Photos by author

WE WERE ALONE, my partner and I. For the second summer in a row, we were the lone campers in a beautiful, free campground in the Slocan Valley. It sits atop smooth gray rock — perfect platforms for jumping into the clear, green-blue cold lake on a hot day. Granted, it’s early in the season (and last year we were there late in the season), but still, it was 28°C / 82°F during the day. Where was everyone?

Not that we cared. We had free run of the place — our choice of any of the 10 neatly maintained sites, our choice to lay down a blanket on any part of the small beach or rocky perches, uninterrupted access to some of the nicest outhouses I’ve ever used (designer wooden seats, lots of TP, air freshener). We were even free to bask in the buff for a good chunk of time (a kayaker did come round the bend at one point, but promptly did a 180 after seeing a pair of bare bums).

Click to enlarge

And the thing is, this place isn’t really a secret. Most people who live in this area of the Kootenays in BC know about it. Lots of travelers / road-trippers pass by it all the time, but the turn off is unsigned (someone must have removed it at some point because one website with instructions to it indicated to turn at the sign). If you didn’t know, you wouldn’t go.

Sure, I could tell you that from the town of _________, head south for ___ kms, then turn right to head down to the parking lot where the trailhead to the walk-in only campsites is. But then I’d be ruining it for the people that live here.

I’d be ruining it for nature, enlarging our footprint (pardon the pun) on the environment, maybe increasing the risk of forest fires and water pollution. No one needs that, right? Besides, as a traveler, if you were to engage with “the locals” and learn about such a place, then find it on your own (or, even better, with said locals) wouldn’t that be much more satisfying?

In my life I’ve learned that to really help people, you should empower them and support them to find answers for themselves. When you provide the answers, even though it may seem helpful, it actually does a disservice to them because they don’t learn to deal with the problem themselves. Think of your mom (or dad) doing your laundry for you growing up. Great, right? Not when you go off on your own and have no idea how to use a washer and dryer.

So think of this — my not telling you where this place of amazing beauty and serenity is — as my gift to you. No need to thank me, the thought of your exuberant smiles when you discover this on your own is enough for me.

Oops, I shot it again...the classic view from Grand Canyon South Rim, looking toward Bright Angel Creek and the North Rim. Photo by author.

I TOOK THE SHOT, enjoyed the scenery for a few moments more, and then realized I have once again just taken a picture that I have taken a thousand times before.

I was on the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, enjoying the evening like so many times before, walking with friends. I’d just taken a photo that will look like others in my collection, and all that will be missing is the explanation of what inspired me to do it this time.

And that’s the point: it’s not like I’ve taken this picture for the same reason every time. It’s something new, something different, that triggers the response. A different drainage, ledge, mesa, lighting, cloud cover, or season.

I realize that most people can’t say they’ve taken thousands of shots of the Grand Canyon, but I lived here for years and return on occasion for business or pleasure. (The same is also true of Yosemite and Zion.)

However, I know I’m not alone, and I’m not talking about people and the Grand Canyon. I’m talking about people who, wherever they may go, or wherever they may live, leave themselves open to being pulled in by beauty every day. Sure, the places I’ve lived make it easy to generalize about being drawn in, but I’ve lived in places as simple as the high plains and my favorite places there drew me in, in the same way. And I have many more prairie pictures for which I have no clue as to why I took them.

Ironically, none of those “thousand shot” locations have given me a favorite photo. In the Grand Canyon my favorites are of Nankoweap and other places along the Colorado River, and the reaches of Havasu Creek. In Zion, they are of slickrock, side-canyons and expansive panoramas.

At Yosemite, they are not of Yosemite Valley or Yosemite Falls, but of dogwoods in bloom, and mountain lakes I’ve seen only a time or two. The rareness is undoubtedly the reason they’re my favorites. The occasions were special, the scene not necessarily grand. They are rare and the image represents a clearer, specific memory.

I do have favorite pictures from places I’ve shot often. The cloud-filled Grand Canyon during an inversion. Bridalveil Falls in Yosemite in early morning light. Rare occasions. That Yosemite photo I shot on the morning I left to start my next adventure. I lectured myself to keep moving — I had many miles to go — but I stopped. I took a few minutes to enjoy the moment and get the shot. Blue light was settled over the rock, the falls, and the river. The picture is different, and it’s on my wall, reminding me of leaving Yosemite.

But why do I reach for the camera in locations I’ve seen so many times before? I can’t say with absolute confidence, but I don’t think it’s too complicated, or too unique. Is it thinking that this could be the best one ever? No, I think it’s mostly reaction, and appreciating and preserving a moment.

And these days, moments are cheaper with a digital camera.

[Note: Matador editors selected this Community blog post for publication at the Network.]

Photo: Misha Maslennikov

TANYA REACHES HER ROUND HAND INTO THE REFRIGERATOR and snatches Krasik from his hiding place. The 3-year-old hands her small friend to her mother, who quickly pretends along that Krasik (or Red, Tanya’s imaginary friend) has escaped her hold and run away. Tanya squeals and goes off in search of Krasik, who she cannot see for more than one reason.

Tanya has been blind from birth, although the pink-rimmed, thick glasses attached to her head with a yellow cord help her to distinguish some colors. Having lost Krasik, she returns to the fridge, bounces up and down on her toes, and fingers magnetic alphabet letters: a standard colorful set, except these letters have their Braille counterparts etched on them. The letters are the Latin alphabet, because Russia has yet to develop equivalent Cyrillic (and widely available) toys and tools to assist the blind.

Russia is not a comfortable country for the disabled; from my perspective, it can seem downright unfriendly. Visitors might first comment on the surprising lack of handicapped citizens. At second glance, they will notice the total lack of accessibility for the disabled. The only ramp from the curb to the roadside is the slippery packed snow that has formed an impromptu incline.

Here in Syktyvkar, the capital of the Komi Republic situated northwest of the Ural Mountains, there are very rarely elevators in apartment buildings, department stores, schools, or government buildings. There are stairs only leading up to grocery stores, train stations, pharmacies, and university buildings. I have yet to see Braille markers on any public building. The situation in Syktyvkar is not singular to this region, and makes living a non-introverted, non-stationary life impossible for Russians with any severe disability.

I am an able-bodied, full-sighted 20-something young woman who has yet to suffer even broken a bone. Currently, I teach English at Syktyvkar State University — an opportunity provided by the Fulbright Program and funded through the State Department — and every day here I am reminded how lucky I am to be healthy. Attempting to navigate the icy, potholed sidewalks have left me flat on my back more than a few times.

Climbing the steep, uneven four flights of stairs to my classroom is a conscious exertion. Waiting for the little red man to turn green is not a reliable indication of when to cross the street here; I am often reminded that pedestrians don’t have the right-of-way. But these situations are not only manageable for me, they are what make my life in Russia an adventure. For disabled Russians, these obstacles make daily, independent life close to impossible.

