blood rushing from my body. There is nothing to do but remain calm.

All I can question at the moment is,

“Did I puncture something important under the skin, deep into my body…I hope this stops…and I don’t bleed out here in the middle of nowhere Tajikistan.”

I’m splashing water on it from the stream, which I know isn’t the best antiseptic to be cleaning an open wound. Especially since I had been watching the cattle bathe and drink from the same water a few meters away, my little pond only separated by a few inches of mud. The bleeding continues…and it’s not letting up.

A Tajik woman is now watching me from the cliff. Too many people are aware of me, I’ve let out the crazy woman “war cry”, and the boy has also returned. I hate, and avoid, confrontation or really any uncomfortable situations in unknown territories. Especially when I can barely speak a few words of the language. In China, I’m more than willing to argue and reprimand as I can speak and understand the culture after living there for more than four years.

I push the bike to the road keeping my eyes on my foot, watching the blood stream down my leg and the dark red beads of blood stream down into my sandals. Another battle scar.

Deciding to walk the bike after the injury, the rocks, the scream, and the storm…just get the hell out of here and to allow myself to find calm physically and mentally. There had been days like this before, when I did not take notice of the omens.

Around the cliff and continuing up stream I am met by an older Uzbek man carrying a stack of newspapers. We communicate through broken sentences and some pantomiming. He has me write my name down on a notebook and invites me to stay at his home for the night, as it’s storming. I politely decline, as his home is about three kilometers downstream. Rarely do I backtrack and I had made little progress over the past 24 hours. We parted with smiles and I continue to walk my bike over the road which had now become loose stones. Experience was telling me I was finding my way off the beaten path.

The next two hours I would be alternating between riding and pushing through loose gravel, slowly going up, then navigating some rocky and steep descents. Once passing a mining community I saw a village inset up in the mountains about ten kilometers away. I would be going over a pass and I was hoping that was not it because of the infinite switch backs for endless miles, or so it seemed. I told the men banging away at new homes where I was headed and they directed me at the fork of the road.

Continuing upstream, I pass a man lounging a top a mound of stones nearly five meters high and he lazily assures me I’m headed in the correct direction. There are many roads branching off this mining road and doubt is beginning to grow within me, with a nagging hint of anxiety. Traversing through mounds of stones, old rusted mining machines and equipment, the road is going up and down and crossing paths with a few massive trucks, so I assume that if I was going in the wrong direction, someone would alert me.

Intense Tajikistan heat and sunshine along the route thorough abandoned, and a few active, mining towns.

Around three o’clock I find myself looking across the raging river that was the source for the water I had been cycling along for the day. The water is coming from the mountains, my right side and snaking to my left and continuing down through the villages I traveled through earlier. There are some trucks to my right, so before deciding to cross the water, I ride the two kilometers up a hill to find someone to speak with or to find an alternative route.

Riding through a few switchbacks and passing a shepherd and his cattle, I arrive in a small work community where mining trucks and Land Rovers are in a parking lot with a few old aluminum-sided buildings. I pass through the checkpoint before two men stop me and tell me it’s the wrong way. With arm movements and finger pointing, they communicate that I must cross the water.

Backtracking to the bank of the water, gulping the hints of fear and anxiety down, I know that if I were to set up camp and wait until sunrise the water would perhaps be lower.

Standing on the edge of the riverbank, created out of massive stones and gravel, my thoughts and apprehension is drowned out by the water beating against the stones and cliffs. The opposite side of the bank is about fifteen meters across and turns into a field of gravel and stones. No sight of a road or tracks. The miners told me this was it; I can’t doubt the directions of locals.

I apprehensively lay the bike on her side, briefly examining the dried blood all over my ankle and foot while noticing the flies enjoy taking a brief rest on the wounds. The water is rough, muddy…it’s bad, nothing I’ve encountered before and I look up into the mountains standing silently, innocently, and curse their summer ice melt.

My recent riding partner, Chris-Alexandre, is about 30 centimeters shorter than I am, so I reassure myself with “if HE can do it, I CAN do it!” Heck, and I’ve been on the road longer and am a well-seasoned veteran. This isn’t a big deal.

“Moseman, you can do this…you’ve been through hell and back, there isn’t anything you can’t defeat.”

Taking a deep breath, standing with my bike to my right and holding the handlebars with a white knuckled grip, I give a good push into the water and the front wheel rolls forward. The front of the bike drops so far down that the water is nearly rushing over my front panniers. The tire doesn’t hit the bottom so I’m pulled further into the water than I anticipated.

My heart skips and stalls when I realize that I’m well over my head in this situation. Water is now brushing along the bottom of the rear panniers and up to my knees. I can feel the front of the bike wanting to be whipped down the river, giving no consideration to the woman between it and the wall of stone further down. The bicycle behaves like a buoy and I think if I can press the front down it will surely help stabilize.

Taking all my might while trying to prevent my body from trembling with fear, this technique doesn’t work. The further the front goes down the greater pressure I feel from my bike, as mother nature’s force is not going to take mercy on me.

Two helicopters are above me, as I had noticed them circling the area all day. I thought maybe they were surveying the high waters. (I would learn the following day that the reason for the helicopters was because a Civil War had erupted in the Pamirs that morning.) I look up, now one is hovering over me. Do they see me, and are they worried for my safety?

The next few minutes would feel like hours, a lifetime, an eternity.

I trudge further into the water so I’m standing next to the left front pannier, pressing my body against the bag with the hope of steading the bike and pushing her back up to the bank. Looking up into the sky, watching the helicopter hover above me, I realize my body isn’t going to be able to stand against this pressure for much longer. What do I need to do to survive this situation to the best of my ability?

