One World Photography

Central India

2010-07-31T21:34:00.000-07:00

2010-05-07T11:25:00.000-07:00

Maoists round one

2010-05-05T10:37:00.000-07:00

In the shadow of Hydro-"power"

2010-04-11T00:34:00.000-07:00

2010-04-11T00:06:00.000-07:00

Village with a bridge

Village without a bridge

Oh my sold motorbike...

2010-04-05T22:39:00.000-07:00

Free Tibet...?

2010-04-04T09:17:00.000-07:00

Dharamasala

2010-04-04T08:59:00.001-07:00

Spiti Valley on the Indo-Tibetan border

2010-04-04T08:50:00.001-07:00

rough rosy REALLY wants a charged battery

"Old man river... that old man river..."

2010-02-18T06:37:00.000-08:00

When you make $1.08 (women) to $1.98 (men) per day, Are you free?

Rough Rosy

2010-02-18T06:27:00.000-08:00

2010-02-17T06:17:00.000-08:00

2010-02-13T21:18:00.000-08:00

2010-02-01T07:03:00.000-08:00

2010-02-01T06:43:00.000-08:00

Down by the riverside

2010-01-28T06:12:00.000-08:00

more to follow

Varanasi

2010-01-28T04:47:00.000-08:00

The world is beautiful...

2010-01-23T05:00:00.000-08:00

The World is Beautiful...

2010-01-19T00:02:00.000-08:00

but how can we see beauty when we have allowed ourselves to lose sight of righteousness?

I continue to experience shame as the crisis in Haiti unfolds. According to the NY times, dump trucks bring the bodies to mass graves. It appears we in the United States will never have an accurate way to measure our degree of failure toward our southern neighbor.

I feel guilt and shame because the living conditions in Haiti were close to hell long before her buildings crumbled. We as a nation could feel guilty for the way Haiti became one of the worst places on earth to be born, but even if we manage to convince ourselves that the United States is not responsible for plunging the nation into the depths of poverty, we still have much cause to be ashamed. We, Citizens of the richest country in the world,, have consistently closed our door to our neighbor, argueably one of the poorest countries in the world. we say that we cannot open our doors to everyone. maybe that is true. but what kind of neighbor closes its door on a neighbor who comes begging for a chance to survive when they have nothing? What kind of neighbor turns their back on a neighbor, not once, but for DECADES, until the squalor in which that neighbor lives is on fire? What kind of neighbor have we allowed ourselves to become?

When did we allow our policies to become void of morality? When did we as a nation lose our moral course? When did we as a nation decide that morality in politics means investigating affairs and placing warning labels on science textbooks, while we commit sin after sin by letting our neighbors starve? When did we decide that we could still be a moral country, even as we ignore the begging our those less fortunate. Sure, we send aid, but when our neighbor has knocked on our door, time and time again we have slammed it in their face. At passover, Jews leave our front door open for Elijah the Prophet who may come to earth in the form of a beggar. We are taught to leave our door open all year round, to heal and repair the world. How have we let ourselves close that door? Do we really believe that Elijah will only come during the passover holiday? It is for this reason that I feel shame today.

We have allowed our policies to be written without the moral convictions that I believe exist in all Americans, regardless of religion. Any moral teaching that I can think of, preaches generosity toward those less fortunate. I think that we have been distracted by talk of morality that has no bearing on policy.

One year ago, we elected a new president. Almost all careful analysis indicates the four the prior eight years, we had a leader who practiced a reckless foreign policy that let the world less secure and less prosperous. yet, during the 2008 election cycle, it was the domestic economy that factored in at a critical time to ensure an Obama win. Not President Bush's failure to lead environmentally, or the failure to secure Afghanistan, nor the terrible implementation of a flawed Iraqi policy, could guarantee a win. They certainly helped, but the economy really sealed the deal. We are better as a people than that.

What can we do to reclaim morality? I believe that to change the political climate, each and every one of us needs to begin discussing politics in order to clarify what we feel is right and wrong. People often ask, "but the problems are so huge, what can I do?" I think by forcing ourselves to become politically literate, we can change the political climate from one of self interest, to one of moral leadership. We are already a deeply moral people; now we need policies that reflect that morality.

We can begin by discussing politics all the time. At the bar, at work, at places of worship, on every listserv, in schools, and in every supermarket. We have been told to keep politics separate from the rest of our lives. Maybe that makes things safer and more comfortable socially, but it does not help to change the climate that has resulted in amoral politics in America.

Let's debate the mechanisms that result in our policies. Making our views known and debating moral issues surrounding our policies will help us demand better of ourselves and our leaders. We can ask our government make not just the efficient choices, but also the moral choices that will allow our policiesto reflect our generosity and compassion.

We need to take responsibility. We are a nation of smart, generous, moral people, who have let ourselves turn away from morality when our neighbors most needed our generosity. Let us walk forward and reclaim righteousness and morality in politics so it comes to mean policies of generosity and kindness, not bickering about things that are foolish and inconsequential to global policy.

I hope those who can donate time or money to haiti are doing so. I desire also that everyone begins to engage, at every available opportunity, with the issue of the world. we have been blessed with the wealth and power historically unparalleled. I plead with my fellow countryfolk to take control of the political climate so that we no loner feel the shame of having closed our door on our neighbors time and time again.

2010-01-13T09:32:00.000-08:00

Bikaner Camel Festival

2010-01-13T08:44:00.000-08:00

Tourism on the Pakistani border

2010-01-13T08:06:00.000-08:00

and more new years

2010-01-05T04:05:00.000-08:00

camel festival

oh how bottle rockets under power lines try my nearves

Chai for new years

New Years

2010-01-04T05:33:00.000-08:00

Jesus was a working man...

2009-12-24T00:11:00.000-08:00

(Man selling peanuts south of Jaipur)

(tractor drivers hauling sand for concrete at 1200 ruppees per load)

(trucks lined up outside of town)

Jesus was a working man,
A hero as you shall hear.
Born in the slums of Bethlehem
At the turning of the year,
Yes, the turning of the year.

Welcome to Amazing !ndia. Beautiful, frenetic, tragic, and tasty. This is my first time in Asia, so if i sound naive, it is because I am.

(Girl helping a blacksmith build a gate)

When Jesus was a little lad. 
The streets rang with his name, 
For he argued with the aldermen 
And he put them all to shame. 
Yes he put them all to shame.

So merry Christmas to Christians, happy holidays to everyone else. While little exists to remind one of the American holiday season, religion is everywhere one looks. Religion and poverty stand out like the colors that sprinkle the Rajastani desert.





(Jaipur and India is expanding)

(More expansion near the Airport)

He became a wandering journeyman 
And he wandered far and wide, 
And he saw how wealth and poverty 
Lived always side by side, 
Lived always side by side.

"Rising tides life all ships" keeps coming to mind. I'd like to know how? I'd like to know how India, with an "exploding middle class" and "record growth rates" and with "rapidly expanding infrastructure" will be able to "lift all the ships?" The promise of capitalism has to confront the cool reality of a massive population living in unspeakable conditions.