Education for the disabled is also a problem. Although Russian law requires that schools be equipped to teach children across the spectrum of health and mobility, this is rarely the case. Currently, according to the Russian Ministry of Education, approximately two percent of ordinary Russian schools are prepared to educate disabled students side-by-side with their able-bodied peers.

Most commonly, families send their children to free, state-run boarding schools, which provide specialized education for their children’s specific needs. But there is no school equipped to educate Tanya in Syktyvkar, or in the entire Komi Republic, which is approximately the geographical size of California, but with a population the size of Delaware’s.

This will require Tanya, in the next three or four years, to move with her parents closer to a boarding school. Her mother Kate has accepted this. She’s looked into the best schools in the country; she’s taken classes at Moscow’s boarding school for the blind; she’s become trained as a tutor for blind students; she is currently teaching English and leading two blind adults through American correspondence courses designed to give the blind as much independence and confidence as possible. But Sergei, Kate’s husband of five years, has no plans to leave the house he has built, the town he has grown up in, or the life he has made in Syktyvkar.

Kate says she is prepared for the possibility of divorce.

“In Russia, in a family with a disabled child, usually somehow, the husband goes away.”

Kate’s brown eyes don’t make contact with me from behind her rimless glasses as she adds up the odds against her. Her husband treats Tanya like a normal child, she says.

“It’s good, but sometimes he should notice.” She stands up to demonstrate her point. When Sergei is walking with Tanya, holding her hand, he doesn’t always think about navigating Tanya. “He goes through the door and she goes straight into the wall. When I am going, I am always thinking about her.”

Tanya is fair-skinned and does not closely resemble her olive-toned mother. She flits from seashells to flashcards to handmade vegetable toys, all specially designed to give her context and information about a world that she can only hear and touch and taste and smell. She’s never known a world different than the environment she lives in now.

She knows the house’s layout to the last detail: not only where her toys are kept, but where her mother’s papers are stacked and, to Kate’s frustration, Tanya playfully shuffles them around on the floor. She doesn’t know of the hopes and expectations her mother held when she carried Tanya inside her. She doesn’t know of the pain and despair her mother felt when told her beautiful, perfectly formed daughter was blind. She doesn’t know about the question of her education, the question of her parents’ marriage, the question of her future.

In 2011, Russian legislature passed the Accessible Environment law, designed to increase access for residents with disabilities to stores, schools, and all essential buildings, as well as provide accessible transportation for the disabled. This program is in effect from 2011 to 2015, and during this time the government plans to spend 50 million rubles (about 1.6 million dollars) to increase services for the disabled.

This initiative is Russia’s attempt to comply with the UN’s Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities, which labels lack of access as a form of discrimination. The law will take some time to earn its name and, as with most things in Russia, positive changes will slowly trickle down from the larger cities to the provincial towns like Syktyvkar, with its population of a quarter million.

The evidence of change even in Moscow is slow to appear. One resident reported the installation of wheelchair ramps on the outside of buildings in her apartment complex, but lamented that once inside, the only means of reaching the higher floors was still the stairs.

When Kate learned that her daughter was blind as a result of a genetic defect, she just cried, she says, for maybe six months. She didn’t even leave the house. She says even three years later her relatives still tear up with they visit Tanya. They can’t imagine how Tanya will have an enjoyable life in Russia.

Eventually, Kate decided to take control of her daughter’s situation. She started looking online and making phone calls, trying to find a lifeline or network that would give her the answers.

How does one raise a blind child in Russia? She found an Association for Blind Citizens in Syktyvkar. Tanya was less than a year old and Kate wanted to know what resources were available to them both. She called the association and explained her situation. They told her to call back in 18 years, and then Tanya would be old enough for their services.

“The only thread to somewhere was this organization in our city,” says Kate, “and it was broken.”

Later on that year, Kate received a phone call from Olga Minina, the head of the linguistics and cross-cultural communications department at Syktyvkar State University, where I teach. The women were not acquainted, but Olga had seen Kate on television, giving an interview about her daughter, and thought Kate might be interested in joining a new project to teach English to blind and visually impaired students. Olga had spearheaded this project after the appearance of a blind student in her department.

The same year Tanya was born Masha Kochedykova entered the university, creating a unique problem for her teachers, who were completely unequipped to teach her.

Olga, who is also my supervisor and teaching mentor, wanted to involve Masha in regular university courses.

“We had a crazy idea,” she said. “Because at that time we weren’t yet speaking about inclusive education.”

There were no specialists available to consult and no previous examples to learn from in Syktyvkar, so Olga tried self-designed teaching techniques on her sighted son. She developed tapes where she would repeat an English word with the translation five times, building up to phrases that were repeated five times. Her son would listen to these tapes while walking to school or in his room, and they worked, said Olga.

But when Masha listened to the tapes, she got bored hearing the multiple repetitions. Once was enough, because unlike Olga’s son, Masha was not distracted by the faces of passers-by, or by the light hitting a tree in a certain way. She gave her full attention to the tapes and learned the material quickly.

According to Kate, there is not a large blind community in Syktyvkar, because most leave to pursue education in a different region. But Masha’s parents didn’t move. Instead, Maxim, an IT specialist, and Irina, a physiologist, took steps to design their own education for Masha, who was born prematurely which resulted in blindness and other health complications including cerebral palsy.

Since the third grade, Masha has studied at home, assisted by tutors and her parents. Before that, she studied at a school for children with mobility disabilities, and does not remember enjoying her time there. Masha was excited to start school at home and began learning through any means available: history through audiobooks, biology through plants and animals fashioned with clay, geography with a homemade 3D globe. These tactile learning techniques kept Masha interested in school, but she remembers the day her family bought their first computer, and what an immediate difference it made in her life.

She was 15 years old. Since the fifth grade, when her mathematics tutor taught her how to read and write in Braille, Masha had been composing her essays in Braille script, a tedious task that left her hands sore and tired. For every one piece of typed paper, at least three pieces of paper are needed for Braille. This would make War and Peace, a book Masha listened to on tape for half a year, fill up at least six volumes.

Being able to type instead of handwrite Braille is just one of many ways Masha has benefited from her computer. It also allows her to access electronic textbooks, and not lug around large Braille tomes. A software program called Jaws reads aloud the text on the computer.

Eventually her computer would provide Masha with access to the internet, which widely expanded her education and communication abilities through programs like Skype, which she uses to communicate with other blind friends in Syktyvkar in conference call style chats.

Masha is now 21 years old, and the only blind student enrolled at Syktyvkar State University, which has approximately 3,500 full-time students.

“I saw my friends, disabled people, staying at home and I saw what they were missing,” says Masha. Her parents and grandparents encouraged her to make this transition to traditional education, but she was nervous about entering the university. Masha heard stories of university students staying up all night to study and other behaviors she wasn’t used to, like cheating or skipping classes.