It’s very difficult to make a fast, drastic, life-altering decision when fear has taken over your senses. Colors are more vivid, sounds more intense; your heartbeat is pounding in your head while your mind is sitting in the bottom of your guts. Your reality, and world, is spinning out of orbit and you have no idea where you will land or how you will fall. One is left, merciless, to innate instinct; I could only hope that a mere 30 years of existence in this lifetime have taught me a few things for survival.

Traveling upstream towards the raging river.

I realise that continually trying to push the bike up the bank, from the side, is not going to work. Gripping for dear life on the handlebars, knuckle bones, tendons, muscles wanting to break through my sun cured, leathered, skin from the desert sun. I move my body very slowly and carefully to the front of the bike.

Attempting to awkwardly straddle the front wheel between my thighs, but still a bit lopsided to the left. The water is well up to my waist, as I stand at 6’ tall. Breathe, relax, concentrate, PUSH.

NO.

Looking up. Am I praying for the helicopter to drop a ladder like I’ve watched on those rescue shows or for the Gods in the heavens to save me? Wanting to raise my arms to wave for help, I know this is impossible as I will lose the bike, my stance, and that I will be swept away before my palms leave the handlebars.

Do I let go of the bike? Do I sacrifice all my gear and let her go? The only possessions in my life for years to be swept away simply because of a completely ignorant and irrational decision?

Did Ego come to play with me by the river that afternoon?

The camera! Just not the camera…my digital files! A year of photos and files are in that back rack bag. The water is not over the rear bags, yet, but if I press my front wheel down the water rushes against my bar bag that has my DSLR, passport, and cell phone.

I look downstream where the river crashes against stone cliffs and then turns left at a nearly 90 degree angle.

Turning my face to the sky and scream “HELP!!” like I’ve never screamed in my entire life. I suddenly realise that I am going to die…my life is going to end, right here, NOW. There is no way my body will survive that abrupt bend in the river. I imagine my body hanging onto the floating bike until it crashes against the stones. How long would I go down the river with my bike…imagining my greatest possessions in life being bashed against stones, thrown around the river, until my lifeless body gives up and nothing would be recognizable?

Long, loud, and wailing screams of help are being released into the canyon, echoing and bouncing around the mountaintops. Finally I see three men watching from the mining area I had been earlier.

“Please, help me, I’m going to die!!!! Help me, PLEASE!!!”

They stand there watching and I know there is no way I can hold this up even if they do come to help.

“PLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAASE!!! HELP ME!!!!!!” I had tried to bring up my Russian to clarify my meaning but I couldn’t grab the necessary words from the air spilling from my terrified body.

I begin to have images of my mother and father. There is a feeling rushing over me, almost like their presence is near. The images alternate between them; my childhood home and town. It’s more a feeling than imagery. I am going to die, this is the end. With another near death experience in my past because of a car wreck, I know this feeling and it’s growing stronger every moment.

My personal fears are overtaken with the realization my parents will NEVER see me again. They will never be able to say goodbye; not one last hug or kiss. The crashing water will dismantle my undernourished body and they will never see the physical presence of what they had created. I am not fearing my disappearance but the pain I will cause my dear mother and father. Losing my life WILL kill them. I must figure this out, not for my own livelihood but for the sake of those that made the sacrifice of their own lives for mine.

It’s guilt that overwhelms my consciousnesses during those last moments of life. I’ve been selfish. Leaving my friends years ago, ending a long love affair, and not being closer to my parents. Not being a better daughter, sister, friend, girlfriend…a better person.

This would be the ultimate act of selfishness, to let my life be taken away and leave those behind to suffer.

What’s the most important thing on my bike? I’m going to have to try and remove the bags and throw them up on the bank and hopefully lighten the pressure of nature beating against me.

The bar bag: it holds my passport, camera, cell phone, and money. How am I going to manage this balancing act and release the bag to toss onto the river bank? Am I even going to be able to get enough force behind the launch of these essential items? I’m no longer even thinking about the hard drive and year’s worth of files in the back bag. Thousands of photographic images of the persecuted Uyghur minority of Xinjiang, would now be lost and destroyed forever.

A split second after I release my hand to reach for the bar bag release, the bike is thrown on top of me and I’m pinned under the freezing water with the top tube against my collarbones.

All my gear is completely submerged and I visualize my photo gear and files being flooded by the brown silt-filled water. The current turns me counterclockwise and I’m facing my death, heading straight towards the bend in the river and the unforgiving stone wall.

My parents are now standing before me in a grayish and hazy cloud, arm in arm as I remember them from my childhood. This is the end, you will never see me again. It’s over. This is going to kill you both, so much more pain for you two and I will realize none of it.

I can’t…it just can’t happen this way.

Two meters down the river and somehow I’m pulling myself out on my back, with my eyes finally opening, I crawl onto the bank with my face to the sky and the bike still on top of me.

The plastic bin that holds my food, cooking supplies, and a book had been pushed out from a tight bungee cord and are now moving swiftly down the river.

Within a few more seconds the bike is clearly out of the water and I’m examining myself for serious wounds and seeing the water line on my shirt nearly hitting my shoulders.

There is no time to cry, no time to panic, not even a chance for recovery and to smack myself to see if I’m actually still ALIVE because the bags have been flooded and I have to get my gear out to dry.

Unloading the bags trembling, shaking, teeth chattering, absolutely exhausted. This shouldn’t be happening, but it has and it’s my fault. I should have known better, I’m an idiot. Beginning to cry, the first in years…not heavy and heaving because I’m too exhausted...but silently with big crocodile tears rolling down my sunburned cheeks.