(Man outside his woodworking shop)

(A cow compound)

He said, "Come all you working men, 
You farmers and weavers, too. 
If you will only organize, 
This world belongs to you, 
Yes the world belongs to you

But blaming capitalism is easy. Capitalism is simply the current structure under which we live. Under ANY structure, choices about resources will have to be made, and those choices affect people who have no food and water. It is not PC to blame poor people for being poor. but what allows poverty beyond flaws in a global structure? I keep coming back to the fact that, despite the "growth" visible throughout the little of the country I have seen, India does NOT strike me as a country that can afford, say, a nuclear bomb.

It is not the poor per say that enable poverty. Rather, it is nations and those who buy into nationalist rhetoric, that enables a type of resource allocation that appears, from an outsiders prospective, nothing short of perverse.

(Men living outside of Jaipur)

(view of a dried riverbed from the hut above)

Let me emphasize that I AM an outsider... but when looking at the conflict between Muslims and Hindus on the subcontinent, it does appear as though it is a conflict that neither can afford. Each time you hear about religious riots, it is a manifestation of what enables an elite to build bombs instead of farms. Hatreds are costly. Here, the cost feels far too high.

Two thousand years have passed and gone
Many a hero too
But the dream of this poor carpenter
Remains in the hands of you
Remains in the hands of you

(song lyrics are from Ballad of the Carpenter by Ewan MacColl)

For Bridg and Pat

2009-12-23T23:53:00.000-08:00

Fortifications

2009-12-23T23:16:00.000-08:00

To my trusted friend and associate: May the strength of your convictions and the power of your intellect guide and protect you in your future undertakings, and may you emerge with the knowledge and understanding that you so actively seek.

please visit a new news site

2009-12-19T22:35:00.000-08:00

www.thepurpleandgray.com for more pictures from Mumbai. A monthly posting will also appear

Sold down the river

2009-12-18T07:03:00.000-08:00

verb (used with object)
1.
to go before or with to show the way; conduct or escort: to lead a group on a cross-country hike.
2.
to conduct by holding and guiding: to lead a horse by a rope.
3.
to influence or induce; cause: Subsequent events led him to reconsider his position.
4.
to guide in direction, course, action, opinion, etc.; bring: You can lead her around to your point of view if you are persistent. verb (used with object)
1.
to go before or with to show the way; conduct or escort: to lead a group on a cross-country hike.
2.
to conduct by holding and guiding: to lead a horse by a rope.
3.
to influence or induce; cause: Subsequent events led him to reconsider his position.
4.
to guide in direction, course, action, opinion, etc.; bring: You can lead her around to your point of view if you are persistent.

(dictionary.com)

2009-12-15T03:00:00.000-08:00

less noise. better city.

2009-12-12T06:45:00.000-08:00

I dislike flying for several reasons. Modern airplanes are cramped. airport security is inhumane, not secure, and mean. Airplanes cost too much money. First class really galls me, particularly the curtain between me and them -as if those in first class want a physical boundary to remind us of our (cramped) place in the world. And I am told that airplanes use too much fuel, although I will have to take that on faith from scientists who know about such things.

Flying really poses a challenge when it comes to acclimation. I find that changes between places occurs gradually. Sure, the construction of borders over the past several centuries of nation-state construction creates a rigid change, but these points appear more socioeconomic than anything else. No monumental shift appears when going south from California to Mexico. The giant expanses of barren desert are STILL giant expanse of barren desert regardless of which side of the Rio Grande one stands. Live oaks change to palm trees, which give way to more palm trees and then to jungle, but the changes are slow and easily absorbed.

Fast forward to the use of an airplane. 3 weeks ago I was safely in the Brazil, enjoying a warm climate, eating steaks from the grill and drinking fruit juice for good health. Then, I woke up one morning, drank several large beers, got on an airplane, and behold: New York JFK with the ugly entryway to America, a gateway where the floor to ceiling tapestries are nothing other than overblown adds for city bank and the subway rates had gone up by a quarter to boot. Two quick weeks in an inhumane climate that at one time I appear to have tolerated, and woosh, off on another steel bird, this time landing for five hours in Kuwait, thank god for decent food, and then 10 and a half timezones later (Dear Britain, when you were colonizing the world, HOW oh HOW did you install HALF a timezone?) landing in Mumbai with enough jet lag to be an insomniac for life.

But here's the rub. Flying lets everything feel different, new, "exotic," "strange," even as the world becomes more and more homogeneous daily. The "differences," if you could even call them that, seem so much more about economics and poverty and so much less about "identity" and "culture." Here is where I am supposed to insert a politically correct tribute to how "culture" and "identity" remain critical and important. I suppose they ARE important. But eating is MORE important. Fresh drinking water is MORE important. Identity does not matter if you do not live to see your fifth birthday. Flying across vast expanses of land ALLOWS the imagination to imagine communities not only for those we are visiting, essentializing, and turning into the "other," but in doing so allows us to further imagine ourselves as a unique and different culture, distinct from all others, with stark and important lines for borders and broad heritages that encompass so much but end at the end of the nation.

It's not that flying is evil, but it has me at least all thrown in a kilter. When I take pictures of the women on the street, am I taking a picture because I think it captures a special moment in light and time? Or am I enthralled with these images because three weeks ago I was taking pictures of jack fruit and beaches and now I am literally half a world away? I don't know the answers to these questions... I only know that we are not as different as we make ourselves appear. The shift from Germany to Austria to Hungary to Bulgaria to Turkey to Iraq to Iran to Pakistan to India is not huge when taken incrementally. And yet we erect lines in the sand for why?

Answers I have not. More questions will certainly follow. In the meantime, count on some rather scattered pictures until I acclimate to the flying climate. And who knows, off I go to have tea with the dreamy German and perhaps I can convince her to take an overland route back to the Continent... By bike?

The end of the subway edition #13 May 24th 2009 to Dec 5 2009

2009-12-05T18:18:00.000-08:00

WARNING: The following could easily be misconstrued as "bragging." In addition, there is little in the way of social commentary.

I left New York six months ago and crossed south as far as I could get in those months without an airplane. I am pleased to report that I made it as far as Aracaju in Brazil.

Taking three trips spread over ten years and using photography, firefighting, movie extra work, fishing, landscaping, ranching among other jobs, I have put myself the length of the Pan Americana Hwy from Fairbanks, Alaska to Ushuaia, Tierra Del Fuego. I have used roads rails and rivers, and have more miles on the back of my thumb than I care to recount. I do not strive to see the world in its entirety, nor do I seek to find a "unique," "exotic," or "authentic," version of the world. Rather, I am interested in what comes my way: the snowcapped mountains, the slums, the buses with cracked windshields, the nurmerous other travelers, the nurmerous residents, and the beauty that extends and permiates throughout the americas.

Through photographs, I have tried to show the similarities between worlds even when we may see surface appearances and attitudes -a cultural veneer if you will- that leaves an impression of difference over borders where few differences actually exist. I understand that this visual argument has not always been successful, but over all I am pleased with the outcome and I appreciate those who have taken the time to look through the pictures presented on my blog.

