Warm Waters

WARM WATERS is a long-term photographic project investigating the impacts of climate change on the vulnerable communities and environments throughout the Pacific Region. From rising sea levels and the effects of increasingly extreme weather effects, such as El Niño and super typhoons, to floods and droughts, the destruction of coast, and the first climate refugees — I am collecting visual evidence of what is happening on the front lines of man-made global warming today, and how these phenomena are being dealt with.

ABOVE: Residents of the South Tarawa Atoll in Kiribati, bathing in the lagoon near the town of Bairiki. Seawalls protect the tiny islets of the atoll from the rising sea levels, however, many of them are constantly destroyed by high tides. (South Tarawa, Kiribati)

ABOVE: Dead coconut trees on the atoll of Abaiang, in an area of land where soils have become increasingly eroded and salinated by the regular flooding that occurs during high tides. Abaiang is one of Kiribati’s most threatened threatened islands. The government says this area is a “barometer for what Kiribati can expect in the future.” Since the 1970s the residents of Tebunginako have seen the sea levels rise and today a major part of the village has had to be abandoned. (Tebunginako, Kiribati)

Since 2013 I have travelled across most of the countries in Oceania — covering sea level rise in Tuvalu, Kiribati, Tokelau and the Marshall Islands, land grabs and related climate change issues in Papua New Guinea, super cyclones in Vanuatu, Tuvalu and Fiji, and climate change related migrations in Solomon Islands. One of the biggest issues facing mankind today, I aim to document climate change through the prism of communities whose very existence is threatened. Warm Waters shows that global warming is not a distant reality for future generations, but a critical issue for which we must all take collective responsibility and immediate action.

ABOVE: A plastic barrel of drinking water is hoisted up in the coastal village of Hanuabada in Papua New Guinea. With climate change, tides here are rising, exacerbating already severe sanitation issues. During high tide events, human waste flows freely between water resources, water-borne diseases like diarrhoea, dysentery, and typhoid start spreading, and potable water becomes scarce. (Hanuabada village, Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea)

ABOVE: Children in front of the Kiribati Parliament House in South Tarawa. Kiribati is one of the four atoll nations that are located in the Pacific Ocean. Most of Kiribati’s atolls rise no more than a couple of metres above sea level, and are very vulnerable to rising seas. (South Tarawa, Kiribati)

2015 was the warmest year on record and sea temperatures are increasing. Responsible for many of the climate conditions in the Pacific, El Niño weather patterns are intensifying. From Category 5 Cyclone Pam in South Pacific, to ice melting beneath First Nations’ feet — storms, droughts, floods, and heatwaves are becoming more severe and frequent.

The ramifications of shifting weather conditions are extremely complex. Physical environmental changes are implicating culture, history and tradition. Rising sea levels and erosion are shrinking already tiny land masses and changes to ecosystems are affecting food resources and tourism. As quickly as communities build sea walls, they are destroyed by storm surges. As people rebuild homes and schools after a cyclone, they are damaged by another. Rising temperatures are fracturing once solid ice and cracks are appearing in otherwise strong communities. People need move inland, and in the most extreme cases, relocate entirely.

“They are not escaping war or persecution, they are fleeing their own environment. They are the world’s first climate change refugees.”

ABOVE: An aerial view of Majuro, the capital of the Marshall Islands. The Marshall Islands comprises two chains of coral atolls, together with more than 1,000 islets. It is on average just two meters above sea level. The country faces an existential threat from rising sea levels with some predictions claiming that the islands will be swamped by the end of the 21st century. (Majuro, Marshall Islands)

ABOVE: A collapsed house on the banks of Mataniko River in Honiara, the capital of the Solomon Islands. In 2014 the region was badly affected by flash floods, which took the lives of 22 people and left 9,000 homeless. Thousands of homes located on Mataniko’s banks were washed away and many gardens were destroyed. (Honiara, Solomon Islands)

The longer the locals on these submerging islands search for solutions, the more their landmass is decreasing. While discussions elsewhere in the world still revolve primarily around the causes of climate change, the lives of those living in the Pacific revolve around adaptation and survival. Carbon dioxide emissions continue to accumulate in the atmosphere and these communities, some of the world’s most vulnerable, are already experiencing the reality of one of the greatest challenges facing humanity.

ABOVE: A father and son building a sea wall in front of their house in Fale village, Fakaofo Atoll, Tokelau. About 350 people live on this islet, which has a height of no than two metres above the high water mark during ordinary tides. In an attempt to fight the rising sea levels, Fale residents have enclosed their islet in concrete, with 5 to 7 metres high sea walls, hoping to protect their homes from storm surges. (Fakaofo Atoll, Tokelau)

ABOVE: Children playing in the water near a seawall in Tebikenikoora village, one of the islands most affected by sea level rise area in Kiribati. The village is regularly flooded during high tides despite residents attempts to build sea walls or take care of those that were built by the local government, but frequent big waves continue to damage them, putting resident’s houses, and gardens, under constant threat. (South Tarawa, Kiribati)

In 2014 and 2016, I visited Kiribati and the Marshall Islands — small, submerging island states that are starting to disappear because of rising sea levels and the extreme power of super typhoons, which fall on them far more often than in previous decades. Scientists say that they will be unsuitable for habitation by the end of the century. These countries are located on coral atolls, pieces of land in the middle of the vast ocean, which are only several dozen meters wide in their narrowest parts.

During high tides and severe storms, huge waves flood the roads, and seawater gets into the houses, also destroying gardens and vegetable patches. In some parts of Kiribati, whole villages have had to move inside the island because of coastal erosion.

“People live in constant fear that their homes will be destroyed, and their small children washed into the ocean, so during bad weather some parents tie up their children to heavy objects inside the house.”

ABOVE: Children playing on a sea wall in the town of Betio, near the rusting remains of a wrecked ship that was lifted and smashed onto the wall during a king tide in February 2015. (Betio, South Tarawa, Kiribati)

ABOVE: Jorlang Jorlang, 70, lies on his bed while his wife Tita finishes hanging laundry. In April 2014 a ‘king tide’ hit their house in Jenrok village on the Marshall Islands, and the seawater came inside. The rest of the family evacuated the house, but Jorlang couldn’t move, due to his disability. His wife had to stay with him for two days and wait until the water was gone. (Jenrok, Marshall Islands)

In Majuro, the capital of the Marshall Islands, I visited a cemetery where the graves are gradually submerging. For me, this one of the most convincing arguments for those who deny the effects of climate change and global warming , because why would anyone build cemeteries within reach of the tide on purpose? Several decades ago the locals would never have thought that the bones of their ancestors would be underwater.

ABOVE: A graveyard in Jernok village that is slowly being destroyed by the rising seas, in the Marshall Islands’ capital Majuro. “Cemeteries along the coastline are being affected,” says Kaminga Kaminga, a climate change negotiator for the Marshall Islands. “Gravesites are falling into the sea. Even in death we’re affected.” In June 2014, rising sea levels washed out the remains of 26 Japanese WWII soldiers on Santo Island. (Jernok, Marshall Islands)

ABOVE: Children playing ‘hide and seek’ in Teone’s graveyard in Funafuti, the capital of Tuvalu. Massive coastal erosion in Teone caused many coconut trees fall down, and the sea eaten its way into and around the trees that are still standing. People from Teone are threatened on one side by the ocean and its tide surges and on the other by a pit that fills with salt water at high tide due the soil salinisation. (Teone, Funafuti, Tuvalu)

I also visited the Polynesian island nation of Niue, which has land much higher above sea level. Already, some of the inhabitants of Tuvalu, another Oceanic state that is gradually submerging, have been relocated to Niue. In recent years, many of the locals from Niue have been emigrating to New Zealand in search of work, so the authorities decided to give Tuvaluan people a home to populate again partly abandoned villages.

