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Nyani Quarmyne's Blog (43 unread)

July 28, 2010
16:40
Hunting for Gold
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Hunting for Gold I (click to view)

Hunting for Gold II (click to view)
July 15, 2010
13:15
Aurora Photos: This Just In...
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I'm an Aurora Photos contributor, and just had one of my favourite football images featured on their new blog. Check it out here: [news.auroraphotos.com] The blog's well worth subscribing to - Aurora's photographers produce some incredible images.
July 14, 2010
18:34
Five million dollars? You must be joking - I stole twice that much last week!
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The Mo Ibrahim Foundation has again been unable to find a suitable candidate for the Ibrahim Prize. Sponsored by Mo Ibrahim, a Sudanese tycoon who made his fortune in the British telecommunications industry, the prize offers five million dollars to an African leader who demonstrates principled government during his/her term in office, and then leaves office democratically at the end of that term. In addition to the five million dollars, which is paid over a ten year period, the recipient receives a further $200 000 per annum for life. So, half a million dollars a year for 10 years, and then 200 grand a year for life thereafter. Not bad money by my reckoning. So why are there no candidates?
The problem, according to a recent editorial I saw, is that those African leaders who are, shall we say... materially motivated, make so much from their, er... supplementary income-generating activities that five million and 200 grand a year for life is a laughable proposition - "Five million dollars? Over 10 years? You must be joking! I stole twice that much last week!" Hmm. An interesting situation. It makes sense, I suppose. After all, why would one voluntarily leave a position with such incomparable 'earning' potential?
Democratic movements, popular uprisings and even civil wars haven't proven particularly effective at shifting the buggers, so following the Ibrahim Prize's approach of incentivising autocratically inclined African leaders to a) behave and b) leave office when asked, what worthwhile incentives could one possibly offer to entice dictators to step aside for the greater good of all (or at the very least to let someone else have a go)? Perhaps we could designate some uninhabited, mineral-rich part of the continent Despotlandia, ship all the dic's off there and leave them to loot and pillage in their own little playpen? No, that wouldn't work - no people to intimidate, extort and torture... Maybe we could have the Dictatorship World Championships - quickest one to amass a billion dollars and GET OUT and leave everyone in peace wins a free island somewhere warm and sunny. Second and third places get private jets and a castle in the south of France. Hmm... But then everyone would want to have a go at being a dictator. Oh, and they already have their castles... I know - perhaps we could levy a Tyrant Tax on the citizens of African countries, the revenue from which goes into the pockets of dictatorial rulers in return for their living in seclusion and allowing the rule of law to prevail beyond the bounds of their palatial accommodations. But hang on, isn't that already where many Africans' taxes go? At least the the rule of law bit would be new...
Any other suggestions out there? Surely we can come up with something!
June 27, 2010
12:19
Football Fever, Part II
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Accra went absolutely nuts last night after the Ghana's 2 - 1 defeat of the the USA! NKA and I started out around the Osu Night Market hoping to capture an alternative perspective to where we caught the last match, but to our surprise the place was dead at kick-off time. We legged it to Independence Square, where a good size crowd was watching a free live broadcast on a huge screen. The light was fading fast, and with no street lighting it was soon too dark to shoot with ambient light - I didn't want to annoy all those people trying to enjoy the match with my flash. (Gotta love the D700 - usable shots at ISO 25,600? Yes, we can!) So at half time, back to Osu it was, this time to Epo's, after a brief stop at Bywell en route.
By the end of the second half, the energy in the place was crackling; Ghana's goal in extra time ratcheted it up even higher, and when the final whistle blew the place just erupted. The mayhem predictably spilled out onto Oxford Street as people chanted slogans in impromptu parades, cruised the strip in (and on) cars, and raced motorcycles, bicycles and even wheelchairs up and down the street amongst the revelling pedestrians. When the party got so hectic that I was holding my camera up above my head to stop the flash being ripped off in the crush, it was time to go...
Look out, Uruguay!
June 25, 2010
22:27
Football Fever, Ghana Style
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Big game tomorrow... Go, Black Stars!
And, yes, this gallery is Photoshop free...
June 24, 2010
13:40
How to Lose and Win All at Once
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I had forgotten how much fun it is to watch a football game (soccer, for some of you) in a public place in Ghana, even just on television. Ghanaians approach football with something akin to religious fervor, and with the World Cup on, the Church of the Ball is in full swing.