She also simply wasn’t prepared for the structure her higher education would take. She envisioned that even at the university, she would continue to study one-on-one with a tutor, just at a higher level of learning. But Masha was put into a regular cohort of first-year history students and from her first day she has been listening, reading, and writing at the same level, if not higher, than her peers.

Kate and I take turns teaching a conversational English course, where Masha is a student. This is how I met both of these women during my first week in Syktyvkar. As a first-year teacher, I was intimidated when I learned I would be instructing a blind student, and immediately turned to Kate for support and advice.

But Masha is one of the strongest students in the class, and Kate suggested that during class activities I pair her with a weaker student to share reading and speaking duties. Masha’s classmates describe the task or picture in the assignment and in turn, Masha translates any words or phrases they are unfamiliar with.

Masha’s strength of spirit contradicts her frail frame. Her fingers are long and thin, encircled by bright blue veins. She rubs a motley-colored metal pendant up and down a string around her neck, the thread worn by the habit. Her light brown hair is pulled back, but with many fly-aways escaping from the ponytail.

Her blue eyes are clouded over and obscured by useless, thick glasses. Masha has several blind acquaintances who are not comfortable with their disabilities, and sometimes go as far to try to hide their lack of sight. Masha’s glasses are a sign to the outside world, alerting them to her disability so that she doesn’t have to.

In the Russian university system, groups of students stay together for almost every class for all four years, so it’s important to form bonds. Masha says softly, touching the familiar necklace around her neck, that maybe in the beginning her classmates were scared of her. “They didn’t know how to speak to me.” In the second year of her studies, and after Masha became friends with some classmates, Masha asked them what their original thoughts were about her.

One of her friends answered, “I could see you had so much strength to study. I also had the strength, but I could tell I wasn’t using it at all.”

Masha records all of her lectures, and instead of her classmates assisting her, she says it is often the other way around. But for classes like Renaissance Art, where many pictures are shown, learning becomes more difficult. Some of her teachers don’t take the time to describe the contents of the pictures. Masha imitates one professor, “Now we are seeing a picture of Raphael, what do you think the artist wants to tell us?”

In this type of class, “I can’t work to my full ability,” but other teachers are more understanding and have inclusive teaching styles. In a class on medieval culture, the professor excused Masha from coming to lectures where she will only present slides, but Masha enjoys the way the teacher describes the pictures and explains their origins, and she chooses to attend.

Masha is a wonder to most people who become acquainted with her. She is well-versed in Komi and Russian history, and can easily switch into tour-guide mode when talking about her hometown. On our way to a Komi Ethno-cultural park (think Epcot, but displaying one nationality and without Disney funding), Masha introduces me to the original pagan gods of the Komi people, ceremonies that they held, traditions they followed, and the history of their conversion to Russian orthodoxy through the oft-times forceful Stephen of Perm, now the region’s patron saint.

She converses in English without hesitation and very rarely relies on Kate, who is in the car with us, for assistance. Masha tells me about the only time she received a “C” mark in her life, in ninth grade Russian literature. She was so worried that her mother would scold her and command her to study harder. Instead, her mother took the news quite differently. As Masha retells it, her mother exclaimed, “At last! You’re finally a normal child.”

Walking along the shoveled paths of the park, Masha is assisted by her father, a tall, soft-spoken man with a hint of a graying mustache. He quietly narrates the landscape, whispering “upstairs” or “downstairs” when Masha needs to pay attention to her step. If the incline is particularly steep he calls it a mountain.

As he guides Masha’s hands to fur hats, floral blankets, and holiday costumes, Masha explains the use of these artifacts in Komi life. She enthusiastically cheers us on when her father and I enter a two-legged skiing race — part of the guided tour of the park — and joins in the commotion when we almost win.

Kate has helped organize this day at the park, which in addition to Masha, her father, and me also includes a group of Syktyvkar students and teachers. One of the biggest assets to Masha’s university education is the increased social interaction between her and her sighted peers, a phenomenon that Kate and Olga are trying to make happen more frequently. Last year, as part of SSU’s initiative for blind and vision-impaired students, Kate traveled to the Hadley’s School for the Blind in Chicago.

“It was the center of my dream[s],” she says about the all-inclusive organization that provides a rehabilitation program, kindergarten, musical ensembles, a radio station, and a job placement office, to name only some of the services. “I want a center like that to appear in our city, or in our country at least.”

Once she returned to Syktyvkar, armed with toys and teaching materials designed for blind students, Kate began guiding Masha and another blind young woman, Lena, through Hadley school correspondence courses. These courses range from academic topics to lessons on raised markers: small pieces of felt or plastic that help the blind differentiate between keys, documents, remote controls, and other day-to-day objects.

Raised markers designed to help orientate non-sighted people exist on pieces of technology I use every day, like the letters “F” and “J” on my keyboard, or the number “5″ on my phone. For Masha and Lena, who rely on their memories to know when to stop turning the radio dial or what side of the key should be facing up when placed into the keyhole, learning how to use more raised indicators will relieve them of having to pay as much attention to these daily details.

Masha and Lena take these courses with Kate to help them gain more independence from their parents. They also take courses offered through a local branch of the Russian National Organization for the Blind, which organizes some activities like rehabilitation classes, courses on using a guide cane, and an opportunity to join a Russian and Komi musical group. Masha and Lena completed a cooking class recently and emerged mostly unscathed, except for a small wound on Masha’s finger from cutting bananas.

Kate takes the lessons she learns with Masha and Lena and applies them to Tanya’s education. For example, practicing cutting fruits and bread at a young age, so it comes naturally to Tanya in the future, unlike for Masha who cut her first slice of bread only a few months ago.

Masha’s parents have chosen to focus on Masha’s educational upbringing, says Kate, giving her the tools to become successful in her field and buy the devices or services that make life easier. Masha spent most of her formative years with academic tutors and surrounded by educational material: homemaking and self-sufficiency skills were not given as much attention.

Now, as a young adult, Masha is taking steps to gain more daily independence from her parents. Using a Russian idiom, she explains that the Hadley correspondence courses allow her to kill two hares with one stone: to learn English and live more independently.

Although Russia is only beginning to make steps to include the disabled in everyday life, there have been some advances here that America has yet to see. For example, on Russian paper rubles there are small bars and circles in relief that indicate the denomination of the bill, whereas American dollars have no markers to help the vision-impaired.

The Russian system is not without its faults, though: as the bill is handled, the markers wear down and become harder to distinguish. Russia also has the option of free boarding schools for blind children, but as in Kate’s case, they are not always conveniently located.

Other recent initiatives give Kate hope that her daughter will grow up in a society that doesn’t simply ignore or pity her. In March of this year, Syktyvkar participated in a Russia-wide week of inclusive education. During that time, there were public service announcements on TV, films shown about disabled people, and most of all daily interaction of children with disabilities and their peers, which Masha sees as the most important step Russia can take right now.