ABOVE: Hetu, 8, holds a shark that was caught by fishermen in Fakaofo Atoll, Tokelau. Tokelau is a small atoll nation of Polynesia, which is a self-administering territory of New Zealand. Access to Tokelau is possible only by ferry from Samoa, and boats usually depart every two weeks from Samoan capital Apia. Isolation, lack of job opportunities, and vulnerability to climate change has the forced majority of Tokelauans to leave their homes in search of a better life in New Zealand or Australia. (Fakaofo Atoll, Tokelau)

ABOVE: Children of Etas village on Efate Island watch a water truck delivering drinking water to their village. After Cyclone Pam hit Vanuatu on 13 March 2015, many local communities were left without fresh water supplies. International charity Oxfam organised an airport water tank truck to come to the villages around Port Vila and help locals to fill their barrels with drinking water. Over 15 people died in the storm and winds up to 165 mph (270 km/h) caused widespread damage to houses and infrastructure. Cyclone Pam is considered one of the worst natural disasters ever to affect the country. (Etas, Efate Island, Vanuatu)

In 2015 after spending time capturing the aftermath of the destructive Cyclone Pam on Vanuatu, I travelled to Tuvalu on a UNICEF commission. I was lucky to find myself on the same ship as the official delegation, headed by Tuvalu prime minister Enele Sopoaga, and including almost all ministers. The ship went to the most remote islands of Nui, Vaitupu and Nukufetau, all severely damaged by Cyclone Pam. I was the only professional photographer there to capture the aftermath of the cyclone.

Before our arrival the huge waves had eroded the cemetery on Nui, and there were bones and half-decomposed bodies floating all over the island. The pigs and chickens had started to eat them, and so the Tuvaluan government sent instructions that all of the animals must be killed to prevent disease spreading. For the locals, whose livelihood is based on fishing and animal husbandry, it was, of course, a tragedy.

ABOVE: People from Nukufetau Atoll boarding the ‘Manu Folau’, a ship that will take them to Funafuti, the capital of Tuvalu, where they hope to take refuge. Nukufetau was among the other outer islands of Tuvalu that were badly hit by Cyclone Pam in March 2015. Many residents left the damaged areas and went to to stay with relatives in Funafuti, which was not affected by the cyclone. (Nukufetau Atoll, Tuvalu)

ABOVE: Nelly Seniola, 35, extension officer in the Tuvaluan fisheries department, shows a photograph on his laptop of a corpse that was washed out of a cemetery by a storm surge. Nelly told me, “There were many dead bodies, skulls and bones floating around. Pigs and chickens started to eat some of the bodies. We received a radio message from the capital, that we had to kill those animals, as they could spread diseases.” (Tuvalu)

ABOVE: A house on stilts, built over a polluted ‘borrow pit’ on the edge of Funafuti, in Tuvalu. The settlement, called Eton, is threatened on one side by the ocean’s waters and tide surges and, on the other, by stagnant saltwater filled ‘borrow pits,’ where sand and rocks were excavated by the American military during WW2 in order to build a runway. The pits are a dump for the refuse that is increasingly clogging the islands and a health hazard for those living alongside. (Funafuti, Tuvalu)

Towards the end of 2015 I made a one-month trip around the islands in northern part of Oceania, including Guam, the Northern Mariana Islands, and the Federated States of Micronesia and Palau. In addition to documenting the effects of coral bleaching and sea level rise, I was also capturing the aftermath of super typhoon Maysak, the most powerful pre-April tropical cyclone on record in the Northwestern Pacific Ocean.

Maysak affected Yap and Chuuk states in the Federated States of Micronesia, with damage estimated at $8.5 million (2015 USD). The Red Cross reported there were as many as 5,000 people in desperate need of food, water, and shelter, and who required emergency assistance.

ABOVE: Roxanna Miller, monitoring technician of the University of Guam Marine Lab, inspecting species of staghorn corals severely impacted by coral bleaching event in 2013–2014. The bleaching resulted in loss of about half of all Guam’s staghorn corals. Although the remaining corals are slowly recovering, because of the increasing effects of global warming they can be hit again by rising water temperatures and extreme low tide events. Loss of the coral reefs would directly impact on local fishermen, as the habitats the corals provide to reef flat fish communities, would be gone. (Guam)

ABOVE: A small islet in the Ulithi Atoll. With only a few palm trees remaining, it is almost entirely submerged during high tides. (Ulithi Atoll, Yap State, Federated States of Micronesia)

Most recently, I spent time in Fiji, Samoa, Tokelau, and the Solomon Islands. On the 20 and 21 February 2016 Category 5 Severe Tropical Cyclone Winston hit Fiji, destroying the country’s infrastructure and thousands of homes. At the time of my visit, 43 people had been confirmed dead and more then 60 thousand had been forced to flee, living in evacuation centres hurriedly set up across the country.

ABOVE: The southern part of Taveuni Island in Fiji is among the areas most affected by Cyclone Winston. Some villages were completely destroyed and people were left without food for about a week, as access to the island was cut off. (Taveuni Island, Fiji)

ABOVE: Locals prepare food rations, given by private donors, for delivery to affected villages of southern part of Taveuni Island in Fiji, one of the most affected areas. (Taveuni Island, Fiji)

As global warming continues, many countries in the Pacific region will feel the effects of the destabilization of the planet’s ecosystem. Extreme weather events, such as unusually high temperatures and cyclones are already devastating small island nations. I have decided to dedicate several years to the Warm Waters project, and have plans to travel around the whole Pacific region from Alaska to New Zealand, documenting the unpredictable and severe effects of climate change.

ABOVE: Teiwaki Teteki, 28, carries his 4-year-old son Paaia to the shore in heavy rain. Teiwaki and other passengers travelled to Taborio village from North Tarawa by “te wa uowa” (double) canoe, which is the only way to get from north of the Tarawa Atoll to the south during high tide. For nearly two years, it has been raining almost every day in the northern part of the Gilbert Islands chain. In 2015, the annual rainfall was 4 times higher than the average. (South Tarawa, Kiribati)

And yet, despite the painful and challenging situations I have witnessed, this project is as much about resilience as it is about tragedy. Local and international organizations are helping to introduce renewable energy, new water tanks, and fortified roads into these communities. People are being relocated following, and in case of, the ever-increasing likelihood of natural disasters related to global warming. And in the children, I see hope. When it floods, they swim in the pools of water near their houses, or try to surf on improvised surf-boards during high tides.

“Many communities in the Pacific are optimistic and resilient, determined to find solutions rather than be case studies of climate change victims.”

ABOVE: A young girl playing in the remains of an oil barrel near the shore of Tebunginako village in Kiribati. The island nation is slowly being swallowed by rising sea levels, and will likely be uninhabitable before the end of the century. (Tebunginako, Abaiang Atoll, Kiribati)

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Some photos from this gallery were taken on assignments for UNICEF Pacific and Oxfam Australia

THIS ARTICLE WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED ON MAPTIA.

VLAD SOKHIN

Documentary photographer, multimedia producer and film-maker, represented by Panos Pictures. Author of the book, ‘Crying Meri’.

www.vladsokhin.com

African Journals | Chronicles from the Road, Part One: Landscapes

The road trip started in Cape town were we spent a month shooting a campaign for Fayrouz, a product by Heineken. From there we had no plan, but by meeting locals, listening to their stories and being open-minded about every adventure we came across, we ended up in Windhoek, Namibia with a 4×4 monster truck which we called Bowser (super Mario kart). The route formed by itself, in a natural way.  We got invited to shoot photos for lodges, guesthouses and hotels in Otjiwarongo, Swakopmund, Walvisbay, Rietoog and then we continued on our way to Sossusvlei. There is a big German influence visible in the cities/villages, especially on the Skeleton Coast. You will find Bratwurst on the menu, for sure. Namibia was a German colony until 1904. The route from Walvisbay to Sossusvlei – the C14 – was insane, unforgettable. It is supposed to be a four hour journey, but it took us seven. After hours of sand and drought, something magical happens… You drive through this big mountain, and afterwards you’re suddenly driving through green and purple landscapes – so unreal, like you’ve arrived on the film set of The Lord of The Rings. All the way to the red dunes of Sossusvlei there is so much wildlife to see, and you only pass through one ‘village’ Solitaire. I say ‘village’, but it is really just a petrol station where you can eat apple pie with the few local people who live there. It is amazing. Sossusvlei is like the cherry on the cake; from 6am the colours are changing like the wind. Incredible.