Road to Aracaju

2009-11-28T20:26:00.000-08:00

Fabiiiiiii

2009-11-28T18:31:00.000-08:00

Market day

2009-11-28T17:24:00.000-08:00

Aracaju for Quincy and Rae: The narrated tour

2009-11-16T06:49:00.001-08:00

So, as we enter jakes house, please notice the pleasent mural being painted on the wall!

and from another angle

and with me standing in front of the new painting. to the right is the garage door. to the left and out of the frame is the front door. where the camera is, there is a cotton plant, a banana tree, and several types of grasses including suger cane.

Inside the livingroom. Life is certainly tough on us in the Brazil!

jake jake and angel face meet again

telling time in the brazil: jakes class that the teaches twice a week at the learning center near his house.

can YOU tell time in the Brazil!?

Sunday morning class takes place next door to the icecream factory. the parrot and the student both live in said icecream factory.

A few tunes in the morning in the patio out back. when you walk through the living room, there is a hallway with jakes room, the kitchen, and then a back courtyard that the other bedrooms open onto. we just bought a grill!

Jake #1

Jake#2

(Pictures taken by myself and various visitors of Casa de Gringo)

Beauty

2009-11-11T15:42:00.000-08:00

A dear friend pointed out that my writings perhaps paint a more cynical picture of the world than the world deserves. The jury is still out for me on what exactly the world deserves, but certainly many things of beauty remain, even in the must cynical of times. Let me tell you a story.

When my mother read Mark Twain out loud to my older sister and I, I remember thinking how cool Huck Finn must have felt: rafting down the deep and muddy Mississippi, past the division of ante bellum America on quiet nights with a corn-cob pipe. When I was eight, my favorite musical was Big River and I learned all the songs. When I arrived at the river town in the Amazon Basin from where my first boat set sail, I felt like a kid in a candy store, eating up the images of poverty and progress mingling together in the carefully haphazard and colorfully painted port.

I left at sunset dreaming of Arkansas and the Amazon, which, is the last great river trip in the world, at least according to Adventure for Idiots. The ride begins on a narrow Amazon tributary in the town of Yurimaguas. Stars twinkling now and the chickens -hundreds on the back deck cluck and make a racket- and the hammocks rock and the sleep is the kind where lucid dreams creep up and become a floating reality night after night, and it is also the kind where rest becomes elusive. But the green of the jungle, the brown of the river, and miles and miles and miles of sky that seem to swallow it all making even the smallest wisp of wind feel unimaginable, creates such a peaceful scene that each day one feels better rested than the last.

During the first full day, banana boats and canoes came as our boat sat mid-stream. The green bananas piled up on the bottom front deck next to the ten cows and 25 kilo bags of red onions. After that, we ate bananas with every meal all the way to Iquitos. Arriving after a few days on the river, I spent one night full of pizza and beer in the largest city inaccessible by road in the world, the sun goes down on the promenade where traveler kids from Brazil play capoera and one of the best is a dreamy lady with dreadlocks and fiery blue eyes whom appears enchanted and able to fly in the streetlight fluorescent shadows that scatter and splash across the fading sun. Sleeping on cardboard beds stacked up in the back of a trading house, I wake up in the morning and wander around Iquitos enjoying scene of hectic chaos in the center of the middle of nowhere, and then I am Huck Finn again, taking a tuk tuk to the ferry docks at sunset, the cranes and donkey carts silhouetted against yet another fantast ic sundown.

When I pictured an epic river trip, I pictured the bugs, the hammocks, the books I would read, and the small clusters of isolated villages that rely on boat traffic for an artery to the rest of the world. I didn’t think of the sky. But the boat places you above the jungle, and so there were no moments of dark claustrophobia; rather, the sky captures endless imaginations like the sky of Arizona and Montana, or the sky of Long Island without the buildings, or the sky of Alaskan or Norwegian fjords, the sky of the Amazon sung lullabies from the jungle of Peru to Belem on the Brazilian Atlantic.

Riding first roads, then rails, now rivers on one book a day, because I did indeed make it across the better part of the continent on the blessed boats. I got out of my hammock my last day of the journey, and it was like being in an ocean, waves gently rocking our boat side to side, the vanishing point of the horizon almost visible, only a small stub of land obscuring the view of emptiness. A girl got on my boat in Santander who spoke no Spanish or English. Our boat turned into the channels outside of Belem, she and I sat on the roof and watched the jungle go by and shared music on our Ipods, and shared beer and chocolate also, and stayed on the roof long enough for the sun to go down a final time, the stars and the moon -one day off from full- to rise.

The physical world was, is, and will remain stunning. The continent of the Americas houses wonders! The Andean mountains, the Rocky mountains, the Atlantic, Pacific, and all the world in-between continues to offer moments of absolute serenity with the magic of light enchanting everything, even mountains of garbage, creating from ruins the most precious of moments. Bright yellow flowers that reclaim empty lots in the barrios outside of Santiago, ruined buildings at 15 thousand feet where Europeans robbed Bolivia of her silver and left her with not even a loom with which to spin straw into gold, painted corrugated metal walls in Honduras where children play on broken tractors, the vacant towns of the American west (they are really real), and desolate logging camps only visible from freight trains or from the tents themselves sprinkled across the remains of the Canadian wilderness. The world, even with its imperfections, remains truly one of sensual wonder. And with this point I cannot argue.

The Amazon river continues to shimmer with enchantment and tranquility, but for every moment where the beauty comes from the peaceful, there are other moments where the only beauty to be found exists in the ruins of humanity, in the smokestacks and shipyards, parks filled with mad boys and garbage, and long long roads that lead nowhere except deeper and deeper into the wastelands that humanity insists on creating. Perhaps the world is ever improving, and the systems of oppression that we have long allowed to run unchecked are beginning to be dismantled. Perhaps. But perhaps the political world still has no clear way to see the sky. Perhaps we still have so far to go, that many of the human realities of the world in fact continue to be as ugly as before, like a gutted house that only receives a new coat of paint, and that only once a decade.

We need new leadership. We need new direction. The world is beautiful, but that is not enough. We need a generation of leaders who absorb what is wonderful in the world and who then use action to paint a different picture of reality, one that ends the most horrid examples of human suffering, sculpts with tissue paper the walls that divide nations, and draws with invisible ink the areas of violence and starvation and so in the morning the ink fades away leaving enough food and water for the world. We need action. The world is ours to paint. Lets paint what is true, and then craft reality so that we can see enchantment in the haze.

welcome to brasil. . .

2009-11-06T12:26:00.000-08:00

Others...

2009-10-23T09:42:00.000-07:00

Leticia

(the chicken coup on the back of a boat)

Shade

Loading bananas

river boats

2009-10-21T14:57:00.000-07:00

On the Amazon

sleeping on a riverboat

My new friend

Creating eden

2009-10-06T16:08:00.000-07:00

2009-10-06T15:47:00.000-07:00

Looking for eden

2009-10-06T10:28:00.000-07:00

Rest in peace Homeboy,

2009-10-02T13:02:00.000-07:00

There is a sign over the office at the Arrowhead Hotshot work station, Swale work center, Sequoia Kings Canyon National Park. It says "20 out 20 back." Until Oct second 2004, I don't think I had ever noticed it.