“My friends I’ve had since childhood see me no differently from themselves,” says Masha. Increasing the availability of inclusive education will not only give blind students a reason to stay in Syktyvkar, it will also greatly benefit young children who have not previously had many chances to interact with their disabled peers.

Kate agrees with Masha, and has been sending Tanya to kindergarten (accompanied by her grandmother) for two hours each day. In the beginning, the other children were nervous around Tanya, and at school Tanya often cried to come home. Now, Kate says, the children still do not interact with each other easily, but after a recent four-day holiday, Tanya was eager to go back to school.

Kate sees hope in this situation not only for her own daughter, but for the other children who will grow accustomed to seeing — and eventually playing with — friends who experience the world differently than they do.

Walking recently with a friend down a side street that flanks the main government building in Syktyvkar, I stopped in my tracks. A two-story billboard with thick, paint-like font in warm maroon and blue colors announced: Children should study together. A sketch of children walking in a line included a boy in a wheelchair and a girl in thick round glasses.

Additional text advertised a website for more information about inclusive education. My companion didn’t realize I had stopped moving, and was several yards in front of me when I called her back and excitedly pointed out the sign.

“Have you ever seen anything like this in Syktyvkar?” I asked as I took a picture for evidence. Later that evening I emailed the photo to Kate to share my find. She’s several steps ahead of me; the billboard was her creation.

[Note: This story was produced by the Glimpse Correspondents Program, in which writers and photographers develop long-form narratives for Matador.]

Afghanistan, and other sounds beside bombs, helicopters, and gunfire. All photos by David Gill

THERE IS SOMETHING SEDUCTIVE about loud cathartic music — especially thrash metal, hard rock, punk, and hiphop — that surprises, frightens, and potentially changes a person. Experiencing this music live, one feels energized, arteries pulsating, busting scalps, smashing skull rings, moshing without judgment, and laughing away the head bang sting in steamy crowds of like-minded strangers who can quickly become friends.

For years I‘ve been searching the globe from Somalia to Chechnya to Iraq to Afghanistan for music that transforms people, that not only helps them escape, but overcome. The journey has led me to focus on people who risk their lives to perform tough, sometimes confrontational music in war zones and totalitarian states.

Consciously or not, performers of tougher genres know that youth, especially young men in war and repression, look to violence as a means of taking power over their otherwise troubled lives. Young men in crises don’t give a shit about star-studded galas for Kerplekistan, We Are the Universe pageants, dove-knitting alliances between Western college kids and war widows, or even aid projects asking them to take accounting classes instead of joining the fight.

Photo: David Gill

What young militia-sought men in crisis zones want, I’ve learned, is to break out of their no-win situation, vent frustration, and celebrate this self-defining tension in some masculine, cathartic way. They want to prove to brothers and potential lovers that they have control, that they are not subjugated, and that they can survive the toughest trauma.

Though most will grab a rifle and join the war anyway, a few may, after running these musicians’ gauntlets of tamed noise and creative camaraderie, decide to leave their rifles and bombs behind, for guitars and drums.

Risking their lives for music

Among these pioneers of sound I’ve discovered, there is Waayaha Cusub, the Somali hiphop and R&B group who are perhaps the most risk-taking of all musicians in this era of war. They are directly challenging extremists and would-be fighters through a series of concerts in East Africa, including their upcoming hiphop concert tour across Somalia to Mogadishu. Their power to persuade actors in the conduct of the Somali War defies all preconceptions about the influence of local musicians.

The south Somalia-based radical rebel group Al Shabab, and their ally, Hezb-ul-Islam, so hate when Waayaha Cusub’s songs light up kids’ cell phones in their area of control — tunes like “Say No to Al Shabab” and “Peace (Imagined)” — that they encouraged gunmen to hunt and shoot singer Shiine Akhyaar, beat singer Digriyo Abdi, and threaten the rest of the band.

Then there is Acrassicauda, the Iraqi thrash metal band, arguably the best known “war zone” act because not only are they badass shredders but thanks to their portrayal in the VICE documentary, Heavy Metal in Baghdad, they have Metallica, Ministry, and the US Department of Immigration’s stamp of approval.

Now in New York planning shows with Ministry’s Al Jorgensen and trying to “go global” and leave the war zone monikers and haters behind, Acrassicauda have inspired others, like Baghdad-based Dog Faced Corpse, to keep torches burning back home in post-war Baghdad despite waves of anti-emo and anti-metal persecution.

There are also scores of bands in the Tehran underground producing rock and dance parties in a country where the government only allows its most vetted and tamed allies to perform live in public. The Casualty Process, an Iranian electronic rock duo now in New York (just one example) had to leave Tehran after they were arrested at a performance of their previous band, The Plastic Wave, simply for jamming at an “unauthorized” event. Though it’s not threatened by war, Iranian musicians instead are threatened by a government with incredibly strict rules about who can perform what in public.

Now in Afghanistan, a decade after the NATO-backed northern alliance overthrew the Taliban and other radicals who banned non-Islamic music and attacked musicians, Kabul and Herat’s creative markets have finally evolved past pop.

Young men who grew up in a blood bath are now seeing even the heavily-fortified city as a canvass for “normal” life. Fuck it, if foreign super bands and artists are unwilling to tour through Kabul, then the local community, as new as it was, had to create its own spectacle. That’s how Afghan rockers and their artist and expat allies decided to hold one of the first public war zone rock festivals this past fall.

Since 2002, expats working in Kabul had thrown so many parties to take the edge off that some had formed their own house band called, White City. Singer-bassist-filmmaker Ru Owen combined forces with drummer-aid worker Andronik Stefansson and guitarist-motor punk-filmmaker Travis Beard to form the current line-up of White City, headlining parties at clubs like L’Atmosphere and theaters like the French Institute, often with Kabul Dreams opening for mixed audiences.

By 2010, Afghan metal heads, many of whom had discovered their passion while living as refugees in Iran, where such concerts were illegal, were now returning with a hunger for noise to a country where all non-Islamic music is still banned wherever Taliban rebels rule.

Although Morcha (Antz Band), the blues rock band rising in the western Afghan city of Herat on anthems imagining a “freer” Afghanistan, is likely the first professional post-Taliban rock outfit in-country, it was Kabul Dreams, the trio that began performing at colleges and international parties in 2010, which carved the critical path to global audiences.

Kabul Dreams, including Sulyman Qardash on guitar and vocals, Siddique Ahmed on bass, and Mujtaba Habibi on drums, was not out to break barriers, but simply to entertain, and so they were able to play loud not only behind walls, but even out on the public street between military checkpoints, without causing too much of a stir.