Drying all the gear after being soaked in the muddy river.

A coal mining truck eventually comes to my rescue and takes me across the water explaining to me that they saw my friend earlier. They would leave me at the base of the pass that was a meter wide stone path. Pointing up, telling me that’s the direction I must go.

We unload and they leave, after plenty of “rexmet” and my right hand over my heart. The first friends, a meeting of souls, I would have for this second chance at living. Or, were they simply angels that had descended that mountain in a steel chariot on massive wheels to only escort me safely over Sytx to the “other side”? These days, dreams and reality intermingle too much for me to ever make sense of the dividing lines.

Dumping all my bags next to a pile of rusted mining equipment for the hot Tajikistan sun to dry, I let it out. The tears are running down my face, all over my shirt, losing my breath because of exhaustion of nearly drowning and now the emotional melt down.

There is no longer a fear of death, was there ever? Perhaps my fear has been more directed at living? What do I fear? Fear prevents movement, progress, growth...this is not me. Maybe I don’t define and experience fear as many do.

I’ve pushed the limits, and beyond, more than most will ever in an entire lifetime. My fear is of the torment I would cause others; I nearly lost my life only to cause others a life-long mental and emotional death. Near-death stories often tell how the hero sees fleeting images of his lover, his children, and his close friends and feels grief stricken that he will never see them again. This was not the case. I saw the only two people who gave me life out of love, lose one of the greatest things that they’ve created and nurtured in their lifetimes.

Sunset looking back into the Pamirs from the Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan border, “no man’s land”.

Momma and Pops raised me to believe that I must live life for myself, but I have learned that one of my responsibilities is to hold onto this life for those who love and need me.

This simple existence and lifetime isn’t for my benefit, but for those who my soul has intermingled with. I vow then to continue to travel within this life, full of passion and conviction, using my personal power and inner strength to overcome whatever obstacle may stand in my way.

Whether man, beast, machine, or my own inner demons...I must go on for there are those who are counting on me, and my many safe returns.

THIS ARTICLE WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED ON MAPTIA.

ELEANOR MOSEMAN

Photographer. Storyteller. Exploring spectacular lands and sharing the stories of the beautiful, and mystical, inhabitants of Asia. www.eleanormoseman.com

The Furnace of Broken Dreams

On the outskirts of Dhaka you will find hundreds of small brick factories.

The majority of these factories are considered illegal by the Bangladeshi government because the chimney stacks are too low and because they still use coal as their main fuel. Burning wood in kilns has also been illegal since 1989, but nearly two million tons of firewood are burned in ovens annually. The toxic fumes that these countless factory sites emit cause almost half of all the air pollution in the city.

Beside each factory are the makeshift villages or camps, where the workers live. Whole families are forced to labour for twelve hours a day, without rights and with a salary that barely allows them to survive.

The workers rise before dawn, heading up to the furnace in the half darkness. At 9 o’clock they are permitted to take a half hour break from their work. Most return quickly to their homes, wake up their youngest children who still are sleeping, and prepare breakfast for their families.

It is then back to work until 2 o’clock, when they may take another half hour break for lunch. Below you see Imran Uddin, 24 years old, a few minutes before a tropical storm hit the factory site where he was working with his brothers. None of the workers stopped during the storm.

Most of the workers in the furnace are families, including the elderly and also their children, who will begin to work alongside their parents when they are around six years old. The children’s pay is equal to that of adults, and is based on the amount of bricks transported daily. Younger children will spend the day wandering in the camps or around the furnace.

The work day only ends as darkness falls, when the workers will head to the nearest lake or river to wash the grime and dust from their faces and clothes. Returning to their homes, they prepare dinner and fall into an exhausted sleep. It is very rare for a home to have electricity. I was surprised to find that their days were marked only by the rhythm of work, no time even for prayer. They work six and a half days each week.

Most of the workers who we talked with were friendly, despite their fatigue and tiredness, and were glad to speak with someone. They also offered us their hospitality, as best they could, even though some of them told us that they felt ashamed of the conditions they lived in.

Sometimes we spoke with someone who was fearful. Some of the workers were afraid that if the boss knew they had talked to us, they might lose their job. In general, the workers were preoccupied with maintaining a relentless pace of bricks being loaded onto their heads or into the carts.

One of the young men we met, Shakir Kander, was 16 years old. Day in, day out, Shakir shovelled the dusty coal to fuel the hungry brick-baking furnace, from six o’clock in the morning until nightfall.

As with all the other workers, Shakir is allowed only half a day of rest each week. Also below you see a boatman crossing the Bouriganga river, which is considered among the top three most polluted rivers in the world. The many waterways surrounding Dhaka are essential for the transport of materials that are be used in the manufacture of bricks.

Above you see Shamina, thirteen years old, sleeping on the back of her bicycle — used for transporting bricks — during her short lunch break. During my time in Bangladesh, I visited perhaps thirty factories in two months, and met many individuals like Shamina. When embarking on this project, I believed that it was crucial to spend several days at each factory, so that I might more thoroughly capture their moments of everyday life outside of work. Sadly, factory after factory, it became apparent that the daily free time I had imagined for the workers, simply did not exist. Their schedule did not even permit them time to pray before sunrise, and days seemed to pass with an ineluctable cyclicality.

The sun beat down from above, the sweltering furnaces were burned constantly, and the air was always filled with dust and smoke.

I went away upset, with a bitter taste in my mouth. Away from these hellish workplaces, I gratefully breathed great gulps of fresh air, and yet the fate of the workers and their children would remain unchanged.