Time has an interesting impact on memories. Some have faded while others stay with me, seemingly imprinted semi-permanently in my consciousness. But mostly, time makes things seem brighter. And while few ways exist to brighten loss, at least time has edited my memories so that now there remains a mix of painful and joyous remembrances surrounding the end of the fire season, 2004. Time has softened images, brightened stories, and healed pain. Images of carrying Danny out of the woods, of the blood, of his partners face when we got him on the backboard, still remain, but the have certainly diminished. I still picture Dan´s fire boots, cold and stiff, and his girls face when we drove her into our park and she saw the flags at half staff. But time has made it easier to mention these memories.

At 21 I thought I was basically immortal. Now the boots of my friend, crew mate, and fellow rookie lay before me as devastating evidence to the contrary. A prescribed burn took his life. a sugar pine to be exact. Standing at 115 feet, the top fell out and landed on the line where Dan was working, and where minutes before any number of us had been milling about. Being an arrowhead hotshot meant being and feeling superior. but looking at Dans boots and legs cold and stiff, I remember not feeling superior but small. we had carried him off the burn that morning. I can't imagine how we convinced ourselves he would be alright. The tree fell at 11:45 AM five years ago. he was gone by one.

thoughts about Grant West remains, but these days I can also remember quite clearly other images. When I think of that time five years ago, I picture his infectious laugh and constant smile. "Homeslice," "Bubbles," I remember Dan Holmes and his bad jokes, the time he threw up doing the donut challenge of eating 6 in three minutes while we waiting in a Redding parking lot on a POS nor-cal fire. The serious moments hiding out on a slow work day at Swale, talking about gear, girls and how best to save the world. Baseball games with beer and fighting, the rugged compassion of his realization that as a hotshot he would indeed have to cut down trees.

He wanted to change the world. I remember debating the best way to do that until the rest of the crew had long since retired to other parts of the station. He cut his hair for the summer on arrowhead, and assimilated like the rest of us. He wore a techo colored care-bear belt, a piece of which is framed in our mess hall. We shared books and were by far the most politically loud folks on the crew that year.

When he was nervous, Holmes talked a mile a minute. When Supt 6 had us bunch that afternoon five years ago, telling us that "Danny didn't make it" and when the echos of silence faded away, the absence of homeslice and his amiable chatter was deafening. At the time when we needed his smile the most, Danny had already departed this world. Supt swore and threw his canteen against the pavement with all his force, and even as it exploded the silence was deafening.

After Supt told us, we went up to the grant grove ambulance to say goodbye. His boots cold and stiff,, we only saw his boots thank goodness, the rest of him was hidden covered with a cloth. We used to take saunas together, Dan, Karp and I. the heat would be stifling, but made us feel refreshed and we would also drink healthy portions of wine for the ultimate dehydration. the cold boots reminded me of the hot saunas and when I walked away from the ambulance I couldn't breathe.

Who told fart jokes in front of women, talked on his cell phone during briefings, lost his tent to the wind of Washington state, listened to endless phish CDs and would always make you laugh when you needed a boost.

We oiled our boots to fly back each east. we said our prayers and tried not to drink. we joined his family in New England for his funeral. we watched as the leaves fell off the trees, a world away from our arid Sierras. Bagpipes, flags, and too much beer that tasted and felt like water, I remember turning 22 between a church and two bars. the Rochester firefighters bought us drinks by opening a tab at a biker bar and having a keg ready in the firehouse. I remember starting around four PM after we walked Dan's casket up the church stairways and back to the funeral home. I remember the funeral home, and lining out how we normally did at mealtimes, only this time to pay our respects to Dan's family, walking in single file. i still recall the conversations i had that night with my friends out west who tried to comfort me but they were too far way and our words fell on empty space and onto the three AM hotel room floor where we were turns sleeping. Back in California two weeks later at his hotshot memorial, I remember walking with arrowhead past hundreds of other hotshots who took their hats off as we passed. I forgot to wear sun glasses to hide my eyes and couldn't get my legs to stand up when it was time for members of the audience to speak.

Most weekends, if we were in station, Dan would clean his cabin and oil his boots. he would blast phish music and said the experience was theoretic. I lived in cabin from hell and we both agreed that similar therapy was well out of reach for me. "your cabin is too far gone dude" he told me. many of us rookies would get milkshakes from the Christan camp at Hume lake , then lose at ultimate Frisbee to Karp or Holmes. When it was time to buy things with pro deals, Dan guided me through the world of mountain gear. We made plans to meet in the off season, after we had had a break of each other and the world of fires, smoke, and sleeping in the dirt.

I don't know where Dans spirit went five years ago today. I know that we did all we could to save him, and that when we couldn't, we tried equally hard to remember and forget. We even drank the terrible combo that he called a cape codder, involving cranberry vodka, sugar, and something else dreadful. The night that he died, Supt drank with us in the ready room and we wondered around the pool table and the engine came down to join us as the night dragged on. The end of season bonfire came. Because our station was covered in late October snow, it took a long time for the 30 gallons of diesel fuel to ignite the pile of wood, only 15 feet high that year. we tossed Holmes' nomex on the pile after it got going, wrapped up in the flag the other hotshots had given us. Supt didn't call us out of service 5 years ago. he didn't need to. we were done with fires for the year after Grant West. 20 out, 19 back.

somewhere there is an old soul playing on the mountain tops of another world. Enjoy your mountains in the next world Danny boy, we'll take care of this one.

(photo taken by the Arrowhead Hotshots, Summer 2004)

Dan Holmes: January 16th 1978 - October 2nd 2004

http://www.danholmes.org/

http://www.arrowheadhotshots.org/

http://www.wffoundation.org/

Welcome to Panama...

2009-09-25T23:45:00.000-07:00

I rarely encounter anti-Semitism; however, when I have it has been unexpected. Perhaps it is my NY-metro upbringing. Yet I spent much time in the rural west never encountering hateful sentiments. The one time someone judged me based on my religion, I was in a bar in California, the self-proclaimed bastion of progressiveness. I was sitting at a table with several of my crewmates, having just returned of a rather long fire run in Oregon. A man sitting at our table directed an unsavory remark at me. I sat there not knowing exactly how to respond. However, it took my crew less time to react. Within seconds Horner my saw boss asked me what I wanted him to do. I said “we better leave” or something along those lines. He indicated that it was definitely NOT alright, and he and the rest of my crewmates hastily insisted that we move to a different section of the bar. The event has more importance for me in retrospect than it did at the time. Not only had all my crewmates present come to my immediate and decisive defense, but they did so regardless of geography. This was not a collection of Brooklyn Jews crying anti-Semitism. These were men and women from 10 different states, both urban and rural, with varying socio-economic and educational backgrounds. Yet they all knew that hatred in any form was wrong. Their defensiveness is not surprising. Rather, it is a testament to the depth of the tolerance that can be exhibited in America.

Fast forward almost exactly three years. I am in Panama City on a rooftop overlooking the skyline on one side, the ships out at sea waiting to pass through the canal on the other. This is not an international backwater. Hundreds of millions of tons of cargo pass through the Panama Canal each year bringing revenue and business to the country. My particular rooftop is in the old part of the city, which is experiencing a renaissance with renovations of colonial relics, new bars opening weekly, and even during an economic downturn a commercial district that appears to be thriving. I am standing there listening to several talented drummers and talking to the various people milling about.