Pals Lemar Saifullah and Qais Shaghasi met filmmaker Travis Beard after a White City show and asked him to borrow rehearsal space and gear. Soon enough, brothers Qasem and Pedram Foushanji showed up looking for the same. Travis introduced the four, stuffed them in a room full of amplifiers, cranked up the volume, and Afghanistan’s first metal outfit was born: District Unknown.

Meanwhile, across town at the Afghan National Institute of Music, violinist-guitarist Hojat Hameed and singer-guitarist Raby Adeb met up with drummer Reshad Afzali and bassist Ratib Ramish. While District Unknown pioneered Afghan doom death and psychadelic metal, this foursome created the band White Page. They began performing metal, heavy rock, and hybrid styles at parties and college events.

Local impressario Humayun Zadran, along with Travis, musician Robyn Ryczek, and others, helped mentor and connect the new bands and then started construction on the city’s first rock recording studio, The Floating Room, and the city’s first post-Taliban rock club, Hoodies.

Ultimately, despite some radicals already threatening some of the musicians and war pressing on the city, Travis, who began filming all these Afghan rockers for an upcoming documentary about the rebirth of Afghan rock, would take the reins, found, produce, and document with these allies Sound Central, the country’s first rock festival in three decades.

Creating Afghanistan’s first true rock festival

That summer 2011, when I heard what Travis and the bands were planning, I asked if I could help produce and get the inside scoop on the written history. My questions never ended:

If most news agencies still call Kabul a war zone and rebels and radicals have attacked musicians in the past, then where can bands perform safely? If independent travelers come to Kabul specifically for the festival or otherwise for music, arts, and extreme sports, where do they even get started? And most importantly, what would we do if the concerts are attacked?

Photo: David Gill

Travis and the team had to dance between extreme confidence in safety with performers and sponsors and cautious realism with logistics and planning. Most people would just cancel the events if there was this kind of risk. Just weeks before, rebels attacked the Intercontinental Hotel in the city and bombed a music store in nearby Peshawar. A few months earlier, someone bombed a pop concert in Herat.

Going forward, the idea was to have the first five shows at Hoodies, the basement in Qala-i-Fattulah, run completely by surprise, only inviting people we knew by sending last minute text messages. But the main event required a huge space and some lead time. Babur Gardens was perfect for a peacetime show and it had a fortress wall.

But how would we trust who came in or out of the public place? How would we react if someone protested “sinful” loud music and men and women partying together in this conservative country? What if someone lobbed a mortar over the wall?

By the day of the main event at Babur Gardens, all the major news agencies had either covered the New York opening night party I produced with post-punk underground hero Yula Beeri, or had crammed into the festival’s lusciously sweaty and rowdy rock bunker shows at Hoodies. At Babur Gardens in Kabul, sponsors had followed through with the final gear and security, so it was just a matter of rocking this audience, safely. With all the reporters on hand, a bloody attack would set Kabul’s alternative scene back for years more.

When I arrived with the crew to unload gear, we found Babur Gardens, its internal palace plaza, and flower terraced park filled with families and children. Setting up and unfurling the Sound Central banner, everything felt completely normal, and not eerily so. There was a general feeling of “normal” tension. “Get this speaker over here.” “Try the cable.” “Does it sound right? What about now?” “Have we invited enough people?”

The invitations went out again only by email, text messages, and last minute website posting, but with a little more lead time this day. Either we broadcast it huge and risk more bad guys coming to cause a ruckus, or do flash invites and have a smaller but definitely safer crowd, which is what we decided.

Morcha, the blues rock band from western Afghanistan, took the stage after a brief introduction from Travis, Tolo television, and a rep from the US Embassy, launching the festival main event with flare, in a kind of “fade in” as the crowd slowly began to grow. Right up front, Morcha’s long time fans sang along to their songs about social change and hope despite the horrors of the war. As the crowd swelled, the other acts took the stage.

Kabul Dreams, the indie rock trio that had made more headlines than anyone else, cranked up the speed and volume of the show. Now, finally, Kabulites were rocking out, head banging and dancing at a major public event. Ladies joined on one end, clapping to the beat. Even a few robed traditionalists sat, Indian-style, watching and trying to figure out what the Hell was going on.

The show reached a zenith just before sunset with Raby, Hojat, Reshad, and Ratib of White Page taking the stage. Photographer David Gill would snap the moment for history in Rolling Stone’s Middle east edition. During a righteous cover of System of a Down’s “Toxicity,” Raby with mic and Hojat with guitar leaned out into the crowd of head banging youth, and the picture was recorded forever.

“We’re not just a community of artists, musicians, and skaters; we’re a family,” White Page’s Hojat Hameed would later tell me. “We’re trying to rebuild: music, art, everything. We passed a really hard war in Afghanistan. I want to tell the world, trust in us.”

The set climaxed with their Dari-lyric song, Selamalek. Other performers, including Eklektika (Kazakhstan), Tears of the Sun (Uzbekistan), Pit Panther featuring MC Izzy (expat), White City (expat), and others tore it up for the next hours. A second climax hit at the end of the night when District Unknown — the Taliban’s ultimate nightmare — blasted doom death noise out of the red light of the stage across the Kabul valley, without a single complaint from the neighbors.

Later, the after party would be filled with hope: We did it. What’s next? Since the festival there are already two more local bands (Face Off and a brand new outfit at the Music Institute), two new expat bands (4Q2 and Ring of Steel), a new home for rock shows in The Venue, and the new studio, The Floating Room.

Travis, Hojat, and the others are now preparing for another round of the Sound Central Festival, planned for September / October 2012 in Kabul, Afghanistan. (Follow the progress here.) Looking back, it’s hard to forget the faces of so many young people, not only several hundred Afghan men and boys, but also dozens of women and girls, imagining what a future, peaceful Afghanistan would some day be like.

After witnessing the incredible precedent set by the Sound Central bands in Afghanistan, and looking back at bands like Acrassicauda who risked everything in Iraq, I had come to the conclusion that my organization, Humanitarian Bazaar, and I should get more involved in supporting people risking their lives to wield music as a weapon of peace.

The following month after Sound Central, my team and I traveled to the African Horn to produce a documentary about nomads in the Somali desert. It occurred to me, why not join forces with the Somali hiphop band Waayaha Cusub? We could help them bring to Mogadishu what these rockers had brought to Afghanistan, a new kind of hope that appeals to young men and women in war.

Tough Music in Tough Places

Over the next several months, I’ll be following up this prologue with a series of stories on Matador Network chronicling how my allies and I, inspired by these rockers in Afghanistan and Iraq, built a coalition of musicians for peace in Somalia, and worked with Waayaha Cusub and many others to produce and document concert events all over the world and ultimately Somalia’s first hiphop concert tour to troubled Mogadishu. For all the gory details of music, venues, and hijinx on the road in Somalia, Kenya, and other parts of the world, follow us here on Matador, and on Facebook.