NKA and I joined the congregation in front of the large outdoor screen at Epo's Spot in Osu last night to watch Ghana's match against Germany, and then followed the faithful down onto Oxford Street where crowds celebrated after Ghana's 1-0 loss. Yes, that's right, we partied after losing... because Ghana moves ahead into the next round on goal difference anyway. Perhaps it's because we managed to lose and win at the same time that the president urged the nation to "celebrate modestly".
June 20, 2010
15:38
Divided Loyalties
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My Australian wife, Fiona, and I got a number of calls and SMS messages during yesterday's Australia - Ghana World Cup match to enquire as to where our loyalties lay. For my part, being Ghanaian/ Filipino and a naturalized Australian, I can report that I was very much Ghanaian yesterday, and wore the shirt to prove it. Besides, it would probably have been suicidal to be out photographing Ghana supporters in an 'Australia' t-shirt...
Fiona chose to draw on her diplomatic background, and as the sole Australian supporter amongst a crowd of a thousand Ghanaians, chose to cheer quietly on the inside.
While the football was disappointing, at least the photography was not.
June 12, 2010
15:35
What did they teach you at school?
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I went to the bank the other day, and the teller had to pull out a calculator to subtract Ghc 323 from Ghc 330. And at the pool, the gate attendant needed a calculator to work out (3 x 7) + 4. OK, maybe the pool guy hasn’t had much education – let’s give him the benefit of the doubt. But surely you don’t become a bank teller, and count money all day, without having been to school. Which begs the question, what did they teach you at school?
I’ve seen literacy figures for Ghana quoted at 65%, but I don’t believe it. I’ve stopped being surprised when people can’t write their names, or spell the name of the town they live in. I’ve taken to carrying an ink pad so I can get thumb prints rather than signatures.
But then, when you see what often passes for a school here it’s not hard to imagine that people might ‘graduate’ without being able to read and write, add and subtract. Putting aside the woeful physical condition of some of the schools I’ve seen, what I found most striking is the almost complete absence of books. In a primary school I visited last week I saw a total of three books in the entire school, and each one was in the hands of a teacher. There wasn’t even any provision for books –not a bookshelf or a cupboard to be seen.
What’s the solution? I don’t know. Obviously, as they say in Zimbabwe, “it’s problem of gov’ment.” But successive gov’ments have clearly not held up their end on a number of fronts, education among them, so what’s to do? (I know, I know – there is the school feeding program; enrollment is rising, etc, etc. But if we can’t even teach basic subtraction to the kids that we already have in school, how can we possibly cope with even more of them?) Are we to depend on Civil Society Organisations to step into the breach? Beg more donors for more money?
Nana Kofi Acquah suggested in a recent blog post that “all young successful Africans should volunteer as teachers in deprived schools one week, every year.” I support the sentiment but I don’t think it’s the answer – we need adequately-resourced, qualified, dedicated teachers, not more lay people than we already have. But perhaps if more people got involved then home-grown, grassroots solutions would begin to emerge. It certainly couldn’t make the situation any worse, could it?
The photo above reminded me of an illiterate fisherman I met in a coastal village: Fishing is not what it used to be and there is no future in it for his children. He said going to school to get an education was the only hope for them. From what I’ve seen, at present at least, there’s not much hope in that either.
June 11, 2010
11:32
A Good Day for a Football Photo
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It's as good a day as any for a football photo, I guess! Soccer in the rain inside a derelict building in Jamestown, Accra.
June 10, 2010
15:49
The Jester
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A jester at the Accra - Tema bus station.
June 09, 2010
11:43
Obroni, are you white?
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This little girl danced around me in circles singing, “Obruni (white person), are you white?” She was completely stumped when I said, “Well, that depends – are you black?”
It’s funny being an ‘obruni’ in Ghana after years of being ‘black’ in North America and Australia. We love to have boxes to put people in, don’t we? Same boxes, different labels.
April 30, 2010
14:14
Jamestown Fishermen
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Fishermen tend their nets in Accra's Jamestown Harbour after returning from sea .
April 28, 2010
0:37
What Happens in the Meantime?
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I wanted to capture the effect of climate change on this little Ghanaian village, which now floods for lengthy periods of the year when tides are high. At the time I shot, the flooding was not at its worst (that happens in August), and peak water levels only occurred at night which made capturing the scene, and particularly its human element, something of a photographic challenge. I was there with my family and a good friend, and with our guides we explored by torchlight, traipsing around in the muck with a tripod, and took some long exposures of a flooded area of the village, using manual bursts of diffused flash to freeze human subjects in the scene. And then I saw this little family making their way home along a flooded thoroughfare, and I knew I had to get this shot.

I’d seen the village in the daytime on a previous visit. It’s a poor community, made up of people who are essentially living in a swamp as they have been forced out of the original site of their village as it progressively washes away. There is no sanitation, and in a desperate attempt to create habitable ground upon which to build their huts they are using garbage as landfill to reclaim swampland for settlement. As you walk around the edges of the village the ground is springy, as there is nothing but a thin layer of dirt over bed of plastic bags, bottles and other trash to support your weight.

So when the water comes in and the village floods, you can imagine how unpleasant it is – swampy water, garbage, excrement. And people wading through it, barefoot, towards their homes. The friend who accompanied us went off his food for days after we left.

My initial reaction was, How can people allow themselves to live like this? As a father, with my own daughter nearby, I thought, Couldn’t they find a few blocks or planks to create makeshift elevated pathways so their children don’t have to wade through filth? Couldn’t they fill a few sandbags? As we departed we were implored to “tell the Government to come and help us”, and I thought, Why should I bother to help people won’t even help themselves? The attitude in the village seemed such a stark contrast to others I’d seen in the area, where even though people didn’t have much there was clearly pride in their environs, and I saw residents pitching in to tackle similar problems.

As I tried to understand how things could come to this I discussed the village with people who know the area far better than I do, and the situation became much more complex. The villagers had moved from their original homes because they were being washed away. But the land they moved to, adjoining the original village, had apparently been bought by wealthy developers who intend to build luxury chalets. The villagers believed the land had been illegitimately sold in the first place, but when they attempted to create structures of any permanence the developers came in and forcefully demolished them. The dispute is ongoing. Garbage, it seems, is both a means of reclamation and a de facto passive resistance, likely with little understanding of the environmental implications of creating a landfill site in the middle of a river delta. The government has apparently proposed a location to resettle the village, but they have ties to their traditional home, and the proposed site is far from water and they are fishing people.