It was after reading author Kevin Bales’ powerful works on modern slavery and other similar studies, that I felt compelled to move to Bangladesh to tell this story. When I first arrived into Dhaka’s industrial area, and saw the forest of factory chimneys engulfed by thick black smoke, I knew that I had made the right decision. I had to document this. I had to share it with as many people as I could. And so I began.

In the end, what has stayed with me most about these factories, is our remarkable human capacity to somehow find the will to adapt and survive in adverse circumstances, whether environmental, social or economic. Living alongside the workers was, in its own way, a privilege, as I tried to understand and document the depth and truth of their lives.

THIS ARTICLE WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED ON MAPTIA.

RAFFAELE PETRALLA

Raffaele is a documentary photographer focusing on social, environmental, and anthropological issues.

My Life in North Korea vs. South Korea

One year ago, Jacob Laukaitis went on a strictly guided 7 day-tour in North Korea where they took away his passport and did not allow him to explore anything on his own. Laukaitis kept wondering what life was like in the neighboring South Korea, because it used to be the same country just over 60 years ago. To answer this question, this year he traveled to South Korea and made this video, where he compares his time in the North and his time in the South. He still have a lot of questions about the whole situation, but one thing was clear - the daily lives of the Korean people couldn't be any more different than they are right now.

INDIA: Timelapse in Mumbai and Bangalore

This short film is a timelapse throughout Mumbai and Bangalore. The film shows India's cultures in the cities and beaches. Through aerial shots and video on the ground, the video shows India to all viewers.

Gulf of Thailand

A travel to the islands of the Gulf of Thailand, discovering 3 contrasting places : Koh Samui, Koh Phangan and Koh Tao. Three islands with immaculate beaches, jungle, venerated temples, great aquatic life and of course the smile of Thai people.

Filmed & Edited by Gilles Havet

INDONESIA: The Kingdom of Bantar Gebang

“The world has enough for everyone’s need, but not enough for everyone’s greed.” — Mahatma Gandhi

On the Indonesian island of Java, twenty kilometres from the fast-growing capital city Jakarta, is a malodorous, contaminated world with towering hills of half-decomposed waste, that stretches as far as the eye can see. This monstrosity is Bantar Gebang, the largest uncovered landfill site in Southeast Asia. It is also home to over 3,000 families, many with young children, who make a living amongst the garbage, scavenging what they can.

Jakarta, home to over 10 million people, produces more than 7,000 square metres of garbage per day — a figure that is still growing — and every year hundreds of thousands of tons of trash are indiscriminately dumped here, in the nearby district of Bekasi, at the massive Bantar Gebang landfill.

For the few outsiders who come to experience this place first-hand, it is a shocking wake-up call for the consequences of our over-consumption of the planet’s resources and the desperate need for better waste management. In a society enamoured with all things disposable, we are constantly having to find somewhere to put our rubbish. As general rule, far out of our sight.
 

On the road towards Bantar Gebang, what hits you first is the smell. Even before you arrive at the site, an overpowering stench of decomposing organic matter steadily invades the atmosphere. Next, the buzzing clouds of flies appear, and finally, the first mountains of waste come distantly into view. Many workers who move here say that when they first arrive they cannot eat, and that the smell makes them vomit constantly for the first few weeks.
 

Working day in, day out at the landfill, handling the rotting, decomposing rubbish with little to no protection takes a serious toll on the basic health of all the inhabitants here.

Yet, Bantar Gebang has become the poorest people’s El Dorado, a lucrative and chaotic place of individual enterprise where hundreds of families come to salvage what can be resold or eaten. Alongside the stray cats, goats, and cockroaches, they wade knee-deep through decomposing vegetables, soiled clothes, broken furniture, and festering waste of every kind, loading their baskets with glass bottles, tins, and plastics. Business here is booming, and the scavengers, some of them children as young as five, make around 30,000 rupiah (£2.20) a day. For many, this is as good a wage as they will find.

Every day new trucks arrive with more than 8,000 tones of rubbish from Jakarta, depositing their load anywhere they can find space, while bulldozers giant mechanical arms shift and mould the ever-growing mountains of waste.
 

Many families are accompanied by their young children, who live in the most insanitary conditions imaginable, in this breeding ground for germs and disease. You often see them padding about, barefoot in the rubbish, looking for something which could be used as a toy. Some children slip and injure themselves, and when wounds become infected, there is no medical service available on-site to help them. Many also suffer from suffer skin infections, bronchial problems, and intestinal worms from working on the landfill.
 

Amir, whose home is amongst these mounds of rubbish, waits for his mum who is working behind him. His favourite toy? A digger.

Some of these children were born here, brought into the world amongst the towering mounds of rotting waste that dominate the horizon. Every day, while parents are retrieving what they can resell or eat, these young children wait patiently for the next meal they will share as a family. This meal is often consumed directly off the ground, amidst the flies, foul odours, and trash.
 

The Bantar Gebang landfill was built on rice paddy fields in the district of Bekasi in 1989, and for some here, this is all they have ever known. Many are unskilled workers who have been scavenging in streets and rubbish bins their whole lives. Others, who once made their living digging the earth, are the former rice farmers whose land has been swallowed up by the relentless tide of garbage. Today, they all make a living by digging the ever-expanding “mountains” of Bantar Gebang, searching for their own personal treasure.
 

In this filthy and chaotic universe, I begin to understand how one man’s trash becomes another man’s means of survival.

Here, everything old finds a new purpose. Abandoned sofas and tables are often huddled together in impromptu ‘cafes’ where workers will pause to share a cigarette or have a cold drink, while ... You will also hear the call of Bantar Gebang’s resident imams wafting out over the landscapes of trash, but despite a strong sense of community at the landfill, many workers say that they are stigmatised and avoided if they ever cross its boundaries.
 