There is a large man dancing in the middle of the rooftop. His stomach pours over his shorts and his tattoos glisten and pulse. Then he does a hail hitler salute. He repeats the performance several times. It could be a tasteless. Then several others on the roof begin referring to another man as “The Führer.” At this point my friends and I leave. Unfortunately, one gentleman from Luxemburg decides that this group of Panamanians are “cool.” Perhaps he hasn´t seen or heard what the rest of us notice. Now I am back at my hostel and with my friends from Europe and a bunch of local Panamanians, one of which they call “The Führer.” I politely ask the leader of the Panamanians about this. He cheerfully tells me that it is a joke, because the man they refer to is Germen. I tell him it is not a good joke. “You’re Jewish aren’t you?” I nod. He then tells me that that he could tell because I have a “Jew fro” and because I wear glasses. “All of you wear glasses,” he says. Then he says that all of the Jews in panama are “midgets because they are inbred.” I laughed it off, not wanting to make a scene, but woke up in the morning furious at myself for NOT making “a scène.” More disturbing than my own complacency, was that between the people from France, Germany, Luxemburg, and The Netherlands, not one took offense enough to speak up. I found the whole incident quite sobering.

Sometime later I am waiting for a cargo boat in an indigenous community of the Kuna people. The local community leader who has spent much of his life living in Panama City gives us a tour. When explaining to us the decisions that the Kuna Council makes, he brings up examples of tourism. He tells us of the problems that the Kuna people have had with Israeli travelers and explains that the council decided to allow them to only visit two islands. The problems he describes are real. Young Israelis traveling abroad have a terrible reputation. I attribute much of this to cultural differences between the Middle East, the Americas, and South Asia (the most visited regions by post-army Israeli young people). Whatever the cause, many times I have seen hostels that do not accept Israelis. It is true that some Israelis can be rude and this impression does real harm to Israel’s international reputation. That said, discrimination against a country makes me very uncomfortable. And my discomfort increases when it is a group that claims political autonomy, discriminating against people simply because they are Israeli. One of the responsibilities of autonomy is learning how to handle the international world. Particularly when, like the Kuna people, ones bread and butter consists of international tourism. Many Israelis might at times be rude. However, many many others are not at all rude, are wonderful people, and an autonomous group has no business sanctioning and encouraging prejudice.

I Climb off my cargo boat on an island two days into my trip. There is a Swastika painted on the town square. I compose myself and approach one of the Kuna people to inquire about the Swastika staring at me. He shrugs when I ask him if he knows the recent history of the symbol. A condescending lady from Spain intervenes and begins assuring me how innocent this symbol is. It predates the holocaust, she tells me, and therefore it is OK. I am totally unconvinced. A people that choose to discriminate against Jews, sports a symbol of death for those same people, in a country where after only one week, the Neo Nazi contingent can be found alive and well. Perhaps I am over reacting. Perhaps the world knows the Swastika as a symbol of the Kuna people and not as a symbol of hatred. But what will the Kuna people say when the Neo Nazis prevalent in Panama pay them a visit? Are they prepared to explain how wrong the Nazis were so as to ensure that their symbol does not reinforce the revolting views of the Neo Nazis? Are they that self important that they refuse to admit that the symbol as an international meaning with reach far beyond the San Blas islands? They make their money in an international tourist market. Is it not their business to be at least a BIT savvy to the world they exploit through their tourism?

As I waited to leave panama for the last and final time (I will not be going back any time soon and I strongly encourage others to carefully consider any trip they might plan), two teenagers walked past. They leered at my traveling partner and in accented English said “welcome to Panama… F$%K YOU.” That encapsulated how I felt their country had treated me. MY questions about the responsible use of the symbols and the nature of hatred around the world linger. I am thoroughly convinced that the Kuna people are utterly ill-equipped to handle the symbol they sport and the tourism they exploit. However, at the end of the day it is their string of sand bars. I hope they as a people and Panama as a country figure out a better way to deal with tourism and with symbols. In the meantime, until a better explanation comes along than “we used it first,” I am staying away from Panama and encouraging others to do likewise.

Thanks dave

2009-09-17T19:20:00.001-07:00

The bouncer at the bar that seemed to open up out of the side of a building just for us

My boat

Panama City at night

Ruins

The Darian Gap. The only gap in the Pan Americana.

The top of a neighboring boat

A less lucky boat (story to follow)

Can you tell I´m smug about the boat?

Cargo boat

(Commentary to follow)

Coming into a pier at sunset

The Panama Canal

Betty Crocker of Panama

Panama City

Waiting in Panama City for a Cargo Boat

Ruins

Coca Colas Diner, Panama City

Once upon a time in mexico revisited

2009-09-06T23:24:00.000-07:00

Our evening tunes

After dinner

Cooking dinner

Learning handstands

abandoned orange grove

cow pasture and cloud forest

Tequila and Roses...

Tacos with a fork

Pelenque

2009-09-06T23:14:00.000-07:00

For My Dad

2009-09-06T23:01:00.000-07:00

For Amanda

2009-09-06T22:59:00.000-07:00

For my mom!

2009-09-06T22:47:00.000-07:00

2009-09-06T22:42:00.000-07:00

For Ali's Mom

2009-09-04T07:50:00.001-07:00

Paradise

2009-08-26T12:43:00.000-07:00

Questions come to mind as I travel through countries perceived as paradise for people of the north, and hardship of the south. Amazing how the tropics become paradise for those with money, but development continues to be stunted in warmer climates. “Nice place to visit, but you wouldn’t want to live here…” Palm trees and bikinis, Israelis on $1000 dollars a year drinking cheap wine, dive shops sprinkling the sun bleached roads where mopeds race around until the towns come alive after dark with foreign dollars and beer and rum and boats and shiny shiny everything, all tells the story of paradise.

(the party in paradise)

(where people work behind the party)

Graphs showing climate and almost all indices of hardship tell a very different tale. As climates warm, for whatever multitude of reason, food scarcity for families increases. Infant mortality rises. Development of infrastructure decreases. Income per capita declines. Average age becomes younger and younger. This is the other side of paradise. Next to the snorkels and plastic shark shaped punch bowls are old men for whom there is no work. Young boys –lots of them– trapped by a poverty that oppresses inspiration and innovation.

What path do we wish to take as a geographically privileged nation? Sharing our privilege has a price. No one claims to want world poverty. Yet are we willing to open our borders? Are we willing to share the wealth that has been bestowed upon us? As a moral nation we may feel compelled to provide for the most needy, but how deep does that willingness descend? Will we simply continue to send aid and make no systemic changes? Or will we actually allow the worlds starving mothers and children to seek better opportunities in more egalitarian lands?

These questions are not easily answered. Real hardships would be placed on working Americans who would have to compete with immigrants accustomed to making pennies an hour. Even though the general economy would benefit if we shared our land of opportunity with those less fortunate, specific American populations would find it more difficult to obtain work. If we REALLY wanted to aid the world’s poor, we would have to not only allow the most under-privileged to enter our lands, but we would also have to ensure that we bore the costs equally as a society. If the burden fell most heavily on carpenters and farmers, we would have to make sure that those sectors had ample resources for job placement, startup loans, etc.