The end result is a kind of inertia, within which people wade through filth whenever the tide is high. It made me contemplate just how complex issues like climate change are when you examine them at a human level. International protocols for emission control, carbon trading schemes, the search for greener technologies, conferences in faraway places... These are all very well, but what happens to little villages like this one, and countless others like it, in the meantime?
April 12, 2010
17:12
Something More Glamourous than my Usual Fare...
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My buddy and fellow photographer, Nana Kofi Acquah (blog & website), rang me up yesterday and said, "Hey, wanna come along on a shoot?" Turns out it was a feature for new Accra magazine, Dust, showcasing the Maksi designer label. But there was also a TV crew there, doing a feature on Dust for South Africa's M-Net cable TV network. So we have M-Net shooting NKA shooting Maksi...

As is often the case, the shoot turned into an afternoon's free entertainment for the patrons of the beachside watering hole that was the location, and many of them literally lined their chairs up on the terrace and settled in to watch the show. (At least there were no catcalls this time.) We had a ball regardless, and NKA ended up shooting well into darkness. I squeezed off a few frames (such as the one above) while the TV crew were interviewing NKA and wanted the photoshoot to continue in the background. It was quite a glamorous departure from my last shoot, really, which involved being knee deep in sewage-laden floodwater...

As a photographer, I always welcome the opportunity to observe the creative process of someone whose work I respect. And, of course, it's always fun to play with someone else's toys!

See more images on Nana Kofi Acquah's blog, and while you're at it, have a look at Slaughter Boy.
April 08, 2010
23:43
A Story in the Lines of a Face
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April 07, 2010
17:35
Going Organic
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Tetteh Asallah is a young Ghanaian farmer near Ada, Ghana, who is participating in a program that is encouraging the use of organic manure instead of commercial fertilizers. This has the double benefits of providing livestock producers with an additional income stream, and allowing growers to use natural, locally produced products that are of longer term value than an annual application of fertilizer.

Fertilizer choice aside, what I personally found most striking was the that people are able to coax healthy crops of maize, okra, tomatoes, onions and watermelons from the sandy coastal soils.
April 05, 2010
23:04
SANZA one
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Aspiring musician, Michael "SANZA one" Sanza on a street in Jamestown, Accra.
March 25, 2010
19:39
Death by Drowning - In a City Street
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(Children clear gutters of debris during a flash flood in Jamestown, Accra, Ghana. Click image to visit photo gallery.)

The sky had been heavy with rain for much of the day, but then suddenly opened up at about 4:30 in the afternoon. When the rain began to fall, I was shooting a game of pick-up soccer inside a derelict building with no roof in Jamestown, a very old, densely-populated part of Accra. The game continued regardless of the downpour, so I kept shooting. There were kids running up and down the street nearby, splashing in puddles, exuberant in the rain.

As the rain slowed I decided I had enough frames, and my guide and I started to head for our next location. To avoid the traffic, we turned off the High Street and drove into the maze of Jamestown proper. A couple of streets later we approached a blind corner through what at first appeared to be a big puddle, before rounding the curve to find the car partly submerged and surrounded by agitated people wading through fast-flowing, filthy water.

In the time it took to pull over and grab the camera the water had begun to subside. Within minutes the roadway was visible, revealing garbage and debris strewn along the length of the street.

As fast as the water had risen it was gone. But not before, somewhere nearby, three children had been swept away and drowned.
March 16, 2010
9:40
The Future has Arrived, and it Doesn't Look Good
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As someone who had never really been directly confronted with its reality, I tended to think about climate change in the abstract to a certain extent - yes, it's bad; yes, on an intellectual level I understand that it's happening; yes, we need to do something about it; yes, I try to make ethical decisions and live in an environmentally conscious way without straying too far from my comfort zone... Sure, I've read about islands in the South Pacific that are threatened by rising sea levels; I've seen documentaries on polar bears drowning as their habitat melts. So I agree that it's a bad thing over a beer with friends, and buy products from companies that plough revenues into global warming initiatives. It's cosy in my comfort zone.

Truth is, I've been guilty of viewing climate change as something of an impending reality, rather than an incontrovertible, immediate reality, and I know I'm not alone in this.

But then last week I went out to shoot a collection of images on the impacts of climate change on the coastal area around Ada, Ghana, ahead of a visit to Radio Ada by board members of ONE, some of their high-profile guests, and the CEO of Care International. And let me tell you, climate change is not an impending problem - the future has arrived, and it doesn't look good.
March 01, 2010
8:07
At Grace With Chance
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Late last year I had the pleasure of meeting Cape Breton photographer, Carol Kennedy. She's a veritable institution on the island, and was kind enough to invite me round to her studio, where we spent a lovely fall afternoon chatting about photography over a cup of coffee. (It really was gorgeous day - I shot this on the way home.) She said something to me that day that stuck in my mind: as photographers, she said, "we have to be at grace with chance."