Today, the landfill is home to an estimated 3,000 families, and as Jakarta’s waste keeps growing, so does its population. Almost all residents live in makeshift shelters built from tarpaulins and scraps of metal as protection against the sun and rain. Those who have been there longer have fashioned huts from pieces of scrap wood, cardboard, old rugs, plastic advertisements, and nails rummaged from the landfill. During the rainy season, flood water rises and seeps into these dwellings. The water that is used to fulfill their daily needs is drawn from groundwater infected by leakages and sewage.

During the days I spend documenting life at Bantar Gebang, I do my best to show humanity, to take an interest in those living here, to simply be myself, and to convey that I consider those living and working here my equals.

Yet the foul smell is inescapable, the heat suffocating, and whenever I move I sweat, though I make no effort. When you find yourself in conditions like these, in an environment rife with the evidence of inequality, the only thing you feel is an overwhelming sense of gratefulness to have been able to satisfy your basic needs and a burning desire to do something to help. With my foreigner’s gaze, I cannot help but compare my everyday life to that of the men, women and children whose photographs I take. Some of them simply have no point of comparison, and live in acceptance of their condition.
 

Nila, one of the children who is growing up at the Bantar Gebang landfill, bathes her little brother in their family’s shelter.

Following the day-to-day existence of the people who call Bantar Gebang their home was also a lesson in the incredible strength and resilience of the human spirit. In the midst of these challenging conditions, people of all ages proved to me that love and joy will always exist even in the worst of places.
 

Andi, only a few years old, plays amongst the mounds of rubbish as his mother sifts through to salvage what she can.Andi, only a few years old, plays amongst the mounds of rubbish as his mother sifts through to salvage what she can.

On this occasion, I had travelled to Bantar Gebang to learn how I could assist the remarkable Resa Boenard. Brought to the area by her parents when she was just ten months old, Resa grew up one of Bantar Gebang’s children, surrounded by these vast, decaying mountains. At first her parent’s home was among rice fields, today, fifty metres of trash tower outside her windows.

Unlike so many others who live and work here, Resa had the chance to attend secondary school and to complete her studies, experiencing life outside this place, despite frequent bullying by her classmates for living on a landfill. Later, unable to afford the fees to attend university or to pursue her dream of becoming a doctor, Resa felt compelled to move back to Bantar Gebang, deciding that she would dedicate her time to helping the people here.
 

“Just because we are born among rubbish, doesn’t mean we are rubbish. My commitment to the people and young people here, it is still big in my heart. I have to do it.”  — Resa, founder of BGBJ

Determined to give other children living on the landfill the same opportunity she had, Resa has re-named the landfill ‘The Kingdom of Bantar Gebang’ and started an organisation called BGBJ, which stands for ‘the seeds of Bantar Gebang’, along with her British friend and co-founder John Devlin. Resa believes that the children at the landfill are like seeds, and when nurtured and supported, they will be able to gain an education and to see that they can become something else. At first, with no funding or other support, Resa simply opened her home to the children living on the dumpsite, and began.

Today, with both a hostel and community hub on the landfill, BGBJ aims to develop a healthy and sustainable way out of poverty for the children and families who live and work here, through education and employment. Since 2014, volunteers and travellers have been helping Resa to expand her work and to turn her neighbourhood into what she calls, “the best dump ever”. 

Here you can watch a short video interview I made with Resa during my time there. The positive spirit in Reza’s home and at BGBJ is simply amazing.
 

Sita, one of the young children whose families call the landfill their home, searches for toys amongst the rubbish.

Last year, waste management in Jakarta underwent a major shake-up, with multiple blockades and protests preventing trucks from entering the landfill, after disputes erupted between the Jakarta administration and their Bekasi counterparts. Angry at the stench of the never-ending stream of passing garbage trucks hauling waste to the landfill, which were now violating working hours and using a prohibited road, the protesters nearly paralysed Jakarta’s waste management during early November. The disputes were finally resolved when the city’s acting governor visited Bantar Gebang and promised to double the compensation provided for households located near the landfill to Rp 600,000 (around USD $45) every three months.
 

Ina, one of the luckier Bantar Gebang children, whose family have a small home with some concrete walls.

Though officials have admitted that Jakarta may need at least ten years to start fully addressing its significant waste management issues, some things look set to change. Recent initiatives to trap methane produced by the landfill and build on-site recycling facilities have eased Bantar Gebang’s pollution, and in 2016 a landmark agreement was made with Finnish energy company Fortum to develop an intermediate treatment facility (ITF) in the capital. 

Despite expert concerns that the incinerator at this new ITF may emit hazardous substances if plastic waste is not properly removed, it is expected to process 2,000 to 2,200 tonnes of waste per day, and is intended to help reduce the city’s long-term dependency on the Bantar Gebang landfill. Three more bids are currently being conducted for further ITFs in the city.
 

For now, however, life remains the same for the families and children of the Kingdom of Bantar Gebang, where Resa is affectionately called the ‘queen’. 

Taking things one day, and one project, at a time, BGBJ is not waiting for the government to take action and has ambitious plans for improving the lives of the children and families living at Bantar Gebang, such as a new school, a workshop, a tool shed, improved sanitation, and a computer lab. For the past year, they have also been hosting backpackers and travellers, who come to offer English lessons and to go on jalan-jalan or walkabout around the dumpsite. Providing an amazing opportunity for eco-tourism and cultural exchange these events have been a wonderful success with the kids.
 

So far, BGBJ has been completely independent, funding improvements with their own personal savings, with money generated from the day trips and overnight stays, and with donations from individuals and groups.