Next stop: Victoria Falls. One of the Seven World Wonders. We arrived in Zimbabwe, but our accommodation was in Zambia (the Falls are on the border between the two countries). Zambia was such a surprise; rainforest, monkeys everywhere, snakes and the best local market – the Maramba Market – where you can meet local people, have fun, and drink cheap local beer, Mozi beer! You can easily spend a whole day at Billy’s Café, listening to stories, playing pool and enjoying local goods like cassava pate (pretty weird stuff to be honest). The music is loud and everyone will dance the day away.

From Zambia to Botswana involves taking a lot of different public transfers, ending up at the border where you take an Industrial-Truck-Ferry. Trucks wait in line – sometimes for more than two weeks! – as the ferry can only carry one truck at a time, with a bunch of people around it. In Botswana, the public bus trips were epic. From Kasane to Maun (18 hours), from Maun to Gaborone (14 hours) from Gaborone to Jo’burg (15 hours). It was the rainy season and a lot of roads where flooded.

Jo’burg was our last stop. This city made a deep deep impression on us. It was so electric, in a lot of ways. You feel the different layers of the city from the past, but you also feel new energies. There is a lot happening, the city with all her different areas is very dynamic and moving. It’s hard to explain the way we feel about this city, we would recommend everyone to go there, to experience it in your own way.

Showing respect and interest in local people is so important. We met interesting people everyday and it was a real honour to hear their voices, their stories and to have chats about the little things in life too. The city center is not the nicest place to go at the moment, but there are a lot of upcoming areas like Maboneng (meaning ‘Place of Light’), Melville, Braamfontein, Fox Precinct and Newtown.

This city brought us a lot, we were really inspired by the people, the vibe and also the deep history that this city is carrying. BBC describes how Johannesburg has changed from a ‘no-go to gotta-go’ – that says a lot. Things are changing, but like all important world changes, it takes time.

See you soon dear Africa, you are in our hearts.

 THIS ARTICLE WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED ON ROAM MAGAZINE.

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MANOUK QUINT

Manouk Robina Quint is a 25 year-old photographer currently living in Amsterdam. She has loved creating stories for as long as she can remember. Manouk now has her own photography business; Hans en Grietje – donotsaycheese.com. Together with her soulmate, Hidde van der Linden, they began by capturing the party-life of Amsterdam in clubs, parties and festivals. Now the duo photograph food, interior, fashion, weddings, portraits and travel, also writing concepts and stories to create campaigns for brands.

Follow Manouk on Instagram or visit her website here.

The Quest for Afghan Singletrack

“His name means ‘soldier’,” says Yaar Mahahammad, our translator. Yaar is talking about Askarkhan, a thirteen year old boy who has been hefting rocks to form the foundations for a new stone hut with the kind of ease that puts my own strength to shame.

Askarkhan looks at us with piercing, curious eyes from beneath his over-sized, hand-me-down clothes. Despite his military-sounding name, his clothes have no resemblance to a uniform, and he doesn’t need one. Here, at 4,305 metres amidst the swirls of a snowstorm in the remote Wakhan Corridor, Askarkhan is far from the war and troubles that have tragically become synonymous with his home country, Afghanistan.

Thirteen-year-old Askarkhan, whose family are semi-nomadic shepherds in the remote Wakhan Corridor.

In these regions the best weapon for survival is resilience, not a rifle. Guns are useful against marauding wolves, but it is resilience that will see Askarkhan brave the short, eight-week summer of herding yaks and sheep high on the mountainsides. Resilience that will arm him against the cold of night, the relentless snowstorms possible on 350 days of the year, and the thin air. I have a lot to learn. All in all, this is probably the harshest place I have ever been, so why the hell are we trying to ride bikes here?

Today, the snow buries our six bikes and tents alike. Above us, enveloped in dense fog, sits the way ahead. At 4,860 metres, the Karabel Pass is the second of three high passes that we have to brave during our twelve day pioneering mountain bike traverse through the Wakhan Corridor. Navigating each pass means an early 4am start, as we must give the pack animals carrying our supplies a good chance of crossing while the snowpack is still frozen hard. Each climb requires dragging ourselves from warm sleeping bags to force on frozen bike shoes hours before any sign of breakfast. But each pass, we hope, will deliver another brake-searing singletrack descent.
 

Colin Jones, half way up the 4,867 metre Shawal Pass. Early, first light starts, usually at 4am, mean that our pack animals can safely cross the snowpack while it’s still frozen.

As far as adventure-bike trips go, it doesn’t get more adventurous than this. The term ‘adventure’ seems to put such trips outside the normal remit for whinging. After all, if the going gets tough, then that is just part of ‘adventure’. Yet after thirty years of remote mountain biking trips, this one is stretching my resolve. If “hard-earned” is the price you pay for riding where no one has ever ridden before, then we are certainly paying the price in Afghanistan. There has been nothing easy about our ride so far, from hefting our bikes across perilous, icy river crossings in churning waters, to the massive temperature swings that deliver 30°C heat one day and snowstorms the next. It is day five when we meet Askarkhan. We have seven more to go. I am tired, my feet are wet and my hands numb.
 

Pro rider Matt Hunter and cameraman Colin Jones huddle near the fire, inside a draughty shepherd’s hut during a day of blizzards at Karabel camp, 4,300 metres. 

Every year the remote and wild Wakhan Corridor welcomes a small handful of intrepid trekkers, but nobody has tried to mountain bike across it until now. A week earlier, after the drive in, I start to understand why. With the road from Kabul deemed too dangerous for travel, the only way to enter the Wakhan is from the neighbouring capital of Dushanbe, in Tajikistan. It takes us four days of navigating dry, desolate boulder-strewn roads, fording rivers swollen with summer snow melt, in jeeps with bald tyres, cracked windscreens, and leaky radiators. We took turns to ride shotgun alongside our driver, while the cassette player tried but failed to drown out the car’s rattles, its interior constantly filled with clouds of dust.
 

Riding shotgun in our Afghan jeep, a battered Toyota Hilux. There are few bridges in these remote regions and rivers are swollen with snowmelt. 
 

Eventually we reach Sarhad, the village at the end of the dirt road and the starting point for our twelve day traverse of the Wakhan. Within the region’s arid landscape, such villages are an oasis of fertility. We spend two nights here, making arrangements to hire pack animals to haul the camping gear and the food we will need for the duration. For all of the assembled mountain bikers, including Canadian pro-rider Matt Hunter, the lure of this pioneering expedition is not about kudos or dubious bar-talk bravery.

It is the enticement of the unknown, of what lies beyond our usual boundaries. It is the magnetic appeal of hard-earned singletrack rewards that brings us to this unforgiving landscape.

Some might criticise venturing through such impoverished areas while flaunting our own relative wealth, but my experience suggests that such trips help break down barriers and educate both hosts and tourists alike. It is only through better understanding of different cultures that we can really do away with war.
 

An oasis of green grazing lands surrounds the small Afghan village of Sarhad. At 3,400 metres it is the starting point for our ambitious traverse of the Wakhan. 

Tom Bodkin, who runs adventure travel company Secret Compass and is the brains behind the outlandish expedition we have signed up for, lays out a patchwork of old 1980s Soviet maps on the grass. Without hacking into the US military’s drone programme, these old Soviet era maps are the only source of detail we have. The maps are a maze of tightly packed contour lines. As if adding items to a shopping list, Tom methodically points out a number of rivers swollen with snowmelt and high, snowy passes, any of which might prove un-crossable and cause our retreat.
 

Canadian pro-rider Matt Hunter summits the 4,250 metre Dalriz pass, our first high pass of the twelve day traverse. 

We strike out on day one, heading straight into a climb up the 4,250 metre Dalriz Pass, our first high pass of the ride, and a stunning view across the Little Pamir valley. Acclimatisation comes slowly to us, making the first two days a serious slog as we haul our bikes over these passes. Any semblance of vehicle, toilet, or cell-phone coverage is left behind us. Our tyres roll only on ancient trails chiselled into the dusty hillsides by centuries of determined pack animal traffic. For the first two days we follow part of the ancient silk route, beating its way East towards China, shadowed by the impossibly vertical peaks of Pakistan’s Hindu Kush.
 

Wild, remote and high, the Wakhan Corridor’s landscape became the backdrop to the toughest expedition I have ever shot.