It's a wavy line sometimes, the one between vision, ability and technical expertise on one hand, and the luck of capturing a fleeting moment on the other. Whether it comes in the form of the flicker of an irreproducible expression, or a momentary shaft of sunlight piercing obdurate cloud cover, sometimes it's a stroke of sheer luck that elevates a beautifully conceived and flawlessly executed image from 'nice' to 'fantastic'.

I thought about this during a run of incredibly bad luck while shooting on a location I wrote about a while ago. It rained and rained on the morning of the shoot, so we didn't get the dawn shots we wanted. The truck that was hired to haul gear didn't show up, meaning we couldn't take all the gear. So when the generator died on location, taking the lights down with it, we didn't have the backup unit to hand. We quickly negotiated to draw power from a nearby home, but just as we finished rigging up the connection the entire neighbourhood suffered a power outage. Meanwhile, wonderful dancer, Cecilia, (above) was taken ill and had to be rushed back to the city, nixing our plans for sunset shots as well.

As we set about making the most of our bad luck, I thought about what Carol had said. Luck goes both ways, and being "at grace with chance" means being ready to make the most of the good as well as the bad.

At the end of the day, we got our shots. But I still have a sunset image in my mind that I'll have to go back for one of these days...
February 25, 2010
15:36
W.C. Fields said...
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..."Never work with children or animals."

Phew. What a day.
February 22, 2010
23:38
Computers in a Container
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Almost 20 years ago, out of the recognition that children in her Accra neighbourhood did not have the opportunity to read storybooks, Kathy Knowles started a reading circle under a tree. From such beginnings, her reading circle has grown into the Osu Children’s Library Fund, which establishes and supports libraries and literacy programs around Africa.

Recognising that literacy is not just about books, the Fund has established a small computer training facility at one of its Accra libraries, which I had the opportunity to shoot. Housed in a shipping container, the computer lab and similarly constructed lending library are a great example of how very much can be achieved with very little.
February 17, 2010
22:58
In the Rough
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I had a chuckle when I rediscovered this shot from around Cochiti Lake, New Mexico. Gives a whole new meaning to "in the rough".
February 13, 2010
14:30
Children on the Roof
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While location scouting for an upcoming shoot, we found an unassuming little house with a view that makes you feel like you're standing at the very edge of civilization. In fact, the view is not even visible from the house itself, as its frontage is obscured by banana trees and other vegetation. But climb up onto the rooftop, and a breathtaking vista opens up before you... The children in the photo live there, and the roof is their playground.
February 09, 2010
9:00
Paint the Town Red
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There used to be a certain charm to the appearance of shops and roadside kiosks in Accra. Those who could afford to painted their places in hues that pleased their eyes, and the colourful hand-painted signs advertising places of business were something of an artistic genre in their own right. Even where paint had long since worn thin, the weathered facades of old buildings sometimes had a charm that hinted at storied pasts. Today however, the old hand-painted signs are seen less and less frequently, with soulless digitally printed plastic taking their place. And the buildings have become more uniform, too, as telecom companies paint the town red.

I think the way it works is that the telcos offer to paint roadside buildings for free - in their colours, and with their logos emblazoned on the walls. I guess if you can't afford to buy paint it may seem like a good deal. But as the telcos vie for supremacy in Ghana's cluttered mobile telecommunications marketplace the end result is that the whole city seems to be turning MTN Yellow or Vodafone Red. Sometimes entire streets glare with rival companies' garish colours, reducing every building in sight to nothing more than an inhabitable billboard.

Does anyone really want the city to look this way?
February 08, 2010
11:01
Yinka at Sunset
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February 05, 2010
15:51
Going with the Flow in Bamako
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The shoot was a last minute thing, and as of the time I climbed aboard the charter flight to Bamako I didn't actually know if I was going to Guinea via Mali, or Senegal via Mali, or Senegal via Mali and Guinea, or all of the above. In fact, I didn't know if I was going anywhere at all, as I didn't have a visa for any of the above. But then, travel in West Africa doesn't work the way it does in other places.

When we touched down in Bamako a fixer welcomed us in the arrivals hall, took our passports and ushered us into a waiting vehicle. We were taken off to lunch (without having cleared immigration…) at a nice hotel while entry requirements and other formalities were seen to.

The next step was a road journey into Guinea. One used to be able to fly, but since the recent coup in that country all air traffic must pass through the capital of Conakry, which didn't work with our timeframe. We were all set to go, but my Guinea visa hadn't come through yet... After several exasperated phonecalls on the part of the person responsible for travel arrangements my passport suddenly reappeared, complete with visa. We were ready to rock and roll.

The cramped and dusty but nonetheless enthralling streets of Bamako, alive with people, motorcycles, scooters, goats and donkey carts, soon gave onto the open road and scenery that took me back to eastern and southern Africa. The driver seemed to enjoy honing his roadcraft by brushing the tips of his wing mirrors against the shoulders of hapless cyclists and motorcyclists, even when there was room for three lorries to pass abreast, but somehow we made it to the border without bowling anyone sideways into a ditch. Whether this is due to the skill of the driver or the reflexive shoulder twitching of the cyclists I cannot be sure.