Today, they are raising USD $5,000 in seed funds for a workshop that will enable BGBJ to establish a sustainable social enterprise, called ‘BGBJ Style’. With the goal of producing a range of merchandise and upcycled products from the landfill, they have already begun by developing and producing their own natural insect repellant, balms, and candles. Offering alternative employment to some of the parents of BGBJ kids, this enterprise will generate an income so that BGBJ can continue to pay for and improve its services.

Nila, who lives with her family in a homemade shelter at the Bantar Gebang landfill, peeps out from behind a makeshift curtain.

Mahatma Gandhi once said, “Be the change that you wish to see in the world.” and it is up to all of us to do our bit. For my part, I have been inspired to do everything I can to help support Resa’s work. I hope you will join me.

Resa Boenard, the inspiring founder of BGBJ, with some the kids growing up at Bantar Gebang landfill.

Please help me support this amazing local organization through their current GoFundMe campaign, where you will find more stories and details. More information can also be found about their work through the BGBJ website.
 

ALEXANDRE SATTLER

Alexandre Sattler is a photographer, traveler, and producer of audio documentaries on our planet's diverse cultures, our shared humanity, and the environment.

CHINA: The Human Cost of Electronics

This short documentary reveals the hazards of the electronics industry in China profiling workers poisoned by chemicals and their struggle for compensation. 

Thousands of young people in China enter export factories to make the West's favorite electronic gadgets, only to find they have contracted occupational diseases or worse, leukemia, by the age of 25.
 

INDIA: The Road Story

This short film is the story of a road trip in India. The filmmaker, Georgy Tarasov, traveled 14,000 miles across 15 states for a 3 month long adventure. 

Life on the Margins

During the northern summer of 2001 thousands of Chinese security personnel, backed by an army of labourers armed with sledgehammers, massed at the entry of the Larung Gar Tibetan Buddhist Institute. In this almost impossibly remote place, sitting high on the Tibetan Plateau, 9,000 monks and nuns had found a home, defying decades of China’s aggressive atheist policies to learn from its charismatic and avowedly apolitical founder, Khenpo Jigme Phuntsok.  

PRC authorities had long been skittish about the institute’s remarkable growth, and particularly alarmed by its growing appeal to ordinary Han Chinese. By 2001 over 1,000 Han also called Larung Gar home.
 

The Larung Gar Five Sciences Buddhist Institute.

Both Larung Gar and Yarchen Gar (gar translates as camp) have remained largely hidden from the outside world, as much because of their inaccessible geography as the tight controls on freedom of movement put in place by the Chinese government. Both sit at elevations of over 4,000 metres, sunk deep into hidden valleys of the Hengduan mountain range, which cuts across China’s south-western Sichuan province.
 

Yarchen Gar sits hard against the border of the TAR and is home to roughly 9,000 nuns. 
 

Both Yarchen and Larung Gar are part of what is known as the Garzê Semi Autonomous Prefecture, where 77 percent of the inhabitants — some 800,000 people — claim ethnic Tibetan heritage. As is the case in the similarly named Tibetan Autonomous Region (TAR), the people’s future has long been out of their own hands.

In theory, to move around Garzê as a foreigner, one only needs a Chinese tourist visa and bucket loads of time, patience and fortitude. This is in stark contrast to the neighbouring TAR, at the border of the lands known to the wider world as ‘Tibet’. Visitors to the TAR are required to first negotiate a complex and shifting permit process, before joining an organised and highly controlled tour of the region.
 

Nuns at a ceremony at Yarchen Gar in which almost the entire population of the camp leaves for a month of meditation in the surrounding hills. 

Yet Garzê and nearby Qinghai are also restive. Tibetans here have openly protested against Chinese control, most notably as part of a violent uprising in 2008. Referred to by the Chinese as the 3-14 riots, unrest had spread from the TAR into Sichuan. This unrest effectively slammed the door shut to the region’s hidden treasures until 2013. Today, despite relative calm, nuns and monks continue to take the extreme measure of self-immolation in towns and villages. Reports of random arrests and the disappearance of accused activists are common. Recently Garzê has been open, yet regulations can change overnight and information is scarce. 
 

The narrow, winding alleyways of Larung Gar.

During China’s breakneck boom the mountainous Garzê region represents ground zero in the great ‘go west’ campaign — viewed by the People’s Republic as integral to the rapid growth of the Chinese economy. 

The wealth of natural resources found here, as well as the nation-building railway into Tibet (completed in 2006) have been the catalyst for extraordinary development. In the regional town of Sertar, which sits astride the Larung Gar complex, the reality of the security situation quickly hits home. I was challenged in the main square and taken to police headquarters to sign in and face a barrage of questions.

Mercifully, one officer spoke English and took my story of being a history teacher at face value. This would be just one of my almost daily encounters with the local police force over the coming weeks.

The main street through Yarchen Gar

Monks debating at Larung Gar.

During the following days I was left free to explore the vast warren of huts, temples and study houses that surround the complex. One morning I witnessed a loud monks’ debate; where the men and boys almost come to blows over competing theological arguments.

The monks and nuns live their lives separated by the main road which slices Larung Gar camp down the middle. I found both groups to be generally welcoming and curious, and the tinderbox atmosphere and police presence of Sertar is replaced by the constant hum of worship, with the sound of prayer and Tibetan horns a constant.
 

Monks in study and debate at Larung Gar. 

Many Chinese tourists visit Larung too. The biggest draw for them turns out to be the opportunity to witness a traditional Tibetan ‘Sky Burial’. At 1pm every day, the Rogyapa (“body breaker”) arrives to dismember recent human remains, which are then fed to aggressive flocks of resident vultures on a hillside set back from the complex.