The locals here are among the hardiest and most resourceful people I have ever encountered. They have little choice to be otherwise. Surviving in this wild and unforgiving landscape is a constant challenge. There are few trees in the Wakhan, so yak dung is the default fuel for warmth and for cooking. Smoking fiercely when burnt, it fills the occasional stone huts our support team sometimes use for cooking duties with thick, eye-watering smoke.

Collecting dried yak dung for the cooking fire. Respiratory complaints from the thick, acrid smoke the dung generates are common here.

We follow precarious trails perched high above the thundering Wakhan river, brown with meltwater silt. There is no shortage of off-camber, loose, narrow singletrack, making for challenging and nerve-racking riding, where a fall could spell calamity. For the first few days, getting the trail surface dialled proves to be a steep learning curve. Each of us deals with the exposure factor differently, but in the end it is the turbulent river crossings that become the single great leveller.
 

Navigating narrow, loose trails high above the churning Wakhan river, on day two. Rivers are swollen with meltwater in June.

In twelve days of riding, we only cross four bridges. For the remainder, we have no choice but to wade, often thigh deep, in icy cold, churning waters. At each river we stop, regroup and collectively plan a way across. A slip or fall here would mean a battering at best, and at worst losing a bike or even a life into the heaving mass of the Wakhan River below.

Every tributary we encounter is a raging torrent of ice-cold meltwater, formidably dark with silt. Carrying bikes becomes a game of nerves and balance. Numb feet become the targets for bowling-ball rocks, rolled along the riverbed by an angry current.

Meanwhile our enthusiastically grabbing, wildly shouting Afghan support team beckons from the far bank, adding to the drama. And then we have to get the donkeys across. It is a process we must repeat many times.
 

Rivers created anxiety equally within our group. Some were simple, while others were steep, muddy, raging torrents that could easily knock you from your feet. All were icy cold. 

In truth, though, we would be going nowhere without the local support and hardy pack animals. In this forgotten land, where winter lasts eight months of the year, we are a valuable source of income for six locals, including our cook Amin Beg, his helper Amin Ali, and our translator Yaar Mahammad. Yaar’s English is basic, and he struggles to understand much of what Tom tries to convey to our horsemen. But without him we would be felled. Finding an English speaker in this remote corner of the world is nigh on impossible. When Tom put the word out, only three candidates showed up at the Tajik-Afghan border crossing at the town of Ishkashim. One of them had travelled for two days to pitch his service.
 

One of the only bridges we crossed during our traverse. Horses and yaks are the only possible forms of transport here. 

For the first three days we work our way up the side of the thundering Wakhan river, crossing its tributaries and making the most of every dusty section of trail we can ride. We reach the magnificent rolling hills of Little Pamir, and follow a solitary horse trail up valleys and over passes. Spirits are high and group camaraderie is building, but the physical and mental challenges will take their toll before long. As the days pass, each of us suffers a low point, when energy and morale is lacking.
 

Dropping down to the Wakhan river, and towards one of the most unrideable two kilometres of trail we encountered. No-one can ride a bike through deep sand. 

Where we stop to camp each night is dictated by water and the grazing needs of the pack animals, rather than by our own abilities. The distances we cover each day are not big by any standards, but I am thankful for that. We rapidly climb to over 4,200 metres, and then remain above 4,000 metres for much of the trip. Only time will allow us to acclimatise.

The vast emptiness of the Wakhan means that we are assured a permanent feeling of solitude. It is probably the most remote-feeling and wild place that I have ever journeyed through.

Sometimes we pitch our tents in open, exposed meadows surrounded by boulders etched with petroglyphs, sometimes we are squeezed into steep-sided river gorges. The people of the Wakhan are semi-nomadic, and there are are no permanent villages, so we camp wherever a shepherd’s outpost or hut can be found as shelter for our support team. On other nights, they hastily erect ad-hoc stone walls behind which they will sleep in freezing temperatures. None of us have met such a hardy, tough people, and resourceful too. The night before our first high mountain pass crossing, the Afghans sit melting the rubber soles of their shoes on the campfire to stick on patches of fabric. They tell us that these makeshift crampons will help them during the snowy hike ahead.
 

Matt Hunter dwarfed by the snowy Pamir mountains. We make the most of the times we can ride, rather than carry, our bikes. 

The high passes become our biggest obstacle. Higher than any peak in Europe they are a challenge for fitness and lung capacity alike. With a 4am, sub-zero start each pass is a race against time, as we attempt to cross before the snow softens. After waiting out the blizzard on day five, with young Askarkhan and his fellow shepherds, it is the 4,860 metre Karabel Pass that finally defeats us. Without the previous night’s clear sky and sub-zero temperatures to freeze the snowpack, our horses flounder in the deep, soft snow. Although we have crested the pass, further progress is impossible without risking injuring an animal. We reluctantly beat a retreat knowing that tomorrow we will have to take a 45 kilometre detour to reach our staging post for the next pass.

This is the nature of pioneering expeditions: facing whatever challenge arises.

Back at Karabel camp, we laugh with our Afghan support team and the shepherds as they try riding our bikes, their first bike experience ever, and we try riding their horses in return. Inevitably, it is humour that most easily slices through the cultural and language barriers between us.
 

Preparing to cross the 4,860 metre Karabel pass, this was one of the few times we strapped a bike onto a horse to try and make the climb easier for us. 

Riding bikes into uncharted territory like this is fraught with challenges that demand dogged resilience and a willingness to simply take what comes. At some point on this ride, we all hit ‘the wall’.

Now day seven, this detour up valley, in bleak weather of frequent snow storms, is the longest and most brutal we have endured. It is on this afternoon, in a swirl of freezing sleet, while pushing my bike across a half-frozen peat bog, I experience my moment of personal defeat. It is understandable. My feet are numb again, the weather is stacked against us, and we are eight hours into a gruelling day of physical duress. When we stop for a rest, I question our sanity. The group is silent. I get the feeling that others share my doubts, but no one wants to spoil the party. We press on, and of course later I will be glad that we did, but by the time we collapse at our camp at dusk, we will have been on the trail for fourteen gruelling hours.

Partway through our gruelling fourteen hour detour, through peat bog and sleet storms, to avoid the Karabel Pass. 

That night, we sleep at 4,400 metres beneath an enormous hanging glacier. It is possibly the most spectacular camp spot I have ever seen, but I am too exhausted to truly appreciate it. Six hours after crawling into a cold sleeping bag, we are up and hiking icy scree again, attempting to crest our third high pass, the 4,850 metre Showr Pass. When we finally cross it, the achievement is as much mental as physical. Representing a significant milestone, this pass divides the Wakhi-populated Little Pamir from the culturally distinct Kyrgyz-controlled Great Pamir. The descent is an eclectic mix of snow, mud and rocky singletrack, weaving between boulders and around bogs. The riding is as wild as our surroundings.
 

An early start to crest the 4,850 metre Showr Pass leaves our group silhouetted against the mighty peaks that welcome us. 

While the Wakhan is isolated from the dangers associated with the rest of war-torn Afghanistan, its unruly, changeable weather and formidable terrain devoid of natural shelter make it a place to not come unstuck, and the locals know this. As we descend from the Showr Pass, we pause too long to photograph the late-afternoon scene, bathed in glowing light. Realising our support team are no longer in sight, we are faced with multiple junctions in the trail. The very real possibility of being lost hits us. Fortunately, the Afghans we are with have our backs. Before long, in the distance, we spot Amin Beg, our cook, running back on foot. When he finds us, his look of relief mirrors our own.
 

Heading into Wakhi-populated Big Pamir, we stop to photograph and re-photograph a spectacular section of trail glowing beneath the setting sun.

Eventually escorted safely to our camp for the night, we reach the Kyrgyz village of Rabot, the first permanent settlement we have encountered on our ride. Later that evening, through the limited English of our translator Yaar and our own efforts at sign language, we realise that our safety is of genuine concern to our support team. They may be surprised to find us trying to ride bikes through this unforgiving and wild land, but they will do everything in their power to help us succeed.
 

One of our Afghan support crew. There are few people as resourceful and tough as the Wakhan inhabitants. 