“Border” is a little too formal a word for what exists between many countries in this region. This one consisted of a few oil drums and some rope with fluttering plastic bags along its length. Passports appeared to be very much optional for all but those in expensive-looking cars, and a thriving community lives in the no-man’s-land between the two countries, happily strolling back and forth between nations as fancy strikes them. If ever there was a scene to illustrate the absurdity of drawing straight lines on a map across a patchwork of ethnic groups, tribes and even families declaring, “this is mine, that is yours”, this is it. Once again, formalities were dispensed with in absentia, though we had to be patient while the driver negotiated a wonderfully complex process of collecting stamps and showing papers before we could continue on our way.

The cumulative delays since our early morning start saw us driving well into the night, reaching the general area (in the broadest sense) of our destination about 10pm. It was at this point that we discovered that the driver did not actually know where we were going. My rusty French was pressed into service, and we began to quiz passersby. Everyone very helpfully gave us directions, however none of them led to the same place... After exploring seemingly endless kilometers of dirt road and the limits of my French, we somehow found our destination.

The shoot the next day went brilliantly, with my favourite part of it being spent in a little village along a dusty track. (I wish I could share the images, but bad things would happen if I did. It’s a long story that unfortunately I’m not at liberty to relate…) When the crowd following us around the village grew to a size that made it impossible to get a clean shot without the assistance of riot police (no, not literally!) we decided to call it a day.

The return journey the following day was uneventful, save for a yelling match with the client, a lost passport (temporarily, fortunately), a boozy lunch and a missed flight. So, overnight in Bamako it was…

In the morning the phone rang:

“You need to come downstairs right now, a car is waiting to take you to the airport!”

“Great! What airline are we on and what time is the flight?”

“Er… Um… Don’t worry, your tickets are waiting for you at the airport!” Righto.

Thereafter ensued a frantic period of sleuth work at the airport to find out what airline we were on. Finally we found someone who said, “Oh yes, I’ve seen your name…”, who kindly issued us some tickets. However, they only went as far as Abidjan. Never mind, we’d sort it out at the other end. We dashed onto the plane, together with 50kg of hand luggage, and prepared to repeat the process in an hour’s time…

When we arrived in Abidjan a couple of warm beers later, it was to discover that the computer networks of both airlines that we might possibly have been booked on were down. A long queue snaked around the departure hall, going nowhere fast. We settled into a couple of chairs and practiced the venerable art of waiting. After a couple of hours the computers came back to life, allowing us to verify which airline we were on and, better still, even leaving us enough time to catch our flight. Once again we headed for the aircraft with all of our luggage, though this time I had to reassure the security personnel that I was not going to hijack the plane armed with my reflective umbrellas.

Once aboard, we discovered that the plane was fuller than full, so a steward very kindly pulled a drinks trolley out of its hatch in the galley and stashed my camera kit in its place.

And as we touched down in Accra a little while later I was relieved not to see the aforementioned trolley careening down the aisle. The trip had certainly had its ups and downs, but that’s no reason to abuse alcohol.
January 17, 2010
18:31
Obama in Ghana
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'President Obama' participates in the Winneba Masquerade Festival in Winneba, Ghana on New Year's Day 2010.
January 14, 2010
9:36
Coming Home
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The transition was surreal – from the order and icy chill of New York in December to the steamy humidity and ramshackle sprawl of Accra. It’s supposed to be the Harmattan season here, the time of year when dry northerly winds bring clouds of dust from the Sahara, obscuring the sun and coating everything in a fine patina of orange. But as in many other places, the weather seems to be broken this season – the Harmattan is unusually light, and while this means less dust, it also means that there is no relief from the heat.

Ghana is where my heritage lies (well, half of it anyway) – it is where my father is from, and even though he spent a great deal of his life living and working all over the world this has always been home for him, and it has always been his wish that it be home for me, too. Even though I have been a citizen all my life, I have never actually lived here, having spent my life to date in places* that are far removed from the rawness and pulsating intensity of West Africa. This is a place I have visited regularly since my childhood, but by the same token it is a place that I’ve never seen with more than a visitor’s eye.

In my adult years I have had something of a love/ hate relationship with Ghana. I love its aliveness, its vibrance and Ghanaians themselves. I’m captivated by the depth, richness and diversity of cultures and tradition that I have yet to understand. But at the same time I am worn down by the assault on the senses that is everyday life here. I am frustrated by the venal hybrid of ‘Africaness’ and ‘Westerness’ that seems to spring forth whenever the traditional and the capitalist are fused.

But here I am, with my family in tow, to find out whether there is a place for us here. After many years in worlds where dollars rule, I hope to turn my efforts to endeavours where my contributions may be measured in terms more meaningful than just revenue. And along the way I hope I’ll look up from the viewfinder one day and know I’m home.

* Kenya, Zimbabwe, Swaziland, Canada, Australia, USA
December 24, 2009
11:26
Revisiting History on Cape Breton Island
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I had the opportunity to shoot production stills on location on Cape Breton Island in eastern Nova Scotia, Canada for a History Channel documentary based on author Paul Chiasson's book, The Island of Seven Cities: Where the Chinese Settled when they Discovered America.

We started at dawn to make the most of a window of opportunity between weather fronts, taking off by helicopter from Cabot Shores at the mouth of Cape Breton Island's St Ann's Harbour, before heading across the bay, rounding the tip of Cape Dauphin, and setting down atop Kelly's Mountain. It is here, while hiking on the mountain in 2002, that Chiasson believes he found the ruins of an ancient Chinese settlement.