Photo by jonrawlinson

I’M KIND OF A DATING GURU. Not because I’ve been successful in dating (I haven’t) or because I have some sort of spiritual insight into the practice of dating (I don’t), but because I’ve tried everything from bars to eHarmony to blind dates and back again. Also, Craigslist.

That’s right, friends: the place you buy your used couches is where I find my boyfriends.

And as I’ve read hundreds of ads (and posted a good couple dozen myself), I like to think I have a little insight into what will — and what most certainly will NOT — get you a date.

Go on and on about how cute you are.

I don’t care if your mom told you so or if you get hit on at the coffee shop or if your self-esteem is so high that a goose ran into its windshield: telling strangers how cute you are doesn’t work. Saying it three times in one ad doesn’t work, either. And it really doesn’t work if you post a picture and prove yourself wrong.

Try posting a few pictures and let the audience play hot or not in their own heads.

Post a picture of a sunset or a fuzzy bunny instead of your face.

You do not look like a sunset or a fuzzy bunny. And no one is buying that you do.

Post a list of all the things you own, especially the manly ones.

Oooh, you own a car and a house and a toaster and a lawn mower? Well, obviously we all want to date you now.

Ignore all the little red and green squiggles under your words.

Spelling and grammar check is for pussies. If the person you’re writing to can’t understand you, that’s her problem, isn’t it?

Say that you’re well traveled, even if you aren’t.

We all love getting emails about how “Wow, you travel? Me too! I have totally been to every township in Pennsylvania!” Next, please.

Use the words “soul mates,” “babies,” or “my mom.”

No one wants to discuss babies or your mother on a first date. And they really don’t want to discuss them in a first email. Well, except you, apparently.

CAPITALIZE EVERYTHING.

IT IS VERY SEXY TO READ ADS ALL IN CAPS. I THINK WE CAN ALL AGREE THAT SHOUTING MOSTLY JUST MAKES US WANT TO TAKE OUR PANTS OFF. THIS IS A GREAT STRATEGY.

Post a low-quality picture of you standing in front of the bathroom mirror throwing out a peace sign.

Preferably, your pants should be about to fall off. Also, you should be scowling.

Use “u” instead of “you” and “r” instead of “are.”

This makes you sound like a text-messaging 14-year-old girl. Wait…are you a 14-year-old girl? If you are, please stop dating on Craigslist and go make a sparkly unicorn book cover or something.

Post a picture of your penis.

This is especially lovely for those of us browsing at work (We’re not supposed to do that? Scratch that. I’ve never browsed at work, then). It’s also wonderful if your penis is a weird color or shape. Do you not know that it’s not supposed to look like a purple question mark?

So, there you have it: if you would like to post an ad on Craigslist and get approximately zero responses, follow the instructions above.

But, in all seriousness, if you do want to date on Craigslist (and I do, actually, recommend it as it is quick, easy, and puts you in front of a huge, new group of prospective boyfriends / girlfriends), just be yourself, use your spell checker, turn off the caps lock, keep it simple, and post a pretty picture of your smiling face. Do that, and you might be surprised at your success.

If you don’t listen to my advice, be wary. You might just end up in a book.

Photo: Author

AFTER WORKING AS A TEACHER in China for a year with my husband, we were desperate for some beach time. We’d been to the sands of many South East Asian countries and wanted to see something new.

We’d heard that Indonesia was home to some of the most beautiful beaches. When I turned up in Bali, I found that beautiful beach, and it was riddled with trash. Indonesia surprised me in many ways.

1. Indonesia is the 4th largest population in the world.

Home to the largest enclave of Muslim people, Indonesia is made up of 17,508 islands (6,000 of which are inhabited) and about 300 different ethnic groups.

2. Lakes change colour.

Photo: Author

Atop the Kelimutu volcano on the Flores Island, three crater lakes change colour periodically: Tiwu Ata Mbupu (Lake of Old People) is usually blue, while Tiwu Muwa Muri Koo Fai (Lake of Young Men and Maidens) and Tiwu Ata Polo (Bewitched or Enchanted Lake) are typically green and red, respectively. The lake colours vary periodically, likely due to the sub-aqueous fumaroles triggering chemical changes in the minerals found in the water.

3. Flat tires can be patched up over a campfire.

Indonesian roads are ruthless and damaging to your car. But, should you have a tire blow out on you, watching the process in which locals repair tires is interesting and heartwarming.

4. Scooter scams are common.

Be mindful of where you keep your scooter parked and make sure that you lock it. Some scooter shops have been known to steal their bikes back from you, then demand you pay a fee for its disappearance.

Photo: Author

5. You can drink cat-poo coffee.

On the island of Bali, there is a process of making coffee that involves the excrement of civits (a type of cat). The product is properly called Kopi Luwak, and is arguably the most expensive coffee in the world. The coffee beans are eaten by farm civits, then pooped out. The crappy beans are then collected and roasted for coffee production.

6. The world’s worst road is here.

In Kuta, Lombok, the main road that runs through the town and up over towards Mawun Beach is possibly the most pot-holed road in existence. Out of our scooter group of three, there were three topples due to the dangerously rugged terrain. According to Kuta, Lombok locals, the road is expected to see repair by 2013.

7. I could live in Gili Trawangan forever.

Gili T, as it is called for short, has no motorized vehicles operating on it; you get around by bike, horse, carriage, or by foot. You can walk the entire island in about two hours.

Photo: Author

8. Indonesia is home to both the most beautiful beach and the dirtiest beach I’ve ever seen.

On Kuta, Bali, the main beach has novice surfers littering the water, as well as piles of garbage along the sandy banks closest to the water’s edge. The litter stretches the length of the entire beach.

But on Lombok, about 3.5km east of Kuta Beach, is Seger Beach, a shallow, clay-bedded, white-turquoise bay. The best sunset view (complete with sheep encounters) is accessed by climbing up the adjacent grassy hill.

9. How to drink an Extra Joss shot.

A mixture of vodka and Extra Joss energy powder (illegal everywhere except Indonesia and the Philippines), the shot can be found at an Irish pub called Tir Na Nog or in the privacy of your own island accommodations.

Empty the entire packet of Joss into your mouth, but don’t swallow. Pour the vodka shot into your mouth with the powder. Close your mouth because the combination fizzes up like a fourth grade volcano project. Shake your head to mix the contents and swallow.

10. Children make good jockeys.

Photo: Author

The first ever Sasak Horse race was held on Lombok while we were visiting. The horses are decorated and designed with a shaver and coloured paint. Riders ride bareback and without reins, their small size helping them finish faster. Only these aren’t adult jockeys; they’re children no older than 12.

11. Worms are lucky.

The annual Putri Nyale festival is celebrated in early February on the island of Lombok. Sasak people flock to the beaches to retrieve water said to contain glowing worms that bring good luck to the beholder.