The landscape opens up into a wide glaciated valley, and we roll through it, dwarfed by the scale our surroundings. The Kyrgyz are masters of horsemanship, and here, horses and yaks are the only practical modes of transport. Bikes have never made an appearance. As we descend further into the valleys, our bikes become the objects of intense interest. We realise none of kids here have ever handled anything like this before, let alone tried to ride a bike. The marvel that is the wheel is something that lights up dozens of faces as Matt hands one around to an eager cluster of children. They hold them up and spin, and spin, laughing.

To me, bikes will always be a great way to break down social awkwardness in remote places and regularly create smiles all round.
 

Fascinated, a young boy from the small village of Rabot in the Kyrgyz-populated Great Pamir, spins the wheel from one of our bikes.

We experience a dramatic change in culture in these valleys. Leaning our bikes up outside, we are welcomed into yurts to drink sour chai and consume fermented yak yoghurt, a staple of afternoon tea. The chief of the settlement welcomes us warmly, and a dusty rug is unrolled on which to share our meal. We are all as captivated by yurt life as the Kyrgyz are by our bikes. They laugh when we struggle to down the rancid yoghurt.
 

The first time that bikes have been leant against this, or any other yurt here. 

Tonight, we are invited to sleep alongside our six-strong Afghan team in the shelter of the settlement’s guest yurt. It is our first chance to escape the frenzied flapping of tent flysheets pitched at the mercy of the Pamir’s relentless wind. We learn that Kyrgyz villages often have a guest yurt, something that seems unlikely in such a remote place, but given the harsh environment and changeable weather, it is customary to offer such hospitality to passing travellers. We accept gratefully, united in our appreciation of this incredibly beautiful, untamed landscape, and in our wonder and disbelief at the arduous lives of the inhabitants here.
 

We are served tea and rancid yak-milk yoghurt, along with traditional flat breads. That evening, we are six westerners, and six Afghans, in one yurt.

Eleven days into our ride, and it is nearly time for us to leave these mountains to face the four-day drive back to the lives that we know. For now, the routine of ride, wade, eat, sleep has become normal. We are weather-beaten and at our physical and mental limits, but every day has brought incredibly rewarding experiences. Yes, hygiene has gone by the wayside, and the rivers are too cold for anything more than a token dip, but despite the daily challenge of covering distance, of climbing snowy passes or riding rocky, technical singletrack, life has become simple.

At times, the sight of bikes in this area has raised eyebrows and concerns from locals, and from us too. Faced with testing conditions this trip has become a learning experience for all involved, but also one full of rewards and rich experiences. It has to be one of the most beautiful and peaceful areas I have ever had the honour of visiting and photographing, and the people here some of the most welcoming I have ever met.
 

Silhouetted against the humbling grandeur of the Great Pamir, our group makes its way to camp at the end of day ten. 

As I push my bike across another traverse too cluttered with fist-sized rocks to ride, I remind myself of this. The frustration of pushing a bike is something to which I am now accustomed. Before I know it, I will be boarding a plane bound for the comfort and luxuries of Europe. It is hard to pretend that I am not excited about the prospect of a real bed, or being able to turn on a tap to have drinkable water run freely from it. But at the same time I know I will never repeat what we are doing now. I will never have these same exact experiences again. And so for now I smile, revelling in the experiences that are clogging my senses in this moment.   

It is the hardest thing I have ever done, but I love it. In this wild, harsh corner of the world I realise that I am between a rock and a hard place. Literally.

THIS ARTICLE WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED ON MAPTIA. 

DAN MILNER

Dan Milner is a British adventure travel photographer bent on shooting masochistic bike, snow or just-for-the-hell-of-it expeditions.

In Search of Beauty in Antarctica

Traveling on a sailing ship built in 1911, the same era the last great expeditions braved the unknown and departed for the infinite and barren landscapes of the white continent, René Koster leaves on his own voyage in search of beauty, the beauty of emptiness and cold.

Thoughts of frozen ships trapped in ice-covered seas cross my mind.

Embarking on a voyage to the South Pole, I travel in a sailing ship built in 1911, the same era the last great expeditions departed for the unknown continent. I recall images of the photographers who joined these expeditions to report of the unexplored. Fascinated by their stories I head for the same circumstances as those of the early twentieth century.

I am on a journey of longing, to a time that once was. A heroic saga, filled with hardship and adventure, in an infinite, barren land.

This series of photographs, taken with modern equipment, references the past. Personally, I feel no need for the photographs to look as if they have been created with techniques of the early 1900s. This is why I have deliberately chosen to work in color; allowing the greyscale of the landscape to emphasize the blue captured in ice. In my search for the right images, I have tried to avoid as many elements of the present time as possible; things that would remind me of everyday life.

The calm misty weather gives me a sense of desolation and makes the whole world feel smaller.

The slow rate of traveling by sailing ship influences my way of taking photographs; I seek stillness, harmony and tragedy in these otherworldly landscapes. In search of beauty, the beauty of emptiness and cold.

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED ON MAPTIA 

RENE KOSTER

@koster_rene 

René Koster's work concentrates mostly on travel photography and portraits for magazines around the globe. Work from his Antarctica project was awarded The Travel Photographer of the Year. Check out his website here.

Turning Tears to Power in Nepal

Young girls share their life stories with photographer Katie Orlinsky at a rescue center in Nepal that helps victims of sex trafficking regain their freedom and happiness.

Regularly described as one of the poorest and least developed countries in the world, Nepal is a ‘source’ country for traffickers, and its most marginalised people are also the most frequently targeted. While its capital Kathmandu benefits from a growing tourist economy, in general the country’s economic potential (for example, through opportunities to develop hydropower) is stunted by continued political instability, as well as very poor infrastructure.

Rural Nepalese — some 80% of its people — rely on subsistence farming, which frequently does not provide a stable or sufficient income to feed a family. It is under these already difficult circumstances that the sweet-talking and cajoling of sex traffickers infiltrate and take hold.

Passing through the India-Nepal border in Gaur, Nepal. Nepal’s border police have been notoriously lax in stopping suspected traffickers and are known to be susceptible to bribery. (Photograph: Katie Orlinsky) Narayani, Central Region, Nepal

Fake migration schemes are one of the most common ways girls end up trafficked. Job options are scarce in Nepal, and around 200,000 women leave to work abroad every year, mostly as domestic servants. Poor, rural women think they are going to be domestic workers in Dubai, but instead end up working as prostitutes in Delhi.

Seeking migration paperwork at the district administration office in Haidera. (Photograph: Katie Orlinsky) Narayani, Central Region, Nepal

The sex traffickers methods are varied and unpredictable, which is why so many people fall victim to trafficking in this region, despite the initiatives and interventions of extraordinary agencies on the ground.

 Shakti Kendra in Kathmandu is one such shelter, managing to educate hundreds of girls. I met fifteen current residents during my stay, all survivors of trafficking to brothels in India or of rape within Nepal itself.

Founded by Charimaya Tamang — the first trafficking survivor in Nepal to press charges against her traffickers and win — all of the staff at the shelter are also formerly trafficked women, some of whom have been specially trained by Shakti Samuha in Japan on how to run workshops and look after their young charges.

Young sex trafficking survivors at the Shakti Kendra shelter in Kathmandu, Nepal holds up their favorite drawings. From left to right, “an angel helping a girl in need”, “an imaginary house”, “going shopping”, “a house in the mountains” (Photographs: Katie Orlinsky) Kathmandu, Nepal

The children living at Shakti Kendra take classes at the centre and are also involved in drama, weaving and jewellery making programmes.

A young survivor at Shakti Kendra traces a scene from an anti-trafficking awareness cartoon. (Photograph: Katie Orlinsky) Kathmandu, Nepal

As a photographer, the Shakti Kendra shelter was an extremely challenging place to work. It has a strict media policy to protect the identities of all of its members. Still, I wanted to document the girls’ world, but it meant I had to be patient, and make a lot of images with turned backs, blurred faces and deep shadows.

An underage trafficking survivor rehearsing a play about trafficking at Shakti Kendra shelter. (Photograph: Katie Orlinsky) Kathmandu, Nepal

In time, some of the adults opened up and let me tell their stories, but for the children, the policy was non-negotiable. Although frustrating from the point of view of documenting this issue, I respected this choice.

Trafficking survivors face huge stigma in Nepal, where the shame associated with the sex industry is so great that most survivors’ families don’t even want their own daughters to return home if they have been rescued.