A Cape Breton native and a descendent of Acadian settlers who made the island their home during the early days of European settlement, Chiasson was exploring on the mountain when he stumbled upon what appeared to be the remains of an ancient road bordered by stone walls. His curiosity piqued, he followed it. The walls along the road are typical of the stone constructions that are sometimes found along the borders of old farmlands, but here they led to a place better suited to fortification than farming – high, windswept, rocky terrain with a commanding view of the ocean below. Who, wondered Chiasson, built this road, and why?

Chiasson began to research the possible origins of the road and the ruins he eventually found at its end, and in his book he takes the reader on a fascinating journey through Cape Breton’s past. Chiasson believes that the island first appeared in the European historical record as the “Island of Seven Cities”, an almost mythical place spoken of by European sailors who got lost in the Atlantic and eventually managed to find their way home. He asserts that the ancient Chinese had found, settled, and abandoned the island well before the European age of exploration and discovery. He makes the case that the legacy of the Chinese endures to this day in the language, dress and oral traditions of Cape Breton’s native Mi’kmaq people.

It seems to me that our ‘knowledge’ of the past, the history we learn and study, often comes to be seen as the truth, rather than as what it is – theoretical knowledge based on facts, assumptions and hypotheses grounded in what we can glean from surviving fragments of the past. Through the blinkers of our Euro-centric view of the world, Chiasson suggests, we have overlooked those fragments of the past that point to a radically different history than the one we generally accept to be true. His thesis has proven to be highly controversial, inciting the ire, skepticism and even ridicule of many scholars. But perhaps one day time will prove him right. I rather hope it does.
December 15, 2009
20:36
Only in New York...
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November 18, 2009
13:00
Lincolnville, Nova Scotia
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With a population of barely 60 people, no stores, and no businesses save the local landfill, the tiny town of Lincolnville hardly rates a mention on many tourist maps. Once the main road cut through the community, but now it stands along a side road; in much the same way its fascinating history has also been sidelined. In Lincolnville itself, that history is written on every mailbox: family names date back to the 1700s, when this town was founded by Black Loyalists – runaway American slaves offered freedom in return for fighting alongside the British during the American Revolution.

When the British lost the war, most of the Loyalists, both black and white, were repatriated to the eastern Canadian province of Nova Scotia. They were promised land, tools and livestock on arrival, but distribution was slow and the weather harsh. White officers’ land claims were processed first, followed by white civilians, and blacks largely missed out. Of the first 900 blacks to arrive, 300 were dead by the end of the first winter.

Under the leadership of Thomas Brownspriggs, a contingent of Black Loyalists campaigned for and eventually won an allotment of 3000 acres of fertile coastal land. However, the land grant was rescinded a few years later, and they found themselves relegated to the rocky hamlet where their descendents still live today - Lincolnville.

Nearly 250 years later Lincolnville faces social issues that are not dissimilar to those their ancestors encountered: illiteracy, economic disenfranchisement, poor access to education and health care. In seeking solutions, the community is divided between those who work for a better present and future with a quiet dignity, drawing on their faith and a pride in their past; and those for whom solutions lie in seeking recompense for the injustices of the past.

The history of Lincolnville, the people we met there, and the vibrance of their stories, both past and present, struck a chord. I began to explore in pictures the ties that bind this tiny African Nova Scotian community to a turbulent period in North America’s past, and to consider the present day legacies of that past. The process was a learning experience for me, as I discovered that I had begun with preconceived notions of what I would find, and I had to let these fall away.

The history most often told of African Canadians is of those who arrived via the underground railroad, shepherded to freedom by the likes of Harriet Tubman. The Black Loyalists’ story, which took place 70 years before Tubman’s time, seems largely unknown in spite of the fact that at the time Nova Scotia had the largest free black population outside Africa, and in spite of the vital role played by blacks in the development of Nova Scotia. Even in Lincolnville, knowledge of the Black Loyalist story is dwindling. With few employment prospects, the younger generation head for the big cities, leaving their history behind.

I think that the story of Lincolnville and other communities like it deserves to be told in an accessible, ‘real world’ way that brings past and present together and offers hope for the future. And in fact, the story is much bigger than Lincolnville: slaves from West Africa were sold into plantations in the New World. Some escaped and made their way north to British lines during the American Revolution. They found themselves repatriated to Nova Scotia, from whence a third of their number decided to return to West Africa on an abolitionist-funded voyage to establish the settlement of Freetown, Sierra Leone. Today some of their descendents aspire once again to be American…

The images here are really the genesis of a broader story-telling project that I hope one day to complete. If this is an idea that speaks to you and you can help make it happen, please let me hear from you.
November 17, 2009
16:35
Poems and Pictures Part I
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We had the opportunity to spend some time with Jenn Laudadio and her 12th grade African Heritage Language Arts class at the Dr John Hugh Gillis Regional High School in Antigonish, Nova Scotia. As part of the students' exploration of oppression in its various forms, we showed a selection of images from my series Black Men All Look the Same, and used them as a way to explore sterotypes. Each student then selected an image and wrote a poem inspired by it. Over the next little while I'll be publishing the poems on my blog. A big thank you to everyone for sharing your poems with us!