Aside from the economic hardships that would be placed on some segments of the American economy, actually addressing poverty means adapting to changing cultural norms as well. It is not easy to assimilate multiple identities into American life. Luckily, we as a society are well practiced at adapting and assimilating as new cultures find homes in our land. If we opened our borders to the worlds poor on a large scale, allowing an inflow of people currently making less than 2 dollars a day, we would have to be aware of the demands it would place on our culture. Ultimately we would benefit from an increase in diversity of languages and ideas, but initially, it would tax our cultural resources extensively.

The price of poverty can be obscured. Paradise remains paradise for those of us lucky enough to be able to afford it. Yet we can do far more to alleviate the suffering of the worlds poor than simply visiting with our tourist dollars and sending our aid dollars. We could enable real opportunity for those who wanted it. Are we ready to provide that kind of help?

Tourism

2009-08-25T14:03:00.000-07:00

In northern Guatemala the water from the Rio Cahabon flows under a land bridge, allowing a fraction of the water flows over the rocks, which then form stunning turquoise pools that glow in the sunlight that filters down through the surrounding mountainside forests.

(the river flowing under the land bridge. Some water goes over the top to form pools.)

Guatemala has preserved the site as a national park, and currently generates revenue from the 7 dollar entry fee assessed on foreigners –a fee myself and others gladly paid to swim in the pools and laze on the rocks above the roaring river. Elderly men with machetes and a long coil of rope doubled as both life and security guards. Other residents gained employment by leading tours through the park and adjacent caves. The nearby town generated income from hotels and restaurants catering to the flow of travelers coming to view the natural wonder of the area. Guatemala, the region, and the town, appear to generate considerable –badly needed– income through the tourism industry.

In the United States, we have not cultivated a tourist industry. Not for lack of beauty. I have traveled to all fifty states, well over 40 sovereign countries depending on how one counts sovereignty, and the beauty of the American west is rivaled by none. From a distance the vast plains disappear into majestic violet hued mountain peaks that tower above reality, carpeted in thick forests and laced with sparkling rivers running like veins connecting terrains. Up close, the lakes, animals, even the sage brush, creates a mosaic that has riveted the imagination of more than a few decades of writers far more imaginative than I. Not to say that other lands are not equal in beauty. Rather, it is the diversity of wonder, the sheer expanse of the American west, which transfixes the imagination and leaves the impression of endlessness in the mind of the beholder.

Nor do we lack a personable and friendly national culture. Countless times strangers have bent over backward to show me their region and town. Whether taking me to a local ice cream parlor with the best soft serve for 300 miles, or bringing me back for an evening at a mining camp, people whom I have met in America have gone out of their way to show me the unique and wonderful attributes endemic to their part of the world.

No, what we lack is not beauty or culture. What we do not have in America –particularly the American west– is appropriate infrastructure that encourages tourism. Specifically, we lack transport and appropriate accommodation options that would create a tourist destination out of the American west. For example, imagine if there were frequent buses connecting Yellowstone and Glacier National Parks. The main towns of Billings, Bozeman/Livingston, Butte, Missoula, Helena, and Kalispell/Whitefish would be linked by public transport running between the two parks. This would enable Americans and foreigners alike, to choose Montana as a tourist destination without the burden of needing to acquire a car. Accommodation would be linked to the transportation. A tourist could choose to stay in one of the cities, or they could transfer to local transport for a night in a national forest campground or spend a day or two exploring a logging or mining camp.

There are several economic benefits that stem from catering to tourism. Rafting, fishing, and hunting guides would see a dramatic climb in business. Towns that previously based their economic well being solely on timber or mining could diversify their economic base by providing accommodation that allowed visitors an up-close view of Montana life. Those struggling to find employment could gain employment as information specialists, guides, or work maintaining the natural wonders that are the bedrock of a solid tourist industry.

Tourism does not have to end with Montana. Ideally, other states would jump on board and create infrastructure as well. Yet, we have to start somewhere. Montana is the perfect state to lead a dramatic infrastructure expansion because it already conjures images of the historical west and the modern escape. Montana instills the peaceful image of unending sky, and the historical excitement of swinging saloon doors. Once other states see that infrastructure does in fact hold real economic benefits, they will begin promoting their states qualities as well. Far from being a place with limited international draw, the American west could easily become high on any enterprising travelers “must visit” list.

Guns here, Guns there, Guns EVERYWHERE!

2009-08-03T10:16:00.000-07:00

I am unabashedly pro-gun. Raised by first-wave baby-boomer east coast liberals, I spent the better portion of my childhood learning from my parents’ friends how guns were deadly and gun control was necessary. Then my father got a gun. It was a 22-caliber rifle that belonged to my great grandfather, which he had used for rodent control at his bungalow colony in White Lakes New York. I spent a few minutes being confused because until that point, I had thought that guns were bad. However, under careful supervision, my father taught me how to safely fire the rifle, and I decided that I enjoyed it thoroughly. My family did not eat meat at the time, so we set up target practice, and I recall very fondly shooting my great grandfather’s rifle with my father. It was certainly a highlight of my otherwise dull 13th year. To this day, I remain grateful that my parents managed to maintain an open mind in the face of what must have been massive peer pressure to demonize guns.

When I turned 15, I went to Montana to become a cowboy. Everyone always asks when I tell them I used to be a cowboy “oh, so you must know how to ride horses!” No. That remains one skill I never learned. However, I learned to drive in a 66 Dodge Pickup we called the “woodtick” with two bullet holes in the pasty green metal behind the drivers seat, and a 47 Willy’s Jeep that had breaks on a good day and whose windshield often fell off. And I learned how to shoot guns. Not just 22’s, but larger caliber rifles, 38 and 44 handguns, and sometimes the mechanic who lived on the ranch in exchange for labor, would take us up into the horse pasture and we would shoot single rounds from an SKS to a target on the opposite hillside.

During my first few summers and winters on the ranch, I would still fiercely argue for liberal gun control laws. However, as I began to read the material my friend’s parents provided, I realized that not all pro-gun advocates were the “gun-nuts” portrayed in my youth. I read about how gun legislation often can be discriminatory, placing undue burden on minorities and the poor. I read controversial examples where government entities used the pretext of gun law violations to arrest, detain, and harass individuals and groups. There still seems to be no compelling reason to allow the perpetrators of violent crimes to possess arms; however, much of the gun control advocacy rampant in the community of my youth seems silly in many parts of the country.

Abroad, others perceive citizens of the United States as gun nuts. I tried not to laugh last night as a Norwegian and a Mexican gently chided my country’s “obsession” with guns. The Mexican government struggles to rein in armed cartels. The New York Times recently reported that after a major arrest of a regional drug boss, armed men with AK 47s attacked both military and police outposts. In Guatemala (where I am currently), there are warnings not to take buses at night because armed bandits stop and rob buses. I plan to climb a volcano and am often told that it is foolhardy to attempt alone because armed individuals reportedly rob, steel, and rape visitors. Yet, sitting behind generous pints of mediocre beer, the elite backpacker class from around the world describes the United States as being full of “gun nuts” while they discuss safety of the surrounded hills from their guarded hostel lounges.