A photograph discovered on the internet identifying a trafficked girl or woman could have repercussions — from an employer not wanting to hire them to a man not wanting to marry them.

Drawing class at the arts and crafts centre at Shakti Kendra Shelter. (Photograph: Katie Orlinsky) Kathmandu, Nepal

I was by no means the first foreign visitor to the shelter, but it was hard to tell judging by how excited they were to see me. Some nights I would stay late to watch TV with them, and those were probably some of my most relaxing and memorable evenings in Nepal. I stopped thinking about the pictures and interviews and would just enjoy the company of the sweetest girls in the world as they tried to teach me Nepali and asked me a million questions on every last detail of my life.

[1] A sex trafficking survivor who works at the Shakti central office as a receptionist. [2] A sex trafficking survivor, who now works at Shakti Kendra shelter as a recreation officer and teaches weaving. (Photograph: Katie Orlinsky) Kathmandu, Nepal

Growing close to women and girls who have experienced such a level trauma was difficult and emotionally exhausting at times. 

It was particularly hard with the children, like thirteen-year-old Sabina who had been rescued from a brothel in India just six months ago. She had a bright smile and so much love to give it seemed she might burst.

A Shakti Samuha adolescent group meeting in a slum area of Kathmandu, where staff members raise awareness about trafficking related issues with at-risk youth. (Photograph: Katie Orlinsky) Kathmandu, Nepal

She loved pop music and called me ‘Katy Perry’. I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that she was the same age as my niece in New York, and how Sabina has already lived a life filled with more pain than I hope my niece would experience in a lifetime. Sabina dreamed of travelling, studying and getting a good job to help her family, who lived close by. She missed them, and talked about them constantly. What she had yet to understand was that it was her own family who sold her into trafficking.

Residents and staff at Shakti Kendra perform a play they wrote and directed themselves. (Photograph: Katie Orlinsky) Kathmandu, Nepal

Trafficking in Nepal is not only something that can be managed and prevented, it can end, and it can happen within our lifetime.

It starts with the work of anti-trafficking survivor-run organisations like Shakti Kendra. These women have the motivation, ability, sensitivity and understanding to tackle the issue from all angles, from prevention and rescue, to prosecution and rehabilitation. They will not shy away from fighting to identify and imprison traffickers and their collaborators, from small-time pimps to local police to family members.

One day these young girls at the centre will take their place as the next generation’s leaders in the fight against trafficking.

Young residents dancing at the Shakti Kendra shelter. (Photograph: Katie Orlinsky) Kathmandu, Nepal

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED ON MAPTIA 

WRITTEN BY THE LEGATUM FOUNDATION

NAMIBIA: Colors of a Country

Namibia is a land of contrasts and extremes. Situated between the Namib and the Kalahari deserts, Namibia gets less rain than any other country in sub-Saharan Africa. Namibia’s coastal desert is one of the planet’s oldest, with powerful offshore winds sculpting the highest sand dunes in the world, in some places rising more than 1,000 feet.

Water — or more to the point, its absence — defines life in Namibia.

Hot and arid in the interior, Namibia’s coast is surprisingly cool and moist, the product of the cold Atlantic colliding with Africa’s warm and dry southern tip. Seals and sea birds come by the thousands to congregate in this narrow temperate zone.

In the rest of the country, only where there is water is there life. Here is my vision of this untouched and primal land, with its towering red sand dunes, vast deserts, and wild animals struggling to survive. 

KOLMANSKOP

Kolmanskop is a deserted German mining settlement located in Namibia. The town was abandoned in the 1950s, and the desert has been reclaiming it ever since, creating an interesting mix of colorful painted walls and sweeping sand dunes engulfing entire rooms.

QUIVER TREE FOREST

The Quiver Tree Forest, near Keetmanshoop, contains a collection of the so-called “quiver trees” which aren’t really trees at all, but rather a species of aloe, a flowering succulent plant.

NAMIB-NAUKLUFT NATIONAL PARK

Namib-Naukluft National Park preserves part of the extensive Namib Desert. The most famous area of the park is called Sossusvlei, which contains the tallest sand dunes in the world, rising more than 1,000 feet above the desert floor. Oxidization of iron in the sand gives them a reddish-orange color, which becomes especially intense when bathed in the warm light of sunrise and sunset.

One of the most stunning places in Sossusvlei is known as Deadvlei (which means “dead marsh”). The area used to be wet and covered in trees, but 600 or 700 years ago the water dried and the trees died, their eerie skeletons preserved by the dry air.

ETOSHA NATIONAL PARK

Etosha National Park is a beautiful national park in northwestern Namibia, known for its abundance of large game animals, including elephant, lion, rhino, giraffe, cheetah, zebra, and many more. What amazes me most about Etosha is the clear, strong light at sunrise and sunset, bathing animals and landscapes in warm color.

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED ON MAPTIA 

IAN PLANT

@IanPlantPhoto 

World-renowned professional photographer, writer, and adventurer Ian Plant is a frequent contributor to and blogger for Outdoor Photographer Magazine, a Contributing Editor to Popular Photography Magazine, a monthly columnist for Landscape Photography Magazine, and a Tamron Image Master. Ian is also the author of numerous books and instructional videos. See more of his work at www.ianplant.com

What Took You So Long?

Certifiably nomadic.

This is just one of countless ways to describe the rag-tag, bootstrapped guerrilla filmmaking collective “What Took You So Long?” (WTSYL). On any given day, this small, yet powerful team may span the area of three, even four continents. From Ghana to Haiti, Qatar to Panama, the WTYSL clan is constantly on the move– capturing images, and telling the stories from wherever their feet land.

Whether they are spanning the globe in search of some illustrious camel milk (yes, camel milk), or organizing TEDx events for the masses, WTYSL are constantly in pursuit of personifying the stories of the unsung heroes our world has to offer.

As guerrilla filmmakers, the team operates under the philosophy of their medium being a way of life, as opposed to a simple means of production. This is why they choose to live with those of whom they are filming and working with, take public transportation, and seek locals to collaborate with in the pursuit of building lasting relationships.

To date, the team has filmed in over 60 countries, with no signs of slowing down. These photos provide a small glimpse into the lives of these digital nomads and their tales of misadventure across the globe; those of which will undoubtedly continue well into the future.

A Glimpse at Myanmar

The military junta has ruled Myanmar since 1962; challenges to the junta are quickly thwarted with a heavy hand. Information coming and going is monitored closely. Journalists cautiously sneak in and out, but many are blacklisted after reporting about the political situation.

The former capital city of Yangon, while not without its beauty, is developmentally stalled in the past with beat down cars cruising by crumbling buildings. No ATM’s can be found; a visitor must bring all the money they  need with them.

It’s easy to forget the 2007 Saffron Rebellion. It’s easy to forget that the country’s beloved Nobel Peace Prize recipient, Aung San Suu Kyi,  was under house arrest for the better part of the past two decades before her release in November of 2011. But regardless of its troubled past, you will rarely have a smile unreturned wherever you go. It’s easy to have a look around and feel that everything is just fine and dandy. 

JUSTIN MOTT @jmott78 

Justin is an editorial and commercial photographer born in Rhode Island, USA. He is living in Hanoi, Vietnam and working throughout SE Asia on personal projects and assignments. In 2008 his work on Agent Orange orphans was recognized in the PDN Annual and was awarded the Morty Forscher Fellowship for humanistic photography given out by the Parson’s School of Design in NYC.

For more on Justin and his photography visit: Mott Visuals

PHOTO ESSAY CURATED BY: Nelida Mortensen

Morocco: The Color of Tough

It was the cemeteries that first spoke to me.

Anarchic white tombstones tumbling down the foothills, flanked on one side by the Atlas mountains and on the other by the ancient doors of the walled town, or medina, of Fes. “Don’t go that way,” the doorman at our hotel had warned us, “there are thieves.” But my daughter and I did not find thieves. What we found were children younger than her, four years sifting through sparsely strewn garbage. Traveling salesmen, burlap bags full of leather goods, weaving a path through the graves; women with brightly colored head scarves carrying water vessels to fill at a well amongst the dead.

We also found many freshly dug holes with funeral processions gathering around. They weren’t gloomy-looking flocks, these funeral processions; almost everybody, male or female, appeared to be wearing red or orange or blue or lime green djellabas (robes). Only the widow of the deceased regularly wears white, I’m told, as if she were a Western bride.