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Harsh Reality by David Proctor
Flowers blooming from the street
Colorful and lively, like those who swell into its mass
Moving to and fro
All they are capable of is going
Never stopping
Never seeing
Just continuously going
Continuously avoiding what they wish to ignore
What we wish to ignore
Like a smudge on a beautiful canvas
Or a stain on a new white blouse
Ruining our image
And taking the mood
I am that
I am the stain in their blouse
The smudge upon their canvas
I destroy their illusion
So they choose to ignore
Ignoring for the sake of contentment
To avoid stepping into the unknown
The uncomfortable
I am the harsh reality
The reality that many wish to forget
But forgetting is impossible
Acknowledge the smudge
Take notice of the stain
And do something to prevent it
Do something to fix it
A stain that sits too long will not leave
A smudge left to dry will forever mark a canvas
So take notice
Help me

Life In Slow Motion by Andrea Woodington
Can’t you see me,
Just walk away,
One step, two step,
Left, right, left,
Can’t you see my pain,
Tears in my eyes,
I’m crying,
Salt tears,
Like the ocean’s water,
Don’t you care,
I’m torn,
Lost,
How can you ignore,
Time flies by,
I don’t seem to move,
Stuck,
Like a car in the mud,
One place,
Tires spinning,
I was like you once,
Young,
Happy,
I had a home,
A friend,
A family,
I walked in your shoes,
Look at me,
Talk to me,
Let me know I’m still here,
Can you see me,
Bent over,
Begging,
Needing,
Just keep walking.

Black,White,Colourful by Megan Juurlink
The world spins round and round
Yet I stay very, very still
The colours are all bright
Yet I feel very, very dull
I stare at them every day
Wondering where time ran away
Years have passed me so quickly
I find it hard to even breathe

What happened to my endless fun
When I was young, could skip and run
The kids these days don’t understand
How hard it is to be a man
They walk on by not seeing me
Not caring of my lack of glee
My feet are sore, my clothes worn down
How hard I find it not to frown

Yet I sit here across the street
From the park of pure beauty
The tulips sparkle in hues of pink
When the heck did I sink?
Can’t recall when my life fell apart
Blinded to why others are such a small part
Everything is not a formula of chem
Into which I don’t seem to fit in.
I stare into the sky of sparkling sun
Its heat as warm and sweet as a sticky bun

Yet I sit here across the street
From the park of pure beauty
14:45
By request...
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The Pride of Baltimore II makes her way across Pictou Harbour, Nova Scotia.
November 10, 2009
3:54
Goodbye, Autumn
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Having recently declared that I don't consider myself a landscape photographer, er... here are a few more landscapes! Being on Cape Breton Island this fall really has been magical, especially for a Ghanaian/ Filipino/ Aussie for whom the colours of a North American autumn are an infrequent treat. Now, if I could just arrange for next fall to be warmer...
November 01, 2009
3:06
Bird Watching
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A juvenile bald eagle on the rugged coastal cliffs at the northernmost point of Cape Breton Island.
October 28, 2009
22:44
Autumn Skies
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Being on Cape Breton Island at the moment, I've been feeling like I should go out there and shoot the fall colours. It really is incredibly beautiful out here in the autumn. The things is, I'm really not much of a landscape photographer. For starters, I am averse to early mornings, camping and the cold, which somewhat narrows one's prospects as a landscape photographer. In addition, I generally don't feel the same emotional connection to landscapes as I do to images of people.

However, after spending a lovely couple of hours with the wonderful Cape Breton photographer/ artist duo, Carol and Gordon Kennedy, I emerged from their North River studio and the light and sky were just gorgeous. Even I couldn't resist a few landscape shots. I started poking up and down little side roads in North River and along the southern end of the Cabot Trail, and found this scene at the end of Little River Road. I got a few other shots that afternoon, too, so no more feeling guilty about not having shot the autumn colours!
October 14, 2009
14:12
Underground in Cape Breton
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Retired miner, Sheldon McNeil, spent 30 years underground in the mines of Cape Breton, Nova Scotia. Now a mine guide, he leads visitors to the Cape Breton Miners Museum down into the Ocean Deeps Colliery and takes them back to a time no so very long ago when men (and boys) toiled in the dark for a few dollars a day.

Sheldon tells of a life of grinding poverty, wage slavery perpetrated in a time of capitalism gone mad. The company owned the houses in which miners and their families lived, owned the store from which they bought food and clothes on credit, sold them the coal with which they heated their homes, owned the power company and the water utility. The right to live in the company house was contingent on a member of the family working in the mine every day, so if the adult male of the household was unfit for work, boys as young as eight or nine would be found underground.

Miners earned 68c for each 2,240lb of coal they hauled to the surface, hewn from the rock and shoveled using tools they had to buy from the company. Before they earned a cent however, they had to work off the $1.50 a day the company charged each miner for the powder used to blast coal from the seam. In this way, Sheldon says, it was possible for his father to receive a pay envelop week after week that contained nothing but a slip of paper informing him of how much he owed the company.

The days of coal mining in Cape Breton are all but over now, but such stories of the past contextualize some of the gritty small towns of Cape Breton today.
2:32
Taking Creative Control - Photography Workshop
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For those of you in the Cape Breton area, I'll be running a photography workshop at Cabot Shores Wilderness Retreat this weekend (17 - 18 Oct).