I do not love guns, but guns exist. Since they exist, it is important to know how to shoot them, and I do enjoy shooting them. I do not claim to know of a solution to Mexico’s armed regional conflicts (although ending the failed drug war would help). I also do not know what Guatemala can do about the armed bandits that cripple tourism (a reported murder has supposedly closed tours to one of the most popular Volcanoes outside of Antigua). However, with guns everywhere in Guatemala, I wonder what it would be like if they were more evenly distributed, and not just controlled by bodyguards and bandits. What if poor people were trained in the use of firearms? Surely bandits would think twice about attacking a group if more people were likely to be well trained in defense. This would not only enable tourism, but also create jobs in a country where there is a dearth of employment. Yet, I come from a country of “gun nuts.” What do I know?

The world still is poor

2009-07-31T17:32:00.000-07:00

Many advocate development as a way to raise the standard of living of the worlds poor. Growth –primarily in regions chronically underdeveloped– promises to bring better standards of living to those suffering the worst. Through development, it is thought that national economies can move away from agricultural production and toward a more industrial, more prosperous lifestyle.

Others advocate preserving the world’s resources, curbing growth so that we have a planet to live in ten, even 100 years from now. They point to rising sea levels, receding groundwater, diminishing topsoil, etc, as evidence enough that if we are to help people climb out of poverty, we have to first stop the environmental calamity that occurs in the wake of economic prosperity.

Humanity seems to get lost somewhere between preservation and development. The grotesque reality of subsisting on between one and two dollars a day (roughly one sixth the world population) becomes hidden behind promises of expanding economies, green western impulses, and more glamorous headlines that depict only the violent casualties of our global order. Somewhere in every conversation on poverty, Malthusian theories will be touted as clearly false and the potential of technology to help the world will be extolled.

The west needs to channel real resources to the impoverished regions of the world. Preservation and development (not always existing on poles but usually in contradictory spheres) loses the images of what poverty subsistence looks like. It looks like unsuitable drinking water (travelers usually spend at LEAST one dollar on water per day). Going to bed hungry is something that many likely have done once or twice, but imagine hunger as a sustained state. Violence exists where there is poverty. We know all this, yet in the west we continue to prattle on about technology and Malthus and refuse to change our laws surrounding consumption. Until the west mandates a reduction in its own consumption and can then channel those resources elsewhere, the poor will remain poor.

How do you photograph Poverty? I don’t think I know how.

Church and Chiapas

2009-07-26T21:53:00.000-07:00

Shopping

2009-07-26T16:26:00.001-07:00

New Market

Town Bypass

The police

Seth With a Stash

2009-07-26T16:16:00.000-07:00

Oaxaca

2009-07-22T22:23:00.000-07:00

The Fiesta

Hammocks and dreamy eyes who told me I was "cynical"

Oaxaca

Desert California to Flagstaff on the back of a thumb (all the pictures of roadside onramps that I never took and more)

2009-07-22T11:26:00.000-07:00

Riverside California

Yucca Valley

Joshua Tree

My ticket out of Kingman

America

Kingman

Closed for business

Paint me a picture, Tell me a story

2009-07-22T11:17:00.000-07:00

San Jose bus depot on the way to Santa Cruz, that town that seems to run through life every now and again, this time for a ride out of the bay, last time with firefighters and the boardwalk, the time before that with Summers End folks and the Ghetto Express.

Drunkards and Turtle people

2009-07-18T10:16:00.001-07:00

Moonlight on the beach

Ghosts

Brothers

San Pancho at night

Dune buggy headlights

Turtle people appeared the first night in San Pancho. The women, 45 plus, helped my brother and I find a Palapa (a palm roof) under which we could sleep, since I had failed to record my buddy`s address. I woke up in the morning and promptly found my boy Nate, and proceeded to run into the Turtle people throughout the day. The 45 plus ladies were the most helpful. We thanked them for thier kindly guidance the night before, and they told us to come by any time and find out about the Turtle work that occurs in San Pancho.

There was a younger, college set of turtle people, who appeared friendly enough. Seth invited them over for dinner one night by mistake, and we ended up leaving them a note cancelling because we took the day to wonder north to another beach.

Finally, an older Turtle gentlemen lived in San Pancho. He drove a loud, smelly dune buggy and did not like a bunch of boys asking questions about turtles. When Nate and I stumbled on a turtle patting down a nest and then trundling back into the ocean, we became fascinated. We asked the the turtle gentlemen to explain to us what we had seen, and he became nervous, flustered, and otherwise obnoxious. From then on, the attitudes of the turtle people deteriorated. Apparently they were there to ¨protect¨the turtles from the evil ¨poachers." They would go out with their loud dune buggy, many times in a night, and when they saw a turtle, they would collect the eggs and take them to a ¨safe¨place, far away from the evil ¨poachers.¨

I have a political comment. A problem exists when people from the political north, travel to the political south in order to ¨protect¨resources belonging to other nations. Perhaps the Mexican government supports this sort of environmental intervention. Perhaps not. However, it would be impossible to find out because the Turtle people project the type of anti social facade that gives environmentalists in general, and those from the political north specifically, a bad name. Who are the ¨poachers¨? How long have they been harvesting turtle eggs? How has the government of Mexico helped to retrain people whose livelihood comes from harvesting eggs? How have turtle protection organizations -both Mexican and US based- contributed to furthering the livelihood of those who rely on eggs for income.

Above all else, protection of the environment costs money. Perhaps the Turtle people and their organizations have provided the necessary money needed to protect the resource. However, a dangerous possibility remains, that the Turtle people come to Mexico for the summer, driving loud and annoying dune buggies on the beach all night, without ever making an effort to compensate those whose livelihoods have been disrupted. In my eyes, the difference between preservation and eco-imperialism, is money. Money spent not just on protection, but on those who are displaced as a result of preservation. We would never dream of closing resource extraction programs in the United States, without at least claiming to attempt to compensate those who lose their jobs as a result. Why should efforts in developing countries be any different?

Now, the more serious question: who is more annoying, eco-imperialists in their dune buggies, or drunk gringos on the beach?

2009-07-12T16:36:00.000-07:00

We escaped the oppressive humidity for the mountains and stayed the weekend.

San Sebastian, in the foothills of the Sierra Madre, seems to slip away into clouds at sunset. All around the small cobbled town, abandoned mango and orange orchards litter the ground with perfumed fruit while the trickle of water dances down the bark of pine trees nestled in the fog.

We hiked to the top of La Bufa, an old mining road that took us higher into the clouds. At the top, you could see the clouds interact with the wind and the mountain as it would roll in and roll out ten feed away from where we stood.

San Pancho

2009-07-08T10:25:00.001-07:00

We arrived at Midnight having ridden 30 hours on buses from Nogales on the Arizona-Mexico border. My brother Loren and I ate mangos and hot peppers as our bus rolled south into expanses of desert and then finally into the jungles of the central coast. When we arrived in town, I had failed to get Nate´s address so we slept under a Palapa on the beach. When I woke up for a 6AM swim, there was Nate´s pretty mug about to go for a morning jog.