Legend says that the worms represent the hair of a goddess that drowned herself in the waters here because she would not share her love between her home country and a man whom she was to marry. She killed herself to show that she wouldn’t love anything, or anyone, more than Indonesia.

12. Peanuts grow on trees.

Don’t judge me. Where I come from, we don’t have peanut trees.

13. How to cook like an Indonesian.

On Kuta, Lombok you can learn how to cook any Indonesian cuisine you’d like. Yanti’s Cooking Class takes you to a local market, where you hand-pick your own fresh ingredients to take to her family’s home in a small village, where you will drink a hand-picked coconut and learn Yanti’s special recipes.

We learned how to make Gado Gado, Nasi Goreng, sea food curry, and chili prawns. Thank you to Ralph, Yanti, and Raya for your generosity and kindness.

14. The mangiest cats live here.

Inbreeding is the main reason behind the strange looking Indonesian cats. Because of the thousands of islands that make up Indonesia, the cats have shrunk their own gene pools by mating within the family chain. The cats are typically quite small in size and have about an inch of tail.

15. The bugs are big.

That’s no bird. That’s a moth.

[Note: Matador editors selected this Community blog post for publication at the Network.]

Photo: Wall in Palestine

“YOU’RE MAKING THE WALL LOOK BEAUTIFUL,” he said. “We don’t want it to be beautiful, we hate this wall. Go home.”

According to British street artist, Banksy, this is what a local Palestinian man in Bethlehem said to him in August 2005. Banksy had just tagged a segment of the separation wall that divides Bethlehem in the West Bank from Jerusalem in Israel.

Banksy is famous for his provocatively political images, and the nine tags he made during his trip to the Palestinian Territory illustrate his distress over the effect the wall is having on Palestinian communities. The first continuous segments of the wall were erected by Israel in June 2002.

Supporters of the barrier point out the decreased number of suicide bombings that have claimed Israeli lives since its construction. Opponents list the myriad ways that the wall has affected innocent West Bank families, who in many cases are separated from their land, reliable hospitals, and other family members by a system of increasingly strict and humiliating checkpoints.

Photo by Wall in Palestine

As an artist, it seems Banksy’s work was the most organic contribution he could make to the issue of the separation wall and Palestinian rights—a way to express his sorrow and anger without having to engage in aggression or protests. It’s impossible to know whether he foresaw the consequences of his visit, or the effect it would have on the West Bank.

His artwork has dramatically increased the visibility of the issues among a younger generation of Western travelers. But this isn’t necessarily a good thing. The amount of attention it has garnered has made it too easy for tourists to feel as though they’re politically engaged. It’s providing an opportunity for passive, rather than active engagement, making a community of Palestinians beholden to a Westerner’s interest in a Westerner’s mural on a wall that’s destroying their lives.

I didn’t know anything about Banksy before my visit to Israel, and first heard his name mentioned by a group of British girls sitting around a guidebook in Abraham Hostel. They were flabbergasted at my ignorance, and convinced me that glimpsing Banksy’s work on the Palestinian side of the separation wall in Bethlehem was an essential element of any alternative backpacking trip to the Holy Land. I was headed to Bethlehem later in the week, and filed this information away.

I visited Bethlehem alone on one of those days of vulnerability that occasionally plague over-traveled backpackers. I didn’t steel myself for the stresses of the day, and my teeth were on edge after a morning of sightseeing in jostling mobs of Christian pilgrims. And after getting lost in Bethlehem’s back alleys on my way to the taxi station, it was also the day that I grudgingly admitted to myself, for the first time, that traveling alone as a woman wasn’t always as “liberating” as I tried to tell myself it was.

I was feeling emotional and disgruntled as I hailed a cab, and asked the driver to take me to the wall. “Ahh, Banksy?” he asked me. He had plastic roses hanging from his rearview mirror, and a photograph of two young girls, his daughters.

“I will take you there.” He chattered on about how many Western tourists come to Bethlehem in search of Banksy these days. “It’s good for my business,” he said, his smiling eyes meeting mine above the plastic roses. He dropped me in a deserted area along the wall, and gave me directions to follow around a couple of corners to find Banksy.

I wandered aimlessly over gravel and piles of broken concrete, the wall to my left. It was plastered with graffiti. “A country is not only what it does, but what it tolerates,” one artist proclaimed. “We are all God’s children,” scrawled another tagger. One of them quoted Ephesians 2:14: “For he himself is our peace, who has made the two one and has destroyed the barrier, the dividing wall of hostility.”

I never found Banksy, and I’ve never felt more inappropriate for being somewhere in my life. I still cringe thinking back on that afternoon. I was ashamed of myself for not fully covering my arms, for stumbling over gravel and looking for paintings when refugee camps that take volunteers lay a few kilometers away. I felt guilty for being scared of my isolation, for avoiding the eyes of men who watched me from their rundown workshops.

My stomach flopped as a middle aged man grabbed my shoulder and offered to drive me to the Banksy sections of the wall in his personal car. For a small fee. He knew exactly what I was doing there without having to ask. No one else was around. He held his hands out, palms up, waiting for a response, taking a few steps forward. I was ashamed for being scared, for feeling the adrenaline rush of my flight instinct making my feet and hands feel numb.

I thanked him for the offer and marched back to the main road, immediately hailing a cab that whisked me away to the Jerusalem buses. “You see Banksy?” the driver asked with a grin.

“No, I didn’t find him,” I responded. He pulled over. We argued for a few minutes. He wanted to take me back, to show me himself. For a small fee. I told him I just wanted to go back to the bus stop, and sank down into his cracked, vinyl seat. I paid him for the ride as he drove.

A line of cab drivers sat at the bus station, watching as people paid their fare for the trip back to Jerusalem. They saw my blonde hair before I saw them and erupted in a long string of Banksy offers.

“I already saw it,” I lied, climbing the stairs of the bus.

MY iPHONE has been shat on by cormorants, chewed on by a dog, stepped on by a fishing partner, and dropped from a moving bicycle at top speed. In an accidental twitch that I still can’t explain, I even spiked the phone so hard into the sidewalk that I considered a doing a little end-zone dance just to make it look intentional.

In just one year of paddling, fishing, wading, cycling, hiking, and so on, I’ve destroyed three protective cases. I was working on my fourth when I received a complimentary LIFEPROOF iPhone case.

The company’s claim of waterproof piqued my interest. I spent a full evening reading instructions, using on-line resources, and contemplating my willingness to put my phone under water. As recommended, I assembled the case (without the phone inside) for a one-hour submersion test in the kitchen sink. Not a drop of water penetrated the case, but I still couldn’t dunk my $300 phone.

I walked around for several days suspicious — but not certain – that the phone was waterproof. The arm band mount was handy for jogging. The case protected the phone from sweat and from the occasional drizzle, but I wanted to be sure the Case had really made my phone waterproof. I took the phone fishing and finally worked up the nerve to take this video.