Love and death: kids and carcasses are all quite close in Morocco, a country of hit-and-miss medical care. Locals are so devoid of squeamishness, that they often don’t mind riding in the same little red taxi-seat as a slaughtered sheep being transported by its owner to the tannery downtown.

Morocco—far from the coastal resorts and the gated mansions of European celebrities and American millionaires--defies stereotypes, outstrips expectations, and bursts with color and vigor. Women, who I’d imagined might behave in more subdued a manner than in the overtly feminist European countries nearby, straddled mopeds on Marrakech’s Jemma-El-Fna Square wearing hot pink robes or—not infrequently--hot pink jeans, and blithely cut off the path of male commuters. When I accompanied a French-Moroccan friend to a local farm outside of Essaouira, I watched in surprise as four generations of women served us home-ground couscous, milked, fed and straddled the animals, mended the wall of the central riad house and gathered local rock for a new one.

There were eight of them, living there on their own. The men in their lives had died, been dispatched abroad, rejected, or simply rendered redundant. The only male in the room was a framed picture of the Moroccan king hanging behind a fifty-year-old television set. The great-grandmother of the household scooped up my daughter and kissed her smack dab on the mouth.

CRISTINA NEHRING

Cristina is an American author, journalist and photographer who lives in Paris with her now 5-year-old daughter, Eurydice, who has Down Syndrome, and often serves as her model. Her work has appeared in Condé Nast Traveler, The New York Times, The Atlantic Monthly, Harper’s, Slate, The Nation and elsewhere. Her books are A Vindication of Love: Reclaiming Romance for the Twenty-First Century (HarperCollins) and Journey to the Edge of the Light: A Tale Of Love, Leukemia and Transformation (Amazon Kindle Singles). Her photo exhibits include “The Sky is Falling” and “Found Love” (Chico, California).

To contact Cristina for photo purchases and other inquiries, connect with her on Facebook @Cristina Nehring or email at cristinanehring@gmail.com.

Photo Essay Curated by Nelida Mortensen

100cameras

100cameras is an NGO that empowers marginalized children around the world to document their lives through photography, and thereby create positive change in their communities. 100% of the photography sales go back to the children’s communities. Here’s how it works: 100cameras gives a camera to Jackson in South Sudan. Jackson snaps a photo. Then you buy his photo on the 100cameras website. 100% goes back to Jackson and Jackson is empowered.

In 2008, 100cameras launched its first project at St. Bartholomew’s Orphanage in Kajo Keji, South Sudan that serves as a home to 80 children who lost their families during the brutal 21-year civil war. The orphanage was founded by IWASSRU (International Widows Association for Southern Sudanese Refugees in Uganda), a group of Sudanese war widows that banded together to care for refugee orphans. 100cameras funds lifeline supplies, such as protection and access to food, water, and medicine.

To date, the sale of the children’s photography has raised $17,000 that was used to build a fence around the campus, protecting them from the rebel forces in Sudan, and has provided critical maintenance for the truck that transports all food and medicine for the children. $17,000 is four times the average annual income in Sudan!

You can purchase a child's photograph on the 100cameras website and 100% of your purchase will go directly to IWASSRU to provide lifeline supplies and shelter.

This photo essay is a small selection of the more than 200 photographs of South Sudan taken by South Sudanese kids, as well as projects in other countries around the world.

Connect with 100cameras and purchase images of their kid photographers here. Check out their crowdfunding campaign going on now here at WEDIDIT.

The Burning Man

For close to three decades now, Nevada’s desert landscape has been annually transformed into the phenomenon that has come to be known as Black Rock City, home to the Burning Man. While the essence of Burning Man is often mislabeled as a massive party with excessive drug use, it is best described as "pop up society." One, which after a years worth of work, dedication, and preparation is burnt down to the desert floor, leaving it just as it was before its temporary inhabitants arrived.

Regardless of the stereotypes about the “hippy subculture” that Burning Man has been built upon, the festival embodies a spirit of collective freedom that is seldom seen in our world today. It has evolved into a place of worship, innovation, radical self-reliance, and authentic freedom of expression; where anyone can reinvent themself  into whomever they want, without the stresses of acceptance and judgment from the “real world”.

Amongst the plethora of art installations, participatory campsites, and whatever else Black Rock City births, Michael Marantz, Founder / Director of Already Alive, was inspired by one in particular, “The Temple”. In his mind, the installation of The Temple, “explores modern spirituality in a contemplative and personal manner; touching on ideas of self-discovery, letting go and meaningful human connection that transcends a simple party in the desert.”

Marantz’ inspiration led him to contribute to Burning Man’s consistent theme of a “gift economy” by producing a short film about it. Fortunately, Michael was able to capture the film in a series of still images, allowing those unable to participate in the experience of Burning Man, to have a taste of what it is like to reside in the world of Black Rock City.

Getting Lost in Slovenia

Photos & Text by, CRISTINA NEHRING
Photo Essay Curated by, NELIDA MORTENSEN

This is what Hansel and Gretel felt like, I mused as I erred through an opaque wood. Except that I had forgotten the breadcrumb trail; I had forgotten the bread. Just an hour ago, after all, my daughter and I had been at a café on the sea. A hundred-odd hairpin turns later in a tiny car and the world had changed, darkness was upon us, the trees were impassive. 

Slovenia is a country of extremes. Extreme sports, extreme combat, extreme resilience, extreme beauty. Tucked away tightly between Italy, Austria and Croatia, Slovenia shares an opening onto the Mediterranean and a big chunk of the Alps. Only half the size of Switzerland--and with a population of just 2 million--it packs an abundance of micro-climates into a tiny space. When Slovenia was part of Yugoslavia (until 1991), it accounted for a mere 8% of the land and population of its mother country, but 60% of its industry. Once independence was declared (Slovenia was the first of Yugoslavia’s six republics to split off, and to do so essentially without bloodshed), its economy and industry only took off.

Today, it is The Little Country that Could. In the Soca River Valley where many hundreds of thousands lost their lives during World War I (as recounted, in part, by Hemingway in A Farewell to Arms), locals now receive tourists for river-rafting, canyoning and paragliding. And yet the ghosts have not gone. Gingerbread-houses feel like they are just around the corner, haunted-seeming castles emerge every few miles, and every rock and rabbit appears to have a story to tell.

My girl and I gripped each others hands tightly, and kept forging ahead until the light reappeared. Like the Slovenian people have done so many times. And there’s very little more radiant than Slovenia under the sun.

CRISTINA NEHRING

Cristina is an American author, journalist and photographer. Her work has appeared in Condé Nast Traveler, The New York Times, The Atlantic Monthly, Harper’s, Slate, The Nation and elsewhere.Her books are A Vindication of Love: Reclaiming Romance for the Twenty-First Century (HarperCollins) and Journey to the Edge of the Light: A Tale Of Love, Leukemia and Transformation (Amazon Kindle Singles).Her photo exhibits include “The Sky is Falling” and “Found Love” (Chico, California).She lives in Paris with her now 5-year-old daughter, Eurydice, who has Down Syndrome, and often serves as her model. For photo purchases and other inquiries visit her website at: www.cristinanehring.com 

Wild Rivers Survive HidroAysen Dam Plan

Patagonia Sin Represas ! ! !

Good news recently in wild ecosystem preservation, and hopefully for sustainable energy in South America. This development came out of a fight we encountered two years ago . . . in a land far, far away . . . .

In 2012, during the waning weeks of the southern summer, I was weaving my way towards Tierra del Fuego on a mountain bike, touring through the wilderness of the southern Andes. After heading south from Bariloche, Argentina, we passed through El Bolson, Parque del los Alerces, and Trevelin before reaching the Chilean border at Rio Futalaufu. We were headed for the fabled Carretera Austral, a 1,240 km long north-south route revered for its stunning scenery as it cuts through the remote Aysen region of southern Chile. 

The roadway was a project begun by the dictator Carlos Pinochet to connect disparate communities and develop the far flung region. In 2012 the province (officially the "11th Region" of Chile, also the least populated) was fomenting under a simmering rebellion. The local authorities had called for a general strike, petitioning for a host of economic supports and funding assistance for social programs from the central government.