Nothing eventful has happened since arriving here. The bugs are real, and the dearth of homework continues to be amazing. Perhaps the most eventful things have resulted from being around old friends again. When, in a beer filled evening, Seth slipped hot peppers into my carefully prepared curry, I took his power cord and hid it. Unfortunately, I could not remember WHERE I had hidden in the morning. In my post-college, post-firefighter life I am less accepting of hot peppers in my food.

Another event worth noting. Last night Nate and I went walking on the beach. While talking about politics we encountered a turtle in the sand. Not knowing much about turtles, we watched what looked like the process of laying an egg, and then the turtle lumbered back into the sea.

Rain In Flagstaff

2009-07-02T23:59:00.001-07:00

Egypt in Arcata

2009-07-02T23:06:00.000-07:00

Roma Soliman

Tuba City

2009-07-02T02:59:00.001-07:00

Is nationalism empowering?

Dreamy Desert Dames and Dudes

2009-07-01T08:20:00.000-07:00

Jason Boyd

California Kate

Martha

Flagstaff could not have been more enjoyable. My friends work as Nurses, Waitresses or Legal Interns for the Navajo Nation. To escape the desert heat we sat around the back porch (above) drinking beer and watering tomato plants that looked disheveled yet resilient in the 90-degree weather. Then, as evening approached, we cooked Stuffed Peppers and Greek Salad and solved the problems of the world with cheap champagne to the tune of the barking dogs that howled at the drunks as they stumbled home through the alleyways.

Flagstaff presents itself as a young, outdoorsy town. The last time I passed through, I was on my first run with my fire crew. This time, the long, hot afternoons drifted by dreamily as I found myself eating grapes by the side of a lake or drinking coffee downtown. Everywhere there were young rock climbers, river rats, and an over abundance of hippies whose culture I cannot abide but also from whose culture I cannot seem to separate myself.

Freight trains pass through town, dozens per day, never slowing down enough to see three bolts on the wheels, but always blowing their whistles as they move through downtown. Freight train. Freight train. Freight train. Every ten minutes until my friends grow tired of the assertion. As we talked of the world we want to create when we “grew up,” freight trains filled with desert colored tanks and armored trucks moves past, 120 flatcars in all. One river rat or rock climber, I couldn’t tell which, said that “the last time those trains passed through town, we saw ‘shock and awe’ days later. Watch out north Korea.” I hope the world lasts long enough for young people today to save it for tomorrow.

This is what, demo.... Losing at darts looks like

2009-06-30T13:59:00.000-07:00

Educations

2009-06-29T22:17:00.001-07:00

"Would you send your child to school?"
"Would you NOT send your child to school?"
Many twenty-somethings who have begun to learn how to navigate the world of adulthood have begun to ask questions regarding their future adaptations to an imperfect world. Young poeple raised with alternative-education ideas now must begin to address the kind of choices they would make if and when parenthood becomes relevant. One household in San Francisco populated by delightful young poeple of all educational backgrounds and many bottles of wine, discuss the pros and cons of alternative education in a friendly, yet energetic, tone. Many are committed to following in the footsteps of their parents and taking an alternative route when fostering learning among offspring. Others lean more toward a conventional approach to the problem of school. No one in the conversation expressed any plans to have children any time soon.

Oakland Round II

2009-06-29T22:06:00.000-07:00

Molly 'n Dolly

UrbanOr

In a world full of toys, who has time for junk? UrbanOr in Oakland California appears to be a modern day junk shop, complete with mannequin pieces hanging in the windows and old telephone switchboards mixed in with CD's. One could easily furnish a home with the tired items located both inside and outside the giant warehouse that serves as UrbanOr's storefront. drawers housing door knobs and radio transisters gathered dust as California's version of the "Hipster" clustered around buckets and buckets full of bad 80's cassette tapes. Outside there were enough old windows to build the world's largest recycled glass greenhouse.

Northern Calilfornia

2009-06-25T01:37:00.000-07:00

Make Hay

Ten Years Crossing I 80

2009-06-22T02:17:00.000-07:00

Transport

Salt

I finally passed the Salt Flats at sunrise after ten years of driving east and west across the Great Basin. The Wasatch Range, silhouetted behind Salt Lake City Sunday morning construction, appeared to glow as the sun illuminated first the far mountains toward Nevada and then the closer hills and finally the freight cars that look like ribbons in the distance.

Beach Party -Shelter Island New York

2009-06-22T00:41:00.000-07:00

Spotlight

Selina Hunt

Someone called the fire department because they saw flames on the beach and became worried. The majority of the Shelter Island Fire Department were in attendance and so when the fire call came in everyone cheered and threw more fuel on the fire and when the Chief arrived at the scene he asked for a drink of white wine.

Family Reunion

2009-06-22T00:05:00.000-07:00

Walking

Nephew as he decides if he likes me or not. My sister and brother-in-law took their almost-two-year-old AND their five-year-old on a bike trip along the Erie Canal. They are both brave, brave souls.

Saturday Morning Churchbells

2009-06-20T12:03:00.001-07:00

Waking up in Oakland to the sound of the church at noon after longboarding all night around lakes and willow trees and 7 Eleven quickstop stores until we found a grassy park in which to sit and contemplate things

I still remember how?

2009-06-20T04:03:00.000-07:00

2009-06-19T18:50:00.001-07:00

I now have a blog.

One World Photography

Central India

Maoists round one

In the shadow of Hydro-"power"

Oh my sold motorbike...

Free Tibet...?

Dharamasala

Spiti Valley on the Indo-Tibetan border

More photos and an article

"Old man river... that old man river..."

Rough Rosy

Down by the riverside

Varanasi

The world is beautiful...

The World is Beautiful...

Bikaner Camel Festival

Tourism on the Pakistani border

and more new years

New Years

Jesus was a working man...

For Bridg and Pat

Fortifications

please visit a new news site

Sold down the river

less noise. better city.

The end of the subway edition #13 May 24th 2009 to Dec 5 2009

Road to Aracaju

Fabiiiiiii

Market day

Aracaju for Quincy and Rae: The narrated tour

Beauty

welcome to brasil. . .

Others...

river boats

Creating eden

Looking for eden

Rest in peace Homeboy,

Welcome to Panama...

Thanks dave

Once upon a time in mexico revisited

Pelenque

For My Dad

For Amanda

For my mom!

For Ali's Mom

Paradise

Tourism

Guns here, Guns there, Guns EVERYWHERE!

The world still is poor

Church and Chiapas

Shopping

Seth With a Stash

Oaxaca

Desert California to Flagstaff on the back of a thumb (all the pictures of roadside onramps that I never took and more)

Paint me a picture, Tell me a story

Drunkards and Turtle people

San Pancho

Rain In Flagstaff

Egypt in Arcata

Tuba City

Dreamy Desert Dames and Dudes

This is what, demo.... Losing at darts looks like

Educations

Oakland Round II

Northern Calilfornia

Ten Years Crossing I 80

Beach Party -Shelter Island New York

Family Reunion

Saturday Morning Churchbells

I still remember how?