Macabre to some, this ancient ritual is both a practical way of disposing of human remains whilst also adhering to jhator, the principle of kindness to all living things, which includes feeding these huge carrion creatures. Few of traditional these sky burial locations remain operational, mainly due to religious marginalisation, urbanisation and the decimation of vulture populations.
 

The vultures who are fed during the traditional ‘Sky Burial’ on the hillside above Larung Gar. 

The institute at Larung Gar currently attracts followers of Tibetan Buddhism from all over China. Its regrowth after the 2001 evictions was swift; students began to illegally return and rebuild almost immediately. After Jigme’s death in 2004, countless followers made a pilgrimage to Larung Gar to pay homage to their spiritual master. Many stayed and contributed to the already rapid regrowth of the population. Today, Larung Gar is home to an estimated population of 50,000 people.
 

Gar camp from above, on rare clear day.

Yarchen Gar, founded in 1985 hard against the border of the TAR, has deplorable living conditions. Without even basic sanitation, every corner of the complex is permeated by a breathtakingly toxic smell.  Around 9,000 nuns live in ramshackle huts on an island, while the more solidly built monks’ quarters sit more favourably on the surrounding hills. Monsoon rains bring regular flooding; on my visit ankle-deep raw sewage flowed into the streets on more than one occasion. 

Rains in Yarchen Gar flood the streets with raw sewage.

No electricity runs to the island where the nuns live. Cholera and typhoid outbreaks are a daily threat. In winter, the temperatures plunge to a life-threatening minus 25 degrees. Yet this does not deter the nuns. Winter meditation sessions, referred to as the “direct crossing”, can last for days, with nothing more than a blanket to shield worshippers from the cold.
 

Sunrise at Yarchen

 The reward for this remarkable display of self-deprivation is the chance to learn first-hand from some of the most revered figures in Tibetan Buddhism. The current leader in residence is Asong Tulku. ‘Tulku’ is a title given to a person who has reached the highest level of spiritual enlightenment, and Asong is considered a living Buddha by his followers. To assist in his teaching at Yarchen, Asong is aided by senior nuns, called khenmos. Many nuns begin their life here at the age of just six.
 

Worshippers inside one of the temples at Yarchen Gar.

The bridge over to the island where the nun’s live.

Not only do the nuns dedicate themselves fully to their studies, they are also responsible for almost all physical labour at Yarchen, constructing houses, unloading trucks or building roads. The monks, who rarely participate in physical labour here, seem to have it easy in comparison.
 

Building a basic meditation hut on the hills overlooking the nun’s encampment.

The nuns carry out most of the hard physical labour at Yarchen. 
 

Despite the challenging living conditions, vast amounts of money are being funnelled into gigantic, ornate temples and monuments in the heart of the camp, while the surrounding slums continue to crumble.

Han Chinese money has poured into this region, with relatively wealthy converts to Tibetan Buddhism bringing much needed funds to the camps. These wealthy benefactors, hoping to improve their karma for the next business deal, or through a “cover all bases” spiritual mentality, have sparked a huge construction boom on the far western Chinese frontier.

A young nun exits an area reserved for eating and socialising in the centre of Yarchen. 

During my time in Yarchen I had several memorable brushes with the revered leader, Asong Tulku. As he piloted his gleaming white Lexus around the slum, our paths would meet on my early morning photo shoots. Watching people fall into the putrid mud at his feet wherever he walked, all rushing to pay tribute with cash and gifts, I found myself wondering if the money for the Lexus couldn’t be better spent elsewhere.
 

Asong Tulku is considered a living Buddha by his followers

The abrupt change from the monsoon season to the biting cold of winter was a fortuitous time to be visiting Yarchen. A ceremony in which almost the entire population of nuns empty from the confines of their island home for a month of meditation in the hills was due to take place. For days, preparations for this ritual, translating roughly to the “circle of life”, had provided a preview of what was to come.
 

Young monks taking a break from daily classes at Yarchen.

Basic supplies were taken by foot to a hidden nook outside the complex, the location of which was strictly off limits to outsiders. When the fortuitous day finally arrived, the sight of 9,000 nuns in their bright red robes streaming into the hills was a privilege to see.
 

The nuns of Yarchen Gar prepare to walk into the hills for a month of meditation.

At the entrance to the valley I reached a sign hammered into the ground, with a message written in bold letters, announcing that any man who followed the nuns on their trek would return blind. With this, I knew that my luck had held out for long enough; it was time to go.
 

Larung Gar camp by night. 

By rights Larung Gar and Yarchen Gar shouldn’t exist, and at different times the authorities have tried to sweep them away. Draconian restrictions on the freedom of movement and religious practices in the TAR itself means that nothing exists there to rival these two sites.

Quite possibly, the future leadership of Tibetan Buddhism rests not within the more recognisable white-washed walls of Lhasa’s hillside fortresses, or within the Dalai Lama’s inner circle, but within China itself.
 

Star trails arching over Yarchen Gar.

THIS ARTICLE WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED ON MAPTIA.

BROOK MITCHELL

Brook Mitchell is a photographer + writer with Getty & The Sydney Morning Herald.

VIDEO: Investing in Abuse in India

The Korea-based POSCO Corporation is pursuing a project in Odisha, India, that is resulting in the violation of human rights. If the project proceeds as planned, some 22,000 people risk being forcibly evicted from their lands and dispossessed from their means of livelihood. POSCO's investors have responsibilities to ensure that the company respects human rights, and to ensure that abuses to not take place in their name. 
 