Entitled Taking Creative Control, the workshop aims to give beginner to intermediate level digital SLR users an understanding of how their camera works, and how that knowledge can be harnessed to give them creative control of their cameras. We’ll take you out of ‘Auto’ mode and explore the photographic freedom that ‘Manual’ mode offers. In addition, we'll examine lighting and composition tips that make for better photographs.

Topics covered will include:
- The concept of 'creative control'
- How an SLR camera works
- Aperture, shutter speed, ISO and the relationship between them
- How a camera 'sees' and meters light (and why it sometimes gets it wrong)
- The power of the histogram
- Shooting and focusing modes
- File formats
- The creative implications of aperture, shutter speed and ISO choices
- The relationship between the subject and the background
- Basics of light - direction, quality, and what to do about it
- How to take better pictures
Contact Paul at Cabot Shores for more info - hospitality@cabotshores.com or 866 929 2584. If you'd like to make a weekend of it, accommodation packages are available, and there's a writing workshop, great hiking, canoeing, kayaking and even Qi Gong on offer too!
October 05, 2009
11:54
A Tale of a Boy and his Windmill
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A friend passed on a link to this wonderful story (now also a book), and I think it's worth sharing.

Malawian, William Kamkwamba, was forced to drop out of school at 14 when his family could no longer afford to pay his school fees. As this was "a future [he] could not accept", he spent his spare time in a library reading science books. He learned that a windmill could be used to generate electricity, and set about building one from wood, a tractor fan, a shock absorber, PVC pipes and a bicycle frame. Before long the first lightbulb was glowing in his remote, drought stricken village.

William's story is testament to the power of the individual, and a reminder of what can be achieved with conviction, a willingness to accept responsibility for one's own destiny, and the courage to ignore the negativity of those who do not share one's vision.

I wonder, however, to what extent William's success was also dependent on his schoolboy naiveté. Had he come across the idea as an adult, with an adult's understanding of what it takes to build a windmill - bricks, mortar, steel, a turbine, cogs and gears - would he have attempted it? I suspect not. As we grow older and supposedly wiser, we allow 'reality' to constrain our notions of 'possible' and 'impossible', and in so doing we impose limitations on ourselves - it won't work... I can't afford it... it would be too hard... I don't know how to... 'they' won't let me do that... I wish I could, but... it's impossible.

Well, as Adam Savage of Mythbusters said, "I reject your reality and substitute my own."
September 23, 2009
18:43
Prepare to Meet Thy God
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As part of a story on the Black Loyalist history of the area, I've been spending some time in Lincolnville, a small community in eastern Nova Scotia. These images were shot over the course of a couple of Sundays, the first at the Catholic church, and the second at the Baptist.
13:40
Rock Concert Photography
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Check out my article on getting the shot at Digital-Photography-School.com.
September 15, 2009
1:02
Food and "The Farm"
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(Click image to visit photo gallery.)I've been thinking about food a lot lately. More specifically, I've been thinking about what we eat and where it comes from, and about the politics of food and the inequities of its distribution. A couple of things have prompted this: first, I've spent some time shooting on a small organic farm, as I mentioned in an earlier post, and second I watched the documentary Food Inc.

For me, as for most of us who have the luxury, food comes from the grocery store, and one doesn't have to think about it too much beyond that. My family and I make certain lifestyle and ethical choices - we largely avoid processed food; we try to eat organic; we avoid food additives; we favour fair trade products; we choose free-range over cage-raised. These are informed decisions to a point, but the fact is that most of the time we really don't have to think about where our food comes from.

And then Food Inc. comes along and shows you exactly where your food comes from. It's not pretty. The behind-the-scenes reality the documentary shows is one of chemically engineered foods, global monopolies, earth-raping monoculture, genetic modifications, pesticides, fertilisers, abused workers, livestock raised in squalid conditions and slaughtered by the billions. "Oh, sure, the usual sensationalism", you might say. Well, see the movie and make up your own mind.

Contrast this with "The Farm". Really two adjoining farms nestled in a valley in rural Nova Scotia and owned by friends who've known each other for years, "The Farm", as it's referred to by those who know it, is home to a small community that chooses to live a little 'outside the machine'. They grow their own crops, raise a little livestock, work hard in the summer, and put away provisions for the winter. It's not a commune, they're not a bunch of hippies; they're ordinary people who choose to live in a nurturing community close to the land. Obviously, once upon a time much of North America would have lived a life that is not too dissimilar to this. Now, however, it's something of an 'alternative lifestyle', and being a non-commercial operation, the residents of The Farm are people with 'town' jobs or artistic careers. Feeding yourself and your family off the land, it seems, is now largely the domain of poor people in far away places who can't afford the 'good food' we find on our supermarket shelves. Those of us who are 'better off' prefer to eat the sanitized/ chemicalized/mechanized/ plasticized stuff that food conglomerates feed us.

Of course this is an oversimplification, and I'm not for a moment suggesting that the subsistence farming existence to which many of the world's poor are chained is some romanticized ideal to which we should all aspire. Still, as I stand before the fridge comparing delicious, all-natural, homemade preserves from The Farm with bottles of supermarket-bought stuff containing a litany of ingredients I can't identify, I can't help thinking, "What the hell happened?"

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