Behind the tensions was HidroAysen, a plan to build a gargantuan hydro-electric power complex, to be linked with Santiago via a 2,200km power conduit. Giant billboards touting the project (the slogan translated: "In HidroAysen our commitment is with you") lined the roadway. The quid-pro-quo appeared to be that Aysen would be granted all sorts of assistance if those running it would clear the way for the dam project to move forward. Based on what we heard from the locals, however, it seemed as if the government had recently turned the screws on the region, cutting funding and allowing fuel prices to rise, backing its frontier denizens into a corner.

The appeal of the region to the power developers is no surprise. While many hydro-electric projects depend upon water sources that fluctuate year-to-year due to weather cycles, Aysen contains “Los Campos de Hielo Norte y Sur” (or Northern & Southern Patagonian Ice fields) which feed dozens of glaciers. Together they form the largest contiguous ice field outside of Antarctica & Greenland. The five planned dams of HidroAysen were to be built on the two major rivers that drain these ice fields. If there was ever a virtually unlimited water bank to fuel a power project, this was it.

The dams would also have been situated in pristine riverine territory, revered by those who appreciate the wild nature of the area. Aysen has become a prime ecotourism destination, drawing many to the stellar rafting and kayaking. We were travelling along the Baker River while protests against the project were being held, one that I joined. It truly was a stunning and remote area, and the thought of its stark beauty beset by a massive construction project was upsetting to say the least.

While the government had pushed hard, resistance (aided by support from the Patagonia clothing company & its leaders) to the project was entrenched, and it appears they have prevailed as the government recently decided to finally veto the project. In the end the required power line was the Achilles heel, as it had to travel through a long restricted corridor. At one point all the dams had been approved, but the opposition focused on blocking the power line, without which the power would have been stranded.

The cancellation will likely place future strain upon the country's energy sources, but presents a golden opportunity to spur investment in sustainable renewables and efficiency. Lacking fossil fuels, the country has recently been developing solar projects on a larger scale, and is moving towards more progressive energy solutions. You can read more about how Chile will address its energy needs here.

Along with writing by Patagonia’s Director of Environmental Programs as she visited the region in 2006 and witnessed the initial stages of HidroAysen.

You can see our cycling journey documented at the site www.volksonbikes.blogspot.com

GREGORY ALTMAN

@GregAlt

Greg has etched a winding path around the world over the years, at times doing photo documentary projects, more recently engaged in the international development field. He finds cycle touring to be the ultimate mode of travel to experience a land to its fullest. This native New Yorker's passions include art, natural food & cooking, genuine foreign cultures, and cycling.

Conflict Zones Through The Lens of Marcus Bleasdale

“This is an exciting time for digital storytellers.”

Child soldiers taking refuge in the DRC

Congolese mine workers

Congolese child soldier

Malnutrition and lack of health care is a major cause of death in the DRC

Mineworkers digging for minerals in the DRC

Mining fields in the DRC

Over 5.5 million deaths have been recorded throughout the DRC conflict. Not all are from direct violence, as disease and lack of access to health care are far greater contributors to the death toll.

Truer words have never been spoken. But in the spirit of the commencement of this year’s Social Good Summit, it should be noted that these storytellers also hold a great responsibility to the masses. As a distinguished photographer, Marcus Bleasdale embodies this sense of responsibility in his coverage of conflict areas around the world through the medium of his trusted camera lens. Over the past 15 years, the region of the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) has captured his steady attention.

Throughout his time working within the DRC, Bleasdale has gained a first-hand perspective into a nation that, while rich in minerals, has been coerced into a haunting reality of violence, disease, poverty and profound injustice. Children are stripped of their adolescence, forced into militant lives plagued by mindless violence at the behest of their devious superiors. Families are torn apart, displaced, and involuntary bare witness to the perils of life within the misleading comfort of their own backyards. 
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As the conflict within the borders has continued to run its rampant course over the past 15+ years, 2 million Congolese natives have been displaced, 40,000 women fall victim of sexual violence annually, and over 5.5 million deaths have been recorded as a result of rampant disease, and violence throughout the region. In his Keynote adderess to the Social Good audience, Bleasdale stressed that these are simply the statistics; his images however, are what interpret the reality.

An important distinction however, is how Bleasdale goes about creating a narrative of an area so riddled by conflict for decades. He goes into depth about how he works to construct such a narrative in saying:

“For me, I’m trying to engage in order to enhance the narrative that I’m trying to tell. There are many different aspects of the story to engage with - the mind, the child soldiers, the sexual violence, displacement, horrific health issues that have spread through the DRC. I have to touch on each one of those in each unique situation to try and engage with a subject in a way that will truly hone the message that this should stop.”

He delves deeper in his philosophy toward photojournalism in conflict areas, stating, “Every image cannot be misery, and should not be so difficult to look at that you want to turn away. You have to also try to look for the beauty, and the hope, to show the opportunity that is available that has not necessarily been seized.”

Having covered the Democratic Republic of Congo for more than 15 years now, Bleasdale’s knowledge and wisdom towards his craft should be respected. As for his advice for the brave soul aspiring to photojournalism of this nature; one word came to mind, patience.

“Everything takes time, especially when working within the areas I have. In relation to my work in the DRC, you can’t tell that story in a week, a month. I’ve been telling that story for 15 years now and still I don’t think it’s finished, because it’s still going on.“

An award-winning photographer who has been heralded by the US House of Representatives, The United Nations and the House of Parliament in the UK, Bleasedale will undoubtedly continue to be a respected voice within the realm of photography, specifically within regions of conflict.

He can be followed on twitter @marcusbleasedale.

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ANDREW BRIDGE @Bridgin_TheGap

Andrew is Editor-in-Chief of CATALYST's Social Good Summit Daily, and Managing Editor of CATALYST. He is a global enthusiast with a passion for the road less traveled. As a frequent collaborator with World Hip Hop Market and Nomadic Wax, Andrew has worked with numerous socially conscious artists from around the world in the pursuit of inspiring cultural understanding and exchange through entertainment. This fascination with the world at large has taken him to over 20 countries (so far) through studying, volunteering, and writing about his travels, with no signs of slowing.

Ukraine's Revolution from Within

Photos by, Graham Lawlor
Text by, Andrew Bridge

It has been nearly half a year since hundreds of thousands of Ukrainian citizens gathered on Kiev’s Independence Square with justice on their minds and revolution in the air. After constant protests and violent clashes against the corrupt powers that were put in place by former President Victor Yanukovych, the Ukrainian citizens took back what is rightfully theirs; but that was just the beginning.

Since the launch of the uprising, now recognized as the Euromaidan, clashes between Ukrainian and Russian nationals have spread from Kiev to Crimea. Russian forces have flexed their strength while Russian-speaking residents violently clash with Ukrainian citizens throughout the country. And as the death toll rises, it becomes harder to see if the end of the violence is near, or what the resolution will be.

With the continuous uprisings and domestic conflicts, a new breed of travelers have risen. Those from outside the borders are eager to get on the ground, despite the danger, in order to learn first-hand what is going on, why it is happening, and where it may lead.

New York City based entrepreneur and economist, Graham Lawlor, serves as a prime example as he voyaged into the heart of Kiev as the uprising began. Throughout his weeklong experience in Independence Square, Lawlor dove deeper into the matter at hand as he interviewed countless protesters: nuns, students, laborers, etc..

In reflecting on his time in Kiev, Lawlor recalled that the first few days were upbeat, possessing  a strong sense of optimism and purpose in the air. However, this mood changed  on January 16th when Yanukovych passed a law that criminalized these demonstrations. Days later, the violence and clashes truly began, eventually leading to the overthrowing of the government.

When asked his opinion on the conflict’s progression following his return home, Lawlor’s answer was simple: “Civil War.” It appears his assessment was correct, as violence continues throughout Ukraine, yet citizens remain hopeful for peace and prosperity in the future.

 His photos depict the mood of Kiev at the start of a revolution, and the brave citizens who made it happen.

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GRAHAM LAWLOR @revoportaits

Graham is the founder of Ultra Light Startups, which helps Fortune 100 companies and government institutions connect with startups based on their strategic and financial objectives. He is a frequent guest speaker, moderator, interviewer, and press source on startups and online business.