Nomads of Mongolia

Life in Western Mongolia is an adventure. Training eagles to hunt, herding yaks, and racing camels are just a few of the daily activities of the nomadic Kazakh people. Filmmaker Brandon Li spent a few weeks living with them and experiencing one of the most unique cultures in the world. Saddle up and enjoy the ride.

I Was Called The N Word in The Philippines

It was only my second day in the Philippines and my Couchsurfing host invited me to watch a basketball game that he was playing in. Granted, the Philippines was a completely new country to me. I never thought that 2017 would bring me to Southeast Asia, but it has. In the Philippines, the heat makes you sweat relentlessly and you have to take numerous showers a day. Stray dogs and cats search for food in the streets, and trees are a beautiful invasion in the cities I’ve visited thus far. So much of it reminds me of my childhood visits to see family in Jamaica.

I head to the game around six pm and sit with my Couchsurfing host’s friend. It is only day two, but I’ve already become accustomed to one thing  here. People stare at me. A lot. I know it’s because I’m black and traveling. The questions are always the same when I meet a new person here.

Do you play basketball? Do you know Lebron James? Is your father tall, just like you? Do you have a girlfriend? 

Although traveling is about leaving your comfort zone, there is something to be said about how the identities that we are given in this world will affect us when abroad. I would never wish that I were white so that I could travel and feel more comfortable in this sense. I simply wish my representation in the media wasn’t controlled by people like who me and not white CEO’s.

The game starts and I notice little children gathering near me. They stare, whisper to one another and giggle before running away. After a few minutes, one little boy comes up to me and smiles.

“What’s your name?” he shouts.

I smile and tell him, “My name is Ryant. How old are you?”

He holds up seven fingers and then runs off. His friends greet him with an explosion of laughter. I am sure he will get the award for Bravest Boy in the Neighborhood later. Soon all of the kids are surrounding me, climbing onto my lap and asking questions. I’m invigorated by all of the energy, but I can’t help, but feel like a weird toy that one of them found and can’t wait to show off. More questions are fired off, an auction of how much information I can spit out. Then it happens.

“You’re a n----!”

My Couchsurfing host’s friend is sitting nearby and doesn’t bat any eyelash. On the outside, I nod awkwardly, but on the inside, I don’t quite know what to think. Since starting and graduating college, I’ve filled my mind with the words of many famous black freedom fighters. Angela Davis, a famous black activist born in Birmingham, Alabama in 1944 and who later faced an unfair trial for crimes she didn’t commit, wrote about the children she met while in Cuba:

Despite the language barrier, the children accepted us as members of the family. They helped me with my Spanish lessons each day. I was extremely embarrassed that I had not learned a little Spanish before the trip, for it is an affront to a people to visit them before having attempted to learn their language. Because I spoke Spanish so poorly, never having studied it, I felt less inhibited with the children. They were patient, corrected me and helped me find words when no dictionary was available. 

It was a sad day indeed when we had to pack up our things and board the bus, ready to move on to the next stage of our journey. All of us cried — men and women alike, in our delegation as well as on the Cuban side. The hardest part for me was saying good-bye to the children. A young boy of about nine or ten, who had always been the toughest one of his group, seemed reluctant to come up and say good-bye. I thought that it was his natural shyness. Just before I got into the bus, I went over to him and gave him a kiss on the cheek. He tore away from me and ran as fast as he could. But once in the bus, I saw him standing behind a tree, trying to conceal himself as his body shook with sobs. The tears that had been flooding my own eyes slid down my face. 

I think of her often when I can’t immediately find the words to respond to an ignorant comment from an acquaintance or when I need a push to live out my ideals for social justice. I’m looking at the faces of these cute Filipino kids and wondering how I can possibly unravel to them my life, my pain, and what it takes for a twenty two year old gay, Caribbean American boy to uproot his life and buy a one way ticket to Southeast Asia. 

I realize it’s impossible.

“You shouldn’t say that word,” I tell them. “In the United States, it’s very bad.”

Immediately the kids start to frown and look at each other in confusion.

“Why?” the first boy who ran up to me asks.

I tell them the basics. In the United States, black and brown people have been treated badly for a long time. That word was used by white people to make people that look like me feel bad.

“Oh… That word means gangster fighter in Tagalog.” the kid replies.

I laugh as the coach in the game blows the whistle on a foul. The serious part of me doesn’t want to laugh, but I can’t help it. One problem leads to another of a different shade I suppose. I can’t break down racial stereotypes to a group of elementary aged children just yet.

“Teach me some Tagalog.” I request.

They all giggle and teach me phrases. When the game is over, they pull me onto the court and beg me to shoot a basket. Inside I’m rolling my eyes and wishing this wasn’t happening this way, but my heart is still melting. They run around me, teach me how to dribble and all jump in excitement when I shoot a basket after a million tries.

On my walk home, they all ask to add me on Facebook and I am laughing more. I’ve accepted that these moments may be a reality wherever I go, but acceptance does not mean I won’t struggle towards a more loving way of life. Travel opens the eyelids, pumps blood into the heart and fills the body with moments of awe. I felt that awe as those kids stared at me with their curious eyes and interacted with me so openly. I knew that I could strive to do the same in return and attempt to shed light on confusing, yet present truths as well.

Yes, I was called the n-word in the Philippines, but I do not define myself by the rules that society sets for a black person, a traveler, or 22 year old who is just trying make sense of a messy world. Instead, I keep going forward with conviction, sure that I’ll speak up whenever is necessary along the way.

RYANT TAYLOR

Ryant Taylor is a writer and activist from Cleveland, Ohio. He has participated in protests in France, Ferguson, and Standing Rock. He is the creator of Decolonize The Mind, a travel blog, and is currently freelance writing in the Philippines.