Now, after submerging the phone several times and dropping it several more without consequence, I can say the LIFEPROOF iPhone Case is the real deal. It protects my phone while I do what I do outdoors, without sacrificing the phone’s functionality. The volume of the iPhone is reduced by the case, but I still use the phone with and without headphones. For me, the comfort of having a waterproof phone more than compensates for any reduction in volume.

For water lovers, water-logged land lubbers, and just about anyone who gets caught in the rain, there are some real benefits to a waterproof phone. This case even lets you use earphones while you swim laps.

The LIFEPROOF case is available for $79.99. LIFEPROOF also offers an iPad Case and a line of accessories to help keep you on the water. If you decide to get the LIFEPROOF iPhone Case, be sure to follow the directions on the box. The on-line resources are a real help too.

If you are an angler, or would like to be, please be an ambassador for our sport and an active steward to our natural resources.

A third culture kid (TCK) is someone who has spent a significant part of their growing up years in a foreign country. Dr. Ruth Hill Useem, sociologist and originator of the term Third Culture Kid, points out that these are “children who accompany their parents into another culture, usually for a parent’s career choice.”

My wife is a TCK and has three answers for those who ask “where are you from?” There’s the short story — “Japan.” There’s the story she tells at parties thrown by friends — “Japan, but I went to university in the States.” And then there’s the Sunday brunch response — “I call Japan home now, because that’s where my parents live, but I’ve lived overseas for 22 years now.” Her answer obviously depends on the person, as she certainly doesn’t want to waste her breath telling her life story to some idiot that doesn’t really care.

Photo: El Tecnorrante

Part of a senior thesis for film & media studies while at Georgetown University, Adrian Bautista wrote:

So Where’s Home? explores the unique perspectives and identities of Third Culture Kids…The purpose of this short documentary project is to understand why third culture kids struggle to answer the question of “so where’s home?” and the implications this difficulty has on personal identity.

We hope to see more great videos from Adrian. Be sure to check out his website.

MODERN SURF PHOTOGRAPHERS ARE SHEEP. Most often they can be found following top surfers around the world’s most predictable locations. There you will see them lined up on the beach or swarming in the channel, firing away and producing a never-ending stream of surf porn that populates the ads and pages of surf magazines to the degree that many an armchair surfer can take one look at most pics and easily identify the wave despite having never been within a thousand miles of the place itself.

Al Mackinnon’s photos create the opposite reaction. Even among the most seasoned surfers, and indeed many a photog, the first reaction to his images is a baffled ‘where the fuck is that?’. Shunning the common formula for surf photography, Al has made a name for himself through his willingness to spend months and months on the road at a time, immersing himself in the cultures he finds himself, and favoring exploration on the worlds remote, and often frigid, coastlines looking and waiting for the fleeting combination of swell, wind, tide and light that produce the desolate perfection he seeks to capture.

Beyond the waves, Al separates himself from the pack not only with his patience but also with his keen eye for documenting the people and places he finds himself. Al is a throwback to the golden years of surf photography where a photographer’s passion for adventure and balls to brave the elements were as important as his or her camera.

Greg Long. Giant Dungeons

To my knowledge, this is still the biggest wave ridden on the African continent. There's a good story behind how this picture came together which features in a forthcoming book; suffice it to say several things had to fall magically into place.. Greg and I scooped the Billabong XXL biggest wave award in 2006/7 and since then have travelled and shot together often, becoming firm friends in the process.

Fatima, Maroc.

A couple of years ago I travelled down to Morocco chasing a legendary wave with a small crew of Irish pro surfers. A local family kindly put us up as Hamza, the son, had met one of the Irish lads on a previous trip. His mother Fatima was the consummate host and the experience of living in a Moroccan home with call to prayer each morning and specific etiquette at meal times was a fascinating experience.

John John Florence taking to the air

John John has to be about the most complete surfer I can think of, he has everything in his repertoire and was a real pleasure to shoot with as he always kept you on your toes. This kind of picture can be precarious as he could easily have landed on me - or the camera, but "nothing ventured, nothing gained" so the saying goes.

Mentawai Boatman

It was my first time in Indo, having heard stories and seen pictures of magical waves I came with expectations. Any traveller knows this is a precarious way to start a trip and sure enough the surf was terrible for a full ten days. Whilst onboard we experienced two massive earthquakes, one of which was felt as far away as Bangkok - that kept things interesting. I remember the crystalline Indian Ocean turning a reddish-brown, a small island disappearing under a tsunami and the terrified looks in the eyes of a handful of islanders whose homes had been destroyed. I wish I could remember this lad's name, he didn't speak a word of English and my bahasa is equally nonexistent but he kept the stoke during a very trying time!

The Long Road. Patagonia

The roads in Patagonia are the travel equivalent of 'War and Peace' - truly epic! They go on and on and on leading through scenery unlike anywhere I?ve ever been. I think it's true that each journey changes us in some way but nowhere has had as profound or lasting effect on me as Patagonia. The history of pioneers such as the crews on Fitzroy's voyages savaged by the elements and taken by the indigenous people, the sheep farming boom that made many settlers so rich it was known as 'white gold' and the radical landscape; yawning expanses of pampa interspersed with jagged ranges cannot fail to move you.

Avian Torpedoes. Galapagos

Galapagos is the only place in the world where penguins are found in the northern hemisphere, although, as the island chain straddles the equator it is only just! I thoroughly enjoyed swimming with them and was amazed at how they were as comfortable underwater as other birds would be in the air. Going to the Galapagos was a life long dream for me, having watched David Attenborough's BBC documentaries as a child and the islands didn't disappoint.

Aussie Rick. Scotland

Rick Willmett, or 'Aussie Rick' as the Scottish locals call him moved from Australia to Scotland on the strength of the surf, yep, you did read that correctly. He's one of the most accomplished surfers I've met in powerful, shallow waves and here he is doing what he does best: setting up for the tube on a mercurial winter?s evening at 'BagPipe' so named as it looks like Oahu's Pipeline but rather than balmy and turquoise it's dark and about 42 degrees Fahrenheit (with a wind chill often dropping to 14 degrees Fahrenheit and beyond!) Not the archetypal view of surfing but my favourite place to shoot and surf.

Golden morning. England

This is a very fickle wave, dangerous, very powerful and equally shallow. A couple of years ago a surfer broke his back here and there have been other injuries which when you consider how few people surf this area means the odds are not stacked in a surfer's favour. I had wanted to shoot this place from the water for some time but knew it would be difficult with the aforementioned dangers allied with a very strong current. The conditions and light had to be just right. The day finally came and though swimming out there was exhausting and taking a wave on the head that left my neck feeling sore for some weeks after didn't help, a picture like this one looking out of a gaping tube on a clear crisp winter's morn made it all worth it. It was the first time it's ever been